Busy people get things done. Somewhere along the way, I heard this phrase and it sort of stuck with me. Possibly because it’s something I can relate to, but mostly because it is true. Busy people do get things done.

When I hear of an election coming up, and the potential candidate pool, I can’t help but put myself in their shoes. Typically, the names that come across my desk are the busiest people I know. They are involved in many things in the community, and they are names I know well. Sometimes, they’re unknown to me altogether. So, I do my due-diligence and get to know the person behind the name. I find out their story, their connection, the reason they’re seeking public office.

I’m frank with these people, as I’m sure are those who convinced them to run in the first place. Holding a seat in a public office is hard work. It is stressful and trying and so very rewarding. It is a commitment unlike any other, and one that should be taken seriously and respectfully.

Time and again, over the years, I have seen those, either elected or appointed, step down from their respective roles without fulfilling the commitment. For whatever reason, these individuals have decided they cannot continue what they promised to do.

While I understand health, family and life circumstances may have an impact on an individual, sometimes the reason behind resignations of public officials can be disappointing, to say the least. It puts additional work on the other public servants who continue to fulfill their obligations and then must take on additional responsibilities while finding a replacement.

I’ve never held a public office. I don’t pretend to understand the amount of pressure this could have on a person. But I can relate to the work/life balance, deadlines, meetings and the overall busy schedule of an active member of the community. I’m a busy person, too. I get it. But I also understand the importance of commitment and following through.

It is my hope that those who seek an elected position do their homework. They need to find out exactly what it is they are potentially getting themselves into before making a decision. It’s not for everyone. It takes a certain amount of passion, understanding, drive and responsibility, which is probably why we see the community’s busiest folks leading the charge.

I don’t think it’s too much to ask of these individuals to finish what they started. Public office is a commitment, and I’d like to see that commitment taken seriously.

KCPT, in partnership with English Landing Films, on Friday premiered a new documentary, Our Divided City. The documentary looks at the social conditions that foster violent crime in Kansas City’s segregated black community east of Troost and asks whether enough is being done to make its neighborhoods safe.

I settled in to watch the film on Saturday morning, as I had recorded it the night before. I didn’t expect the flood of emotions as I witnessed the crime, segregation and downright unfairness our neighbors just to the north from our coverage area are experiencing.

A spotlight is shone on a new alliance that includes law enforcement agencies, City Hall, and academics called the KC No Violence Alliance or KC NoVA. It introduces a unique style of policing that attempts to work with the community to get ahead of the homicides.

Viewers will go inside KC NoVA as it attempts to put an end to tit-for-tat killings between gang members and it steps into the lives of ordinary families besieged by the violence. There is evidence that community leaders and certain brave citizens are already fighting back, but that for some patience is wearing thin with the city’s authorities.

During the film, I watched as familiar faces were lending a hand through clean-up efforts. I watched as our fearless leader, Mayor Sly James, became irritated when asked what he plans to do about it. He stated it’s not a political issue, and if he had the answers it would have already been fixed. This, according to James, is a community issue.

A community issue it is. Nothing will be done so long as we allow the violence to continue. Violent crimes, especially those on children, continue to rise in Kansas City. It was incredibly sobering to see, as the credits rolled, the list of names of those taken by violence in Kansas City in 2015. There were too many names. Too many children. Too many of our neighbors and friends.

The documentary will air again on Sunday, February 7, at 2:00 p.m. on KCPT.

A few weeks ago, I was busy packing. I did loads and loads of laundry, I hauled suitcases down from the top shelves in my closets, and I carefully dispensed bodywash and shampoo into small, airplane-appropriate containers. I counted pairs of socks and folded many shirts. Packing for vacation is a lot of work, but exciting. Packing for a vacation that you’re not going on is just plain tedious.

For ten days, my parents took Michael on the trip of a lifetime. They flew to Miami, enjoying the sights there, before boarding a cruise ship headed into the beautiful waters of the Caribbean. For ten days, I had minimal contact with my boy, only checking in on Facebook here and there when they were able to access a Wi-Fi signal. For ten days, my heart was in the middle of the ocean.

Michael climbed a rope course to the top of the ship, he mastered the water slides and he ate all the ice cream his ten-year-old belly could hold. He danced with flamingos in Nassau and swam in Magens Bay, one of the world’s most beautiful beaches.

Since he has now experienced all there is in the world of cruises, he now considers himself an expert. Upon returning home, he told stories of friendships made, bruises received and memories to last a lifetime. He has dubbed himself a “cruise guy,” saying that is now his preferred mode of experiencing the world.

He gets his love of travel from me. While he was out experiencing “the time of his life,” I was stuck at home, wishing I was there with him. This kid is surely lucky. He’s already experienced so much in his ten years, things I have dreamed to do my entire life. I just hope next time, instead of Grandma and Grandpa, he doesn’t mind sailing the seas with Mom.

I was never shy growing up. In fact, I can recall the term “social butterfly” being used fairly frequently. I made friends everywhere I went. If we were on a family vacation, I made friends with the other kids at the hotel pool. If we went to a carnival, I picked out new friends to ride the Ferris wheel with. I was probably over-friendly, striking up conversations with complete strangers, no matter their age. Or race.

I don’t remember any of my friends being different. They were my friends no matter what color their hair was, or if they had brown, blue or green eyes, or if they spoke a little slower or threw the ball with a different hand. The color of the skin of my friends never crossed my mind.

As we reflect this week on the teachings and tremendous work started by the late Martin Luther King, Jr., I am reminded of what it was like for me to grow up in a diverse community. I remember sitting at recess while Kameelah French-braided my hair because I never learned how to. I remember being treated as a member of the family by the Caldwells. And I remember donning a leotard and practicing ballet with Morgan. They were all my friends, but I never saw them as different than me.

Last summer, I had the opportunity to visit the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, and I recall the emotion I felt as I walked through and read about the horrific things these people, these friends, went through. It is something I will never begin to understand, but I believe I can appreciate and honor their efforts in many ways.

Most of all, I recall the chilling feeling of walking through the Lorraine where King last laughed, last had a conversation, last read a newspaper. Peering into his room, time stood still. I could imagine him sitting in the chair, a cup of coffee close by, as he read the headlines of the newspaper strewn on the corner of the bed. The coffee was left untouched.

Though his life was cut terribly short, the work he started in the ending of segregation and cultural unfairness based on the color of skin was just beginning. Now, in 2016, we are sadly still dealing with the social and economic injustices in our country.

So, I will try to do my part. I will continue to raise my son to also not see the race of the friends he chooses. I will continue to support those who fight for the freedoms that everyone in America deserves. And I will continue being the social butterfly, befriending whomever needs the companionship of a girl raised on the belief that we all bleed the color red.

I’ve always liked New Year’s. I like the idea of celebrating the past and looking forward to the future with people I care about. I like receiving a fresh start, new calendars and new beginnings. Because no matter what the previous year put in my path, the new year, for me, symbolizes hope for good things to come.

This past year has given me many things to reflect on. My divorce was final at the beginning of the year, and along with that came changes, both good and not so good. I have learned to make the most of the time I have with my son, and I stepped back into the world of dating and learned how to fall in love again.

Along with the rest of Kansas City, I watched our boys in blue put us through a whirlwind of a baseball season, topped off with a World Series win. I’ve gained friends, and lost a few. I rode roller-coasters with Michael and ate funnel cakes whenever possible. I listened to lots of live music and studied artwork from both local artists and internationally-known ones.

I have laughed hysterically and I have shed some tears. I’ve lost several pounds and gained a few of them back. I have whipped and nae-naed, uptown funked and seen things go down (for real). I sang the blues in Memphis and talked with the puma at the Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha.

2015 has been a good year. It’s been a year of self-discovery and healing. It’s been a year of more ups than downs. I look forward to a positive 2016. I’m not one to make resolutions (I have before, and they usually last until the third week in January), but there are some things I hope to accomplish next year.

On the top of my list is to continue to build a positive and impactful relationship with my son. I’d like to travel a bit more and see new places. I’d like to lose the few pounds I gained back and maybe participate in a 5K or two. I want to finish the novel I’ve been working on for too many years. Most of all, I want to smile more and share those smiles with others.

I don’t consider myself to be overly environmentally-conscious. Sure, I throw my empty soda can in a recycle bin when available. I take old newspapers to the recycling dumpsters at my son’s school. But don’t ask me about the effects global warming or vehicle emissions or water purification. I think, like most people, I am aware of the dangers of those things, but they’re not things that affect my day-to-day living.

A few years back, we reported on the long-running litigation between Ideker Inc. and the Concerned Citizens for AIR Inc (CCAIR) regarding an asphalt plant near Missouri Highway 150 and Interstate 49. In the suit filed in 2013, CCAIR and Grandview sought to keep Ideker from obtaining a permit to run the plant in Kansas City, due to concerns about air pollution. They wanted a Jackson County court to decide whether the Missouri Department of Natural Resources had improperly approved an air-emissions permit for Ideker's facility.

The group expressed concerns about air quality in general while Grandview, more specifically, had issues about potential impact from chemical and dust emissions reaching nearby elementary schools in the area. The lawsuit showed promise when a Jackson County judge approved a temporary restraining order against a temporary permit to Ideker from the DNR, a decision that the Missouri Supreme Court later upheld.

But Ideker received a permanent permit early in 2014 and moved to get the lawsuit against it and the DNR dismissed so that it could continue operating. Ideker and the DNR argued that Grandview hadn't taken the necessary steps to block the permit through the DNR before heading off to court. While a Jackson County judge didn't find that argument persuasive, a panel of appellate judges did.

However, in July of this year, the case reached a conclusion with the court dismissing the case, granting Ideker the ability to keep its permit and stick to business as usual.

And business as usual is exactly how Ideker responded. The other morning, on my way into the office, I snapped a photo of the asphalt plant from my vantage point down 150 Highway. In the photo, with a crisp, clear blue sky, you can see a cloud of billowy, black smoke rising from the facility, headed straight into the wind toward Butcher-Greene Elementary School.

With it being a nice December day, I imagined the hundreds of children in the area that will head outside for recess. Though they may not be able to smell anything odd in the air (they may even be used to any odors by now), I couldn’t help but wonder about the long-term effects of breathing in the emissions from creating the asphalt.

If the wind shifts the other direction, those emissions head straight for Belvidere Elementary School andnd straight into the lungs of my ten-year-old son. When driving behind a vehicle that is expelling junk into the air, I have the option to roll up my windows, close my vents and speed around them. The kids playing outside at recess or enjoying their own backyards should be able to have some options, too, when it comes to the air they breathe.

I’m hopeful that this isn’t the end of the fight. I’m hopeful that CCAIR will continue to press on. I’m hopeful that MDNR will take our children into consideration. And, I’m hopeful that the safety and well-being of the community surrounding the development along the 150 corridor will outshine the dollar signs that seem to be glaring in the eyes of local political and developmental spearheads. 

I don’t remember how old I was when I stopped believing in Santa Claus. I do remember seeing gifts addressed to me under our Christmas tree that read, “To: Mary, From: Santa” in handwriting that was distinctively my dad’s. I grew up with an older brother that surely had something to do with my skepticism where St. Nick is concerned.

My son, Michael, was pretty young when he found out. The conversation went something like this:

“Mom, you know how you told me that magic isn’t real?”

“Yes. Magic is not real, it’s pretend.”

“Well, you also told me that Santa delivers all those presents to all the kids by using magic.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“So, if magic isn’t real, and Santa uses magic, does that mean that Santa isn’t real, too?”

“Let’s just keep this secret between us.”

He was around four at the time, and he felt pretty important being “in” on the biggest secret of his life. Since then, he’s had fun talking about Santa with younger children. Sometimes, though I know he doesn’t believe, I still feel as though he gets caught up in the magic of the season.

I had the privilege last week of photographing the man himself at the Christmas in the Sky event at Longview Lake. There, much like in the movie Polar Express, Santa gave the first gift of Christmas, a shiny bell, to a little girl from the Dream Factory. Watching the delight on Hannah’s face, and on the faces of the hundreds of children there to see Santa, I couldn’t help but feel the true spirit of Christmas.

A few days later, I ran into Santa, the same Santa I saw and photographed last week. He’s the real deal: an authentic white beard, rosy cheeks and a soft belly. I introduced myself to him and with a twinkle in his eye and a deep-belly laugh, he said, “Well, Mary, it’s really nice to see you again, though I noticed you don’t write anymore. Have a Merry Christmas.”

Like a little kid, my immediate thought was, “he knows!” He knows I haven’t written to him since I was a girl, and he misses my letters! My face turned red and I struggled to speak, apologizing for not writing. I suppose even if I don’t completely believe, the spirit of Christmas can still be just as magical as when I was small.

So, I’ll be writing that letter this year. I won’t be asking for Barbies or a new dress or a bigger, better bicycle. This year, I’ll ask Santa to keep the spirit alive in all of us, no matter how old we get or when we first stopped believing.