Creators, Makers, & Doers: Cherie Buckner-Webb
Posted on 5/6/21 by Brooke Burton
Interview & Photography by Brooke Burton © Boise City Department of Arts & History
Cherie Buckner-Webb has earned recognition in public service as an Idaho Legislator in the House of Representatives and the Senate, as well as for the Idaho Business Review’s Woman of the Year 2019, and the Icon Award 2020. She is a Task Force member for the City of Boise’s upcoming cultural site, the Erma Hayman House, located in the River Street neighborhood of downtown Boise. And she wants to tell you: she’s Black. And proud of it. Cherie welcomed us to her kitchen table where we talked surprisingly little about awards and accomplishments and more about how to ask questions in an unfamiliar environment, how Cherie’s experience is uniquely her own—AND. SO. MUCH. MORE: entrée, civil disobedience, She, digging up messy stuff, the man with one leg, Black Lives Matter, tempering justice with caring, and Black homeownership and generational wealth, or lack thereof. The woman is on fire.
Your family has five generations of Idahoans? And remarkably, you have beautiful photographic portraits of many of those family members.
And now my sons’ are the sixth and my granddaughter the seventh.
So when you meet other longtime Idaho residents, is it pretty easy to find connections, like, oh, well, my family knew so‑and‑so who knows—
For me? Yes. So are you talking particularly about Black folks, or do you just mean somebody that’s an Idahoan?
Well, let’s get that out of the way. Let’s—how—
I just want to know so I can answer your question. Be specific.
Yeah, well, I don’t—I guess, how—I don’t even, you know—
Don’t be delicate.
I’m not being delicate, I’m unsure.
[Chuckle.]
Like, it didn’t occur to me to ask, Black folks, white folks.
Well, I’m going to tell you why I ask, because yesterday I was having a conversation and they said we need to find a diverse group. We had a list of people and the first name on it said “Black” after the name. None of the other names had a descriptor behind it, so I was giving everybody a bad time about that, “So, do you have to announce ‘Cherie, Black?’” I just wondered what context in which you were asking.
I know so few Black people, it doesn’t occur to me to say, tell me about being a fifth‑generation Black woman.
Well, I’ll tell you it’s the only thing I know. I will tell you ever since I was a child, and I do it to this day—it used to drive my kids nuts—if I see somebody African American or somebody that has brown skin, I often walk up to them on the street and go, “Hi, I’m Cherie. How are you doing? Where do you live? Have you been here a long time?” Because there are so few of us.
Then the question about being a fifth generation, you’re saying in particular with Black families that you would ask who is your grandfather or—
I don’t know that I’d ask who is your grandfather because there are so few of us in Boise, to have lived in Idaho, I would have known.
You would already know.
I mean, even if I go to Pocatello, I know the Purces and the McCullys and the—we’ve run across each other one way or another or have a connection through business affiliations, whatever it is. But what usually happens is, particularly with white folks, they go, “Where are you from?”
Right.
And I say, “Boise.” And they go, “No, really, where are you from?” And I say, “Really.” “Your family’s from there?” “Born and raised.” And that’s a constant question. There’s always this great amazing surprise, “Why would you come here when there are so few?”
And what’s the answer?
The answer that I hear from all sides of my family and extended family, is: opportunity. The reason most of the people take a chance in coming to an environment where we don’t even know enough to know whether it might be welcoming. We don’t know if it is or isn’t [welcoming], but we knew what we were leaving. Leaving somewhere that isn’t safe for Black people.
And now, in this age, particularly when you see a young, upwardly mobile African American man or woman I always say, “What drew you to Idaho?” And even now, even now, in my whole career in Boise, I’ve been at Boise Cascade for ten years, I’ve been at Hewlett‑Packard for ten years, I’ve been in the legislature for ten years, I’ve had my own consultancy—someone will call me and say, for example, “We’ve got this wonderful guy on the hook to hire at our company, but he won’t come [to Idaho]. He’s come to visit, but he won’t come to stay; he’s uncomfortable.” Or somebody’s kids have an opportunity to go to Boise State; I’ve had grandmothers call and say, “I’ve looked online, and you’re the only Black person I saw when I looked around Idaho.” And I am grateful and glad to do it. In this time right now during the pandemic, a woman called me from California and said, “My daughter’s going to Boise State University, and she’s having some medical problems. I know you don’t know her—” I extended myself to do that.
That’s one of the things you worry about. You know your kid’s accomplished and capable and your family’s ready to go, but as families, you go “How will my children be treated? How will they understand who they are?” People ask me, “Could you tell them it’s safe to come here?” And this is how I couch that: this environment has been wonderful for me, and that’s why I stay. But I won’t say it’s been wonderful for all. Although, my children used to say, “Oh, we never had a problem we couldn’t handle,” because they did have instances where they were stopped and questioned.
You used the word welcoming.
You’re talking about an opportunity to come to Idaho?
There’s that, but it made me want to ask the question how does it feel to be unwelcome? Because—so I’m an Idahoan. Apparently I’m a white Idahoan.
Yeah.
I feel very comfortable anywhere I go. When I travel—I feel safe, I feel welcome enough.
Yep.
What’s unwelcome?
Sometimes it’s practical stuff. Sometimes it’s: can I get the food I like? Can I worship how I like? Can I get my hair done? I grew up on North 19th, which is six, eight blocks from here. I’ve lived three places in the North End. When we moved into my folks’ house, we’d been there about a year, somebody burned a cross in our front [yard]. I may have told you that before.
Burned a cross? When you were a child?
Yes. We were having dinner. My mom gets up in the middle of dinner, which we never did, because she had a feeling. She opened the front door and could see this fire in the neighbor’s yard. Actually, it wasn’t in their yard, we could see it from the window. It was in our yard. And that’s how we were welcomed. My father was in a hurry to put it out and put it in the trash. But my mom said, “They’re late, we’ve been here a year.” Actually, “the sons of b****** are late,” is what she said. I moved to this house in 1978 with my two children. We had a little trouble with my car and so I borrowed my ex’s car. Mine was sitting out on the curb. My sister, Pepper, came over the next morning to help me. She said, “Where’s your car?” “It’s parked across the street.” My car wasn’t there. Realize, I was born and raised nine blocks from here. Somebody had taken my car up the hill and run it down the cliff—you know, run it down on purpose.
Oh.
And at that—I felt like my mother, “You silly sons of b******, you’re in my neighborhood, what are you doing?” So how is it? In spite of those kinds of incidences, it’s a pretty good place to live. I know people have stereotypes, even when I went in the legislature. I never ceased to be amazed, some of the stupid, uninformed comments—”Well, I don’t think of you as Black.” Well, “ clearly I am, I tell you I am. I tell you I want you to refer to me as Black.” They say, “But, Cherie, I don’t think of you that way.” And I say, “That’s unfortunate. Because When I tell you who I am and I ask you to refer to me as Black and you still won’t do it, the opportunity for a relationship is clearly diminished.”
I’m feeling that right now. When I said I’m—I’m not being delicate, I’m asking in earnest, I’m asking you to tell me who you are.
How do you mean, when you ask me to tell you who I am?
You said don’t be delicate. Well, I may not know the right questions to ask.
Well, that—see, that’s transparent. “I want to know stuff, but I don’t know what I want to know. What do you think I might want to know?” When I walk into an environment that’s unfamiliar, I do the same thing; do you know what I mean? Any question of good intent is a good question.
Right. So we were talking about your marriages and your family and that’s all exciting, and then you ask “Well, do you want to know about me being Black?” Maybe you better tell me which questions I should ask.
Well, one of the things that I want to make clear, and the reason is because, often, when I tell my story, people attribute my story to every Black person they see.
Your experience is yours.
Yes it is. My experience—first of all, I was raised to expect things not to be easy. I was raised to expect bigotry. I’d had generations before me that laid the foundation, not only was my great‑grandfather a preacher, so he was a good old colored boy back in those days—I mean, because we went from colored to Black to African American, depends on who you talk to. My grandfather had a lot of family here. And my dad was a jock. He was the first Black athlete at Boise Junior College. He was a mechanic, then he was a referee. So I have all these layers of stuff that give me entrée to many things. “Oh, that’s Buck’s kid.” I get a pass for a lot of things because I’m Buck’s kid or Dorothy’s daughter. “But watch out for Dorothy’s kid, because Dorothy’s a hell‑raiser.” She—you know, she’s —
I love it.
Because she was engaged in a lot of civil disobedience—we didn’t call it that, human rights stuff. My dad helped establish and was appointed to the first Human Rights Commission. So my experience, my two sons’ experiences, based on who they are, can be different.
Different from?
I’m not saying that just because I walked this way, the experience is the same for all. I’ve heard people say, “I saw on the news that Black Lives Matter means they’re going to tear the place down.” Well, what it means is that all Black lives matter. We want you to understand that Black lives matter. We have personhood. We’ve earned the right to full personhood. Not as a rejoinder; not only do we matter, but we matter as a member of the human family additionally. Black lives matter, white lives matter, Asian lives matter; it’s not an also. I think the best thing in the world is when people ask questions. You just don’t know what you don’t know.
I’m feeling that way today.
So what seems like you’re being standoffish is really that you’re being cautious so that you don’t step in it, that you don’t ask. And I like people to ask, to take a risk and ask a question.
It’s similar to how people with disabilities experience social isolation because people don’t know or don’t want to ask.
So they avoid them.
One thing that popped into my head while you were speaking was about your reputation “Oh, Buck’s kids get a pass but watch out for—” your mother?
Dorothy. Dorothy got a pass too because she was drop‑dead gorgeous and had green eyes, okay. And a wicked wit.
Yeah?
She used that, honey, she worked it really well.
Good for her.
But you have to know who Buck was.
Tell me about Buck, your dad.
While Buck’s refereeing down in the valley and he’s on the court, he has no problem. I didn’t know until my dad retired from Bob Rice Ford that sometimes at ballgames he’d have to go in at the last minute. And the minute the game was over he had to take off for home. He never told me that stuff.
He couldn’t go into the ballpark until the minute before the game?
They didn’t want Black people in rural Idaho—
Oh.
—or other places. It got worse the farther north you went. I’m not calling out those places, but—he didn’t feel safe many times; there were times somebody else drove him home. Or drove him to his car or picked him up or something because—
He was accepted as a referee but not as a civilian?
He was accepted as a referee, there were times when he made calls and people would shout, “Get the n***** out of here.”
Oh, that too—
Even though they thought he was a great referee, but they didn’t like the call. I’ll never forget when I went to work at the sawmills in Emmett for Boise Cascade they were telling me stories; that they knew who my dad was because they remembered a basketball game when somebody “n*****ed” him, and Dad was light on his feet, so, he ran up the stairs and said, “You want this?” talking about his whistle. But I did not know he’d had negative interactions [refereeing] because he loved sports more than anything. He never even told me until he was an old man. Boise State was interviewing him. They were inducting him into their Hall of Fame and three or four people interviewed my dad, I’d go and listen and I, “Oh, my God, I didn’t know that.”
He never told you.
Because my dad came from a generation, “Why dig up a mess?” You know, “Why do that? Don’t do that.”
Tell me why. Why dig up messy stuff?
To what end? If you’re the only or one of two or three, or whatever, to what end? On the other hand, he was willing to sit on the Human Rights Commission. It couldn’t end well to act a fool when you’re the only black man in the group. It could prove to be dangerous and that’s the truth.
No, I want to pose the question to you.
Okay.
Why dig up messy stuff?
For me?
Yeah.
Oh, honey, you can’t clean up anything if you keep kicking it under the table. If you pretend it doesn’t exist, it will never change.
Kicking it under the table, yeah.
I mean, that’s like getting women in the workplace. And [then questioning] “Why aren’t they happy to be there?” Even though somebody is attacking them, undermining them, underpaying them, treating them unfairly? If you don’t [bring up messy stuff]—and it’s a risk— it’s a risk to bring it up, so you have to measure where you are in the world, to take that risk. And ask yourself, will it help or will it hurt? Things that are painful and a little messy, if they never see the light of day, they continue. When people turn their heads and pretend they don’t see something it can potentially become worse or amplified. Now, my mother’s favorite thing when I was growing up, she used to tell me— and this is my credo— disturb the peace.
Yeah.
And she was just the opposite of my father.
He was a peacekeeper?
He liked peace. He loved peace. And collegial relationships; he wanted to prove that he was one of the good guys and blah, blah, blah, blah. My mom said, “Disturb the peace.”
I like your mom.
And when I ran for office the first time I said, I’m trying to follow my mother’s direction and credo, and I come before you today to disturb the peace. I just wrote a piece about Kamala. People kept saying to me, “Aren’t you shocked that she’s going to be elected? Aren’t you surprised? Aren’t you grateful, and aren’t you—” all that kind of stuff. No. I’m not surprised because she epitomizes everything that Black women and women of color and white women— I don’t care what they are— the strength that women have demonstrated to me over time. Oftentimes, the woman you think is so soft‑spoken, is really a firehouse, but she’s learned the way to navigate the waters. And Kamala did everything right. She got educated. She has this world view based on who her parents were and where she went to school and what she’s done, and she’s accomplished so much. I had no doubt at all, it wasn’t that [I knew] Kamala was coming, but I knew she was coming.
She.
She who would epitomize all the things that women are. She who would show people how a woman gets work done, not just a woman, but a person of color, a person of power. A person of power, passion, and purpose. She’s the one. We knew She was coming. We didn’t know what she would look like or walk like or to talk like. And that’s one of the things that I have to stress, particularly when we’re talking about anybody of difference. You talked about people with disabilities. “Well I didn’t know they could do that.” Well, probably you never gave them the opportunity, whatever that is that they’re doing.
Because difference makes people uncomfortable, so people avoid difference.
Makes you uncomfortable, or mainstream dominant culture gets to hold the power. I’m not saying that there are more men in the world than women, but— they hold the power. It serves them to imagine that women in the workplace are less powerful or less capable because it helps them retain— I’m not badmouthing men—or anybody— because I mean men, period, tend to think that they have to be superior and save women, that kind of stuff, but they just never even considered the things women can do. And we know that women are doing everything everywhere, in war, in work, in raising children, in education, in politics. Women can handle it. I believed a women of power, passion, and purpose would come on the scene and do everything Kamala is doing and more. It’s not a surprise.
There’s so many things to talk about. One of them is power. Do you believe power can be shared?
Yes. Absolutely. It must be shared. We see it happening. It takes purposeful action to bring about change. This is another Dorothy thing “Ask for what you want.”
Right.
Particularly for women. Because if you don’t ask for what you want, and you use the default “Oh, I’m so pleased that you’re honoring me with this” then shame on you. No! You worked your a** off and you earned it. Take credit for what you’ve earned. In doing so, you lay the foundation for other women to take credit for their accomplishments. And rightfully so.
You earned it.
And that’s one of the things that I love about the work I do in my consultancy; I talk to women all the time about: you are worthy—sometimes you’ll get disappointed, but, ask for what you want, because if you don’t ask— and this is Grandpa Johnson, he said, “If you don’t ask, the answer is no.” Whenever I wanted anything from that grandpa he said “You have to con me out of it.” I had to have a compelling reason for what I wanted. I had to justify it to him.
Oh, he made you work.
Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. As I got older, I realized that [he] wasn’t just trying to see if I could beguile him or whatever; it was that I had to have some rational reasons for: why I should get to go here, or, have this. He instilled it; I was at his house one day, and he ran a pawn shop out of his house; he was really old by that time—
A pawnshop, like at home?
Yeah, baby. But it was in the neighborhood; he wasn’t downtown. My grandpa was one of these guys that always had money and he was counting it—
Cash. He had cash.
Yeah, cash, cash. One day I was at his house, and this man came in and said “Mr. Johnson, I really, I really need…” I don’t know how much money “blah blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,” and “I want to know if you would take this watch.” And Grandpa said “No.” He was a man of few words, he goes, “I don’t need your watch.” And I thought, gosh, this guy’s only got one leg. You know, it’s terrible. He had a fake leg, everybody knew about him in the neighborhood.
Was the man with one leg Black or white?
Black.
I’m learning.
I said, “but Grandpa, he only has one leg.” He said “Be still and go on over there.” And I sat down, because that’s what I do. And I was just incredulous that he was so cruel to that man.
You wanted to give him a break because he only had one leg?
Yes. And my grandfather, ultimately, loaned him less money. And guess what he took in hock for it?
I don’t know.
He took the man’s wooden leg.
Yeah. How did that man walk?
I just started crying. He had crutches—
Okay.
But, I mean, I’m crying to Grandpa. And Grandpa said, “Now, first of all, I’m going to tell you, whenever I’m doing business you shut your mouth. You say not a word, not a word.” He said, “Now that man gave that long story about why he needed that money to do so‑and‑so.” Grandpa said, “He’s going to go down and buy a pint, and he’s going to be laid out in the park.” Grandpa knew the lay of the land. Do you know what I mean? So two days later, I stayed at my Aunt Ellen’s, who lives not far from my grandpa, and I’m going to my nanny’s, who lives a half a block—all this stuff is funny how it comes together to teach you a lesson— the man’s laying in my grandmother’s front yard. He thought he was in the park, but he’d gotten drunk, and he was laying in the front yard.
Your grandpa was right.
He was totally right. The other thing he taught me about that, he said, “First of all, he’s not telling me the truth about why he needs [the money.] Secondly, he didn’t give a damn about that watch. I can’t loan him money on something he’s not going to come back for. I want my money and my interest from him. But what he’ll come back for, hell or high water, would be the other leg.”
Yeah.
My grandpa. One other thing I can say about him, he was the most amazing businessman. He knew the value proposition of everything. If you don’t know what the value of something is or what your value is or what’s valuable to you, you’ll miss out. He taught boys and girls all that stuff.
He could also read people.
He was amazing.
Can you do that?
I think I’m pretty darn good at it. People give me a bad time about it. He was a deacon in the church, too. I mean, he was hard in the church, on people there too; he just said, “Go on, if you’re going to BS me, go on somewhere else.” I believe that’s a gift I have. I don’t always hit it, but I try.
Why do you call it a gift?
You can be taught things over and over and not learn them. And being a bleeding‑heart, sappy liberal from time to time, I had to learn to temper that bleeding heart, that, “Oh, you’re not going to take his leg Grandpa!” Grandpa said, “Long term I’m doing him a favor, ’cause I’m not going to give him money that he can’t return.” But Grandpa wasn’t doing it for a favor—
But—
You have to temper all those things. You have to do a value proposition analysis. And when I first started as a social worker, wow, it was really pretty cool. You have to learn.
So you’re talking about the balance between wanting to give, give, give and tempering that with asking yourself—
What’s the value? Am I helping or hurting?
Is that related to tough love? I mean, help me put it into words.
I think they are related.
Helping—so your grandpa helped the man with one leg—
Grandpa didn’t help him, Grandpa did a business transaction.
But also, in a sense, he kept the man to his word. I’m betting as he lay there without his leg, he learned the value of that transaction and he learned something about himself. There’s an exchange of truth there. And there’s the lesson.
It’s a fine line. There can be mutual benefit in a transaction. The goal is to find the mutual benefit. If he got— whatever, a couple days drunk, that’s fine. Grandpa got the interest off his leg. The guy also learned, “I can’t play that man,” and “Everybody’s not going to give me a mercy pass.”
That is a pretty fine line.
I try to teach that same stuff to my children, and that it’s not being cold. Every once in the while, now that I’m older, my kids have to say to me, “Have you forgotten, because sometimes you get kind of soft there, Mom.” Not only justice and not only caring; those things have to be tempered.
Tempered?
For the best. Sometimes in the legislature there were things that I really did have to—I don’t mean that I sold my soul for something, but I had to decide, what’s the best outcome I can get out of this? Maybe there’s a piece of legislation over here that I really have a heart for, but I’m not going to get a snowball’s chance in hell, but if I collaborate on this and can get some piece of that—I mean, that’s what we’ve got to learn nationally, don’t we? Then we get to the greater good or what I feel is the best outcome for my constituents, or for my patients, or for my kids, or for my family, or for my neighborhood. We get some kind of reward in the doing of it, the feeling that we gave it our best shot. But you can’t go out in the world and do it only for yourself.
For yourself? Part of what I heard was the balance between the ideal and the practical and getting results—
It’s seldom ideal for the individual and for the group. It’s not either/or all the time. And that’s hard.
Not everybody can have a wide enough perspective to see that. That’s a gift right there.
It is. I’m so fortunate . . . I’m telling you communication is the most important thing in the world, authentic—the thing is, with me, if we disagree, okay, you know, we’re going to set it aside because we’re never going to agree with each other. We have to agree to disagree.
Set it aside for the sake of what? Energy? Feelings? Time?
Yes, and out of respect. Just one adult to another. I used to say, “We’re not going to worry about this until Jesus comes, and maybe not even then.” So we don’t agree. Let’s not talk about it for now.
Let’s make something productive.
Yeah, exactly. Beating a dead horse doesn’t get anybody anywhere. I didn’t mean to get into politics so much, but that was an example.
Well, we were talking about telling the truth, so—I need to ask you about growing up in the River Street neighborhood and the Hayman House. What is the Hayman House?
It stands as an artifact of a time gone by. A time and place in which African Americans had a shot at home ownership. Kids played together, in each other’s yards and in the street. It was kind of idyllic for me. There was no playground when I was young. Most didn’t own their homes, and were life-long renters, but they cared for the houses and yards as if they owned them. They took pride in the neighborhood.
And how about for you personally?
It represents a special, safe, warm place in my heart. It was my neighborhood. Many of my family by birth and family by choice lived in that neighborhood. One of mom’s sisters lived two doors down from the Hayman house and another three blocks away. My mom’s father was a block away, my maternal grandmother lived two blocks away. Two uncles lived in the neighborhood, another aunt and my maternal grandmother, two blocks away, in opposite directions. I was surrounded by the Johnsons; Mom’s family. There were all kinship networks that contributed to our upbringing, my brother Chuck and I. We moved out of the neighborhood when my sister Pepper was born. We were so excited for the new house, but we didn’t want to leave the neighborhood. I was about six years old when we moved. We knew everyone in the neighborhood, we were protected, corrected, and raised by a village. We were the epitome of a village. I’m telling you, corrected by everybody. You couldn’t get away with anything. (laughter)
I didn’t realize until I was an adult that one of Mrs. Hayman’s sisters married one of my grandfather Buckner’s brothers, and one of her brothers married grandfather Buckner’s sisters. We were connected. And while many African Americans lived in the neighborhood, whites outnumbered Blacks. It was “across the tracks” and along with many families, there were some juke joints, checkers, dominos and barbeques, garden parties, and lots of connecting.
You mentioned to me that being a senator was not exactly what you planned on doing. What did you plan on doing?
A million things; my family convinced me I could do anything. I wanted to go to college, travel, write, study other cultures, build my own business; buy houses and restore them. My Grandpa Johnson always talked about owning property. He took me with him to collect rent from folks in the neighborhood. I learned that homeownership had been withheld from Blacks for generations. I learned at a very early age that property was key to generational wealth and since I wanted at least five kids, I thought I’d better get busy. In 1978, I was fortunate to purchase a home as a divorced woman. I was blessed to raise my boys in a great neighborhood, nine blocks from my parents’ home, and to remain in that home—through many updates and remodels—for forty-three years. The purchase of this home was the foundation that enabled me to purchase additional properties, develop tons of negotiation, repair and update skills, realize my elders’ dreams of generational wealth for my children and grandchild.
Homeownership. I hadn’t thought about that. What else?
Most importantly, my plans were to make this world a better place. My initial focus was civil rights. The Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s was a powerful catalyst that moved me to purposeful action. I was willing and ready to “disturb the peace.”
What did I plan on doing? Anything that would further the realization of civil rights for Blacks in America. Professionally, I sought employment that would enable me to support my children and I’ve been very fortunate: learned much, I was often the only, or the first, Black in so many arenas. That’s a long story: it’s work; it is often a heavy load, but it’s worth it if it opens the door. All of which is part and parcel to my political activism. I hesitated running for office, because I had concerns serving in office would be constrictive.
How has doing the work in the legislature changed you?
I feared it would restrict my voice, that I would have to be a certain way because of the visibility, the expected decorum, the partisanship expectations. Quite the contrary. Nothing like being in the midst, to hone your skills. Nothing like operating within a system to learn how to bring those outside the status quo into the room. How to—ok at least try to—bring issues to the attention of those who don’t wanna discuss them to the forefront. How to give voice to those who cannot speak for themselves. How to use the bully pulpit, to give voice to those who have not previously been heard.
Even though I hit the height of diversity in the legislature; Black, Democrat, pro-choice, staunch add the words supporter, female, and of a certain age, I had entrée to so many things I would have missed had I not served. My constituents and I learned powerful lessons, dispelled myths, worked across difference, laid the foundation for greater legislative service by others across demographics. I have a clearer view of the segmentation of populations in Idaho, greater understanding of the impact of religious education and gender issues in the state and legislature. And it ain’t all good! I gained skills, insights, opportunities, forged relationships and more—all I can share for the benefit of others. In these turbulent times, the better prepared with knowledge, understanding and skills [we are], the better the outcome.
Thank you for sharing today.
Downtown Boise
May 5, 2021