A CLC Connects Podcast

In this episode of CLC Connects, host Jessey Prugh sits down with English instructor Laura Otto to discuss Voices of Lake County. 

The community initiative invited diverse storytellers to share narratives on the theme of work and labor. Written during a free community writing workshop, the stories were recorded live at the Voices of Lake County Spring Showcase on May 12, 2023.

Listen to CLC Connects on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.

Transcript

This following podcast transcript was generated with help from artificial intelligence.

Jessey Prugh: Welcome to CLC Connects, the podcast that connects CLC experts with you. I’m your host, Jessey Prugh. This episode is going to sound a little different than usual. Today, you’ll be hearing stories recorded live at the Voices of Lake County Spring Showcase on May 12. But first, we’ll be joined by Laura Otto, CLC English faculty, who will tell us a bit more about Voices of Lake County and how to get involved. After that, we’ll dive into four stories revolving around the theme of work.

Professor Otto, welcome to CLC Connects

Laura Otto: Thank you.

Jessey: I’m glad you’re here, Laura! We’ve only bumped into each other a few times, so I don’t know much about you. Would you mind introducing yourself as our CLC English expert?

Laura: Certainly. I’m finishing up my third year at CLC as a faculty member in the English Department. I’m also the chair of our Technical Communication program, and I teach creative writing, technical communication and composition. Prior to CLC, I taught for 13 years at a college in Milwaukee, so I have a background in creative writing, journalism, multimodal composition and web writing. I’ve also worked as a freelance writer, and my husband and I publish a Cubs magazine—I do the graphic design, and he handles the writing. It’s nice to focus on design for a change, given my writing background.

Jessey: That’s so cool! Do you want to plug your Cubs magazine here?

Laura: Sure! It’s called Chicago Baseball and is sold outside Wrigley Field at all home games. Check it out!

Jessey: Can you tell me a bit about the Voices of Lake County project?

Laura: Absolutely. Voices of Lake County started about three years ago as an initiative to bring together faculty, staff and community members to work on projects related to the humanities. The idea was to provide a platform for diverse voices across our region—not just CLC students, faculty and staff but also anyone who wants to share their story. Each year, we choose a different theme. Last year, our theme was The Postcards Project, focusing on small-scale stories. This year, our theme was Lake County at Work, which explored labor and work within our region through various creative projects—whether it was dance, music, art, or storytelling. We looked at how work shapes our identities and what the future of work should look like.

Jessey: So, what are we listening to today on the podcast?

Laura: Today, we’re listening to stories developed in our free community writing workshops. Voices of Lake County offers free workshops in writing, art and dance, open to the public—you don’t have to be affiliated with CLC to participate. These writing workshops took place throughout the 2022-2023 academic year in different locations around Lake County, where community members learned how to craft compelling stories. We talked about imagery, story structure, and narrative voice, then worked on each story’s concept. After the workshops, participants were paired with a CLC faculty member who helped them refine and rehearse their narratives. On May 12, at our Spring Showcase, they shared these stories with an audience. Today, you’ll hear four of those narratives.

If anyone is interested in our free community workshops, feel free to reach out at clc.voices@clcillinois.edu.

Jessey: We all have to work—sometimes paid, sometimes unpaid. Sometimes, you end up doing work that falls into “other duties as assigned,” tasks that don’t show up on the job description. Our first storyteller, Jen Vincent, is familiar with this. Jen is a middle school teacher who expected to teach subjects like math and English but didn’t expect that one of her “other duties” would be to lead lockdown drills. Her story discusses gun violence in classrooms, which may be upsetting to some listeners. Here’s Jen Vincent.

Jen Vincent: Hi, I’m Jen Vincent, and my piece is Lockdown Lament. I teach middle school language arts to 6th, 7th and 8th graders, and I’ve been in public education for 21 years. I chose teaching because I’ve always loved kids. I babysat, tutored, was a camp counselor, and I’ve always loved reading, writing and school. Teaching just made sense.

I went to college in the fall of 1998, and in April of 1999, during my freshman year, I watched the Columbine shooting unfold on TV from my dorm room. It reminded me of when Laurie Dann opened fire in an elementary school in Glenview back in the ‘80s. But Columbine felt different. I watched in horror, never imagining that leading lockdown drills would one day become part of my job as a teacher.

If you haven’t been a student since the early 2000s, you may not know what a lockdown drill looks like. If you have, you’re probably all too familiar. For teachers, lockdown drills are a unique challenge. During these drills, my job shifts. I go from helping students connect with what we’re learning to commanding them, directing them with absolute conviction. And while I know it’s just a drill, the reality of preparing middle schoolers for something so serious—kids who are known for asking questions, pushing boundaries and testing authority—can be daunting.

Let me give you an example…

One Thursday, my principal announced that we’d have a lockdown drill. I’d reviewed the plan with my students that morning, so they knew what to expect. When the announcement came over the loudspeaker, I was prepared. I’d even talked over a few scenarios with them, explaining that we’d respond based on the situation. Training had taught me to make quick decisions. I might decide to run if it was safe, or to fight if the danger was close by.

Immediately, I heard loud noises in the hallway—it was part of the drill, but in that moment, I knew we wouldn’t be able to run. I decided we would barricade the door and prepare to fight.

“Okay, everyone, clear everything off the tables,” I directed. I locked the door, lowered the window blind, and turned to find my students standing still, watching me. I began moving stacks of books and supplies from the tables, calling students by name to help.

“Let’s move everything to block the door,” I instructed.

Some students moved quickly, but others froze. I started sliding a table toward the door, building the barricade, when I heard a voice say, “That’s not going to work.” It was Javier. He reached past me, turned the door handle, and pushed it open. “Look,” he said.

In that moment, a thousand thoughts ran through my mind. He wasn’t wrong, but this was a drill, and it wasn’t the time to discuss it. The principal would soon be checking the doors, and my job was to keep the students safe—even if this wasn’t real, even if Javier had a point. I was supposed to be in charge, to know what to do.

I thought of my own two sons and of all the sons and daughters across the country sitting in classrooms like mine. I felt the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders, and I tried to keep the fear out of my voice as I responded, “What are you doing? Don’t do that.”

“But it’s not going to work,” Javier insisted.

I motioned for another student to help me as we moved more tables in front of the door. By now, we had a barricade, and I forced myself to push down my emotions just as we pushed the tables against the wall.

Omar chimed in, “Javier’s right. We just made a barricade for the shooter. They’ll open the door and be shielded from us.”

Since Education Week began tracking school shootings in 2018, the numbers have only grown. In 2018, there were 24 school shootings that resulted in injuries or deaths. In 2019, 24; in 2020, 10; in 2021, 35; and in 2022, 51. This year, 2023, we’re already tracking more.

When I hear these numbers, I think about these lockdown drills. I see my students’ faces, I see my sons’ faces, and I feel fear in every part of me. I became a teacher because I love kids. I love reading, I love writing, and I’ve always loved school.

Besides being a teacher, I’m also a mom. I deeply care for the students I work with, but becoming a parent changed something in me. Every single student is someone’s child, someone’s cherished child, someone they send to school each day, trusting me to keep them safe.

And beyond being a teacher and a mom, I’m also a daughter. I am someone’s child, too, someone who needs to be kept safe. I love hiking, camping, practicing yoga, painting and paddleboarding. I take my job seriously and work hard to keep my students safe, as if they were my own.

But as I do all this—even though leading lockdown drills was never supposed to be part of my job—I often wonder, who is taking care of me?

Jessey: Our next storyteller is Mary Beth Bretzlauf. Mary Beth shares a story about relationships that seem small on the surface but can have a profound impact. Her story is about the bond between an orthodontic assistant and two teenagers in braces, and how these seemingly minor connections can lead to something much greater.

Mary Beth Bretzlauf: Hi, I’m Mary Beth Bretzlauf, and my story is titled Book Covers. Over my two decades as an orthodontic assistant, I’ve met thousands of patients, many of whom I’ve seen every month for two years while they wear their braces. During this time, I get to know them—the books they’re reading, the sports they play, the music they like. I’m there for many of their milestones.

Two patients I’ll never forget are Jessica and Angel. Jessica was a quiet girl whose father always took her to her appointments. She blended in with many others—light brown hair, big brown eyes and a beautiful smile, despite the crooked teeth we were fixing. We talked about girl stuff—mostly boy band crushes and volleyball games. I felt like I was able to give her some adult female interaction, even if it was only for 15 minutes once a month.

During Jessica’s visits, I met Angel, another patient. From the moment I called his name in the waiting room, I knew he was different. Angel was a tough guy, always in black, with spiky hair, exuding confidence. But over time, he began to open up about his dreams of becoming a streetcar mechanic.

One day, I read a news article about a shooting in his neighborhood, and when he arrived for his appointment, I could see he was shaken. He shared his fear, and from then on, our relationship deepened. I saw him as someone I wanted to support and guide. I even helped him apply for a scholarship, knowing how much potential he had.

Years later, at a CLC Foundation dinner, I was approached by a young woman with big brown eyes and a beautiful smile. It was Jessica, now pursuing a career in dental hygiene. Seeing how far she’d come was an incredible feeling, and I felt so proud. These two patients taught me that there’s always more to the story than what we see on the surface.

Jessey: Our next storyteller is Andrea Flores. A daughter of Mexican immigrants, Andrea graduated from Stanford University. In her piece, formatted as a cover letter, she shares her frustrations about navigating the job market as a recent graduate in journalism, while also confronting the stereotypes people have about her hometown, Waukegan.

Andrea Flores: Hi, my name is Andrea Flores, and my piece is titled To Whom It May Concern.

To Whom It May Concern,

I’m responding to your job listing…oh, sorry, internship listing. I tried applying to full-time positions, but I keep getting told that I need more experience. So here I am, hoping to gain that experience.

As a recent graduate from Stanford, I’ve found it challenging to break into journalism. I love stories, especially those often overlooked in the media. I love connecting with people, sharing news, and giving my community a voice. But what I don’t love is being paid $15 an hour, working overtime without pay, and struggling to afford lunch.

Before transitioning to journalism, I worked in immigration advocacy, even creating viral TikToks about immigration news. But I wanted to explore other issues, like the environment and business—topics that impact my community. So, I took a leap, left my job, and entered the job market, only to discover how difficult it really is. I’ve been rejected, ghosted and constantly questioned about my background.

Every rejection is a reminder of how the world sees me—yet I hope this uncertainty is temporary. I want to show my community’s truth, both the struggles and the light. I hope that by sharing my story, I can help redefine what success looks like for people like me.

Sincerely,

A struggling storyteller.

Jessey: Our final storyteller is Jane Waller. Jane’s career has been full of firsts: from her acceptance to the University of Chicago Law School in 1970 to becoming Lake County’s first female chief judge. Her story takes us from her early days in Waukegan to the challenges of being a woman in a male-dominated profession.

Jane Waller: Hello, I’m Jane Waller, and my piece is titled This Woman’s Prerogative.

Let’s play a guessing game to break the ice: Was I the first woman judge in Lake County? Did I get straight A’s in high school? Did I once hitchhike up the California coast?

Here’s a little about me. I grew up in Waukegan, Illinois, on a small farm. My dad was a lawyer, and my mom was an activist who wasn’t afraid to stand up for what she believed in. Inspired by both of them, I decided to apply to law school in 1970 after a failed relationship and some soul-searching.

I got accepted, despite the fact that women made up only 10% of my law school class. It wasn’t easy—professors would call on women more often, claiming it was to give us “extra help.” After graduating, I joined my dad’s law practice in Waukegan, and as one of the few female attorneys in town, I faced plenty of challenges.

One judge questioned my right to approach the bench, assuming I wasn’t a “real” lawyer. Another lawyer once told me, “You can either be a good woman or a good lawyer, but not both.” But I persevered, and in 1981, I became Lake County’s first female judge.

Years later, that same judge who had once belittled me appeared before me in court. I could have been harsh, but instead, I ruled against him gently, just as my dad would have done. That moment was my prerogative, and it made me proud.

Jessey: Thank you for listening to this special episode of CLC Connects. You can find CLC Connects wherever you enjoy podcasts, and if you can, please leave us a review—it really helps others discover the show. CLC Connects is produced by the PR and Marketing Department, with music by Dave Asma.