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Metal bar crashes through windshield, hits Northshore school bus driver
Metal bar crashes through windshield, hits Northshore school bus driver
Metal bar crashes through windshield, hits Northshore school bus driver

Published on: 02/17/2025

This news was posted by Oregon Today News

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A metal bar launched through the windshield and hit school bus driver Stewart O'Leary in the chest while he was driving on Feb. 7.

News Source : https://www.kgw.com/article/news/local/northshore-school-bus-driver-returns-work-after-being-hit-by-metal-object-washington/281-940aa653-9121-4c1d-a725-bd0a9564b659

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✍️Behind the Bars: Female Deputy Insights✍️ By Deputy Vierck, Eight years, two months, and twenty-five days. In a jail, everyone counts time. Adults in Custody mark the days and “wake-ups” until release. Deputies count the hours until the weekend or the years until retirement. I could recount every shift I worked at the Coos County Jail—the triumphs and the traumas—but no single page could hold them all. My first and best lesson came before I ever put on the uniform. My aunt, a long-time correctional officer in California, told me, “Your words and your time cost you nothing. They’re still people. It never hurts to listen or to offer a kind word.” I have carried that advice like a compass through every corridor and crisis of my career. It is the greatest gift I was ever given. Both deputies and those we supervise will admit that the job can breed an “us versus them” mindset; it’s practically baked into the design of the place. Yet treating every person with basic respect is the only way to keep our own humanity intact in an environment that can be hazardous, stressful, and, at times, deeply traumatic. We work among individuals society has labeled the worst of the worst. We read the charging instruments, hear the details of unimaginable crimes, and sometimes witness people at their lowest. Still, I have used my aunt’s advice to build genuine rapport across the bars. More than once, an Adult in Custody has stepped in to protect me—from physical attacks, verbal threats, even insults from their peers. We never count on that kind of loyalty, but when it happens, it is a quiet reminder that respect can travel in both directions. Being a woman in a male-dominated profession brings its own challenges. Society—and sometimes the people we supervise—assumes I am smaller, weaker, less capable. Those assumptions are not universally true or false; they simply miss the point. Women are indispensable in corrections. Some of us are exceptional firearms instructors or defensive-tactics trainers. Others excel at jail inspections, ensuring compliance with Oregon Jail Standards. Some are fierce fighters. I see myself as a strategist and a de-escalator—skills rooted in an upbringing where violence was absent, and words were the first line of defense. That background left me unprepared for the raw aggression I would eventually face, but it also gave me tools many of my male colleagues do not possess: the ability to calm an enraged man with the steady tone of an exasperated mother, or to search a female inmate with the dignity the law and basic decency require. People are always surprised when they learn where I work. “Wait—you work with men, too?” Yes. Murderers, rapists, people arrested for DUII—everyone who comes through the sally port. The shocked look on their faces used to bother me. Now it fills me with a strange pride. I don’t look like their mental image of a jail deputy, and I have learned to be proud of that mismatch. I have served as Watch Commander, running an entire shift of four to seven deputies when the sergeant is off. For the last three years, I have been a Field Training Officer, shaping new hires and praying they carry forward the same empathy my aunt gave me. When George Floyd was killed, I posted publicly about my disappointment in bad policing. Someone replied, “You only care because bad cops make you look bad.” That remark missed the mark by a mile. No one lasts long in this profession for ego or glory. I have missed holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. I have been cursed at, spit on, and assaulted. Some mornings, it takes everything I have just to walk through the staff door. There have been days I nearly turned in my badge for something safer, softer, saner. Yet I stay—because I believe I am here for a reason. I mentor rookies. I talk people down from the edge of suicide. I have knelt in someone else’s blood, applying pressure and praying the ambulance hurries. The job is brutal on bodies, minds, and relationships. But it has also given me a second family unlike any other. You hear it said that it’s not where you work, it’s who you work with. In law enforcement, that cliché is gospel. I know deputies who will drive across the county at 3 a.m. to check on a struggling coworker. I know others who crochet blankets and stuffed animals for every baby born into our extended family. I know men and women who have run into danger to save a life—sometimes the life of the very person they arrested the week before. We are protectors. We are human beings capable of profound empathy. My greatest hope is that one day the public will look past the uniform, past the headlines, and see us clearly for who we are.
✍️Behind the Bars: Female Deputy Insights✍️ By Deputy Vierck, Eight years, two months, and twenty-five days. In a jail, everyone counts time. Adults in Custody mark the days and “wake-ups” until release. Deputies count the hours until the weekend or the years until retirement. I could recount every shift I worked at the Coos County Jail—the triumphs and the traumas—but no single page could hold them all. My first and best lesson came before I ever put on the uniform. My aunt, a long-time correctional officer in California, told me, “Your words and your time cost you nothing. They’re still people. It never hurts to listen or to offer a kind word.” I have carried that advice like a compass through every corridor and crisis of my career. It is the greatest gift I was ever given. Both deputies and those we supervise will admit that the job can breed an “us versus them” mindset; it’s practically baked into the design of the place. Yet treating every person with basic respect is the only way to keep our own humanity intact in an environment that can be hazardous, stressful, and, at times, deeply traumatic. We work among individuals society has labeled the worst of the worst. We read the charging instruments, hear the details of unimaginable crimes, and sometimes witness people at their lowest. Still, I have used my aunt’s advice to build genuine rapport across the bars. More than once, an Adult in Custody has stepped in to protect me—from physical attacks, verbal threats, even insults from their peers. We never count on that kind of loyalty, but when it happens, it is a quiet reminder that respect can travel in both directions. Being a woman in a male-dominated profession brings its own challenges. Society—and sometimes the people we supervise—assumes I am smaller, weaker, less capable. Those assumptions are not universally true or false; they simply miss the point. Women are indispensable in corrections. Some of us are exceptional firearms instructors or defensive-tactics trainers. Others excel at jail inspections, ensuring compliance with Oregon Jail Standards. Some are fierce fighters. I see myself as a strategist and a de-escalator—skills rooted in an upbringing where violence was absent, and words were the first line of defense. That background left me unprepared for the raw aggression I would eventually face, but it also gave me tools many of my male colleagues do not possess: the ability to calm an enraged man with the steady tone of an exasperated mother, or to search a female inmate with the dignity the law and basic decency require. People are always surprised when they learn where I work. “Wait—you work with men, too?” Yes. Murderers, rapists, people arrested for DUII—everyone who comes through the sally port. The shocked look on their faces used to bother me. Now it fills me with a strange pride. I don’t look like their mental image of a jail deputy, and I have learned to be proud of that mismatch. I have served as Watch Commander, running an entire shift of four to seven deputies when the sergeant is off. For the last three years, I have been a Field Training Officer, shaping new hires and praying they carry forward the same empathy my aunt gave me. When George Floyd was killed, I posted publicly about my disappointment in bad policing. Someone replied, “You only care because bad cops make you look bad.” That remark missed the mark by a mile. No one lasts long in this profession for ego or glory. I have missed holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. I have been cursed at, spit on, and assaulted. Some mornings, it takes everything I have just to walk through the staff door. There have been days I nearly turned in my badge for something safer, softer, saner. Yet I stay—because I believe I am here for a reason. I mentor rookies. I talk people down from the edge of suicide. I have knelt in someone else’s blood, applying pressure and praying the ambulance hurries. The job is brutal on bodies, minds, and relationships. But it has also given me a second family unlike any other. You hear it said that it’s not where you work, it’s who you work with. In law enforcement, that cliché is gospel. I know deputies who will drive across the county at 3 a.m. to check on a struggling coworker. I know others who crochet blankets and stuffed animals for every baby born into our extended family. I know men and women who have run into danger to save a life—sometimes the life of the very person they arrested the week before. We are protectors. We are human beings capable of profound empathy. My greatest hope is that one day the public will look past the uniform, past the headlines, and see us clearly for who we are.
✍️Behind the Bars: Female Deputy Insights✍️ By Deputy Vierck, Eight years, two months, and twenty-five days. In a jail, everyone counts time. Adults in Custody mark the days and “wake-ups” until release. Deputies count the hours until the weekend or the years until retirement. I could recount every shift I worked at the Coos County Jail—the triumphs and the traumas—but no single page could hold them all. My first and best lesson came before I ever put on the uniform. My aunt, a long-time correctional officer in California, told me, “Your words and your time cost you nothing. They’re still people. It never hurts to listen or to offer a kind word.” I have carried that advice like a compass through every corridor and crisis of my career. It is the greatest gift I was ever given. Both deputies and those we supervise will admit that the job can breed an “us versus them” mindset; it’s practically baked into the design of the place. Yet treating every person with basic respect is the only way to keep our own humanity intact in an environment that can be hazardous, stressful, and, at times, deeply traumatic. We work among individuals society has labeled the worst of the worst. We read the charging instruments, hear the details of unimaginable crimes, and sometimes witness people at their lowest. Still, I have used my aunt’s advice to build genuine rapport across the bars. More than once, an Adult in Custody has stepped in to protect me—from physical attacks, verbal threats, even insults from their peers. We never count on that kind of loyalty, but when it happens, it is a quiet reminder that respect can travel in both directions. Being a woman in a male-dominated profession brings its own challenges. Society—and sometimes the people we supervise—assumes I am smaller, weaker, less capable. Those assumptions are not universally true or false; they simply miss the point. Women are indispensable in corrections. Some of us are exceptional firearms instructors or defensive-tactics trainers. Others excel at jail inspections, ensuring compliance with Oregon Jail Standards. Some are fierce fighters. I see myself as a strategist and a de-escalator—skills rooted in an upbringing where violence was absent, and words were the first line of defense. That background left me unprepared for the raw aggression I would eventually face, but it also gave me tools many of my male colleagues do not possess: the ability to calm an enraged man with the steady tone of an exasperated mother, or to search a female inmate with the dignity the law and basic decency require. People are always surprised when they learn where I work. “Wait—you work with men, too?” Yes. Murderers, rapists, people arrested for DUII—everyone who comes through the sally port. The shocked look on their faces used to bother me. Now it fills me with a strange pride. I don’t look like their mental image of a jail deputy, and I have learned to be proud of that mismatch. I have served as Watch Commander, running an entire shift of four to seven deputies when the sergeant is off. For the last three years, I have been a Field Training Officer, shaping new hires and praying they carry forward the same empathy my aunt gave me. When George Floyd was killed, I posted publicly about my disappointment in bad policing. Someone replied, “You only care because bad cops make you look bad.” That remark missed the mark by a mile. No one lasts long in this profession for ego or glory. I have missed holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. I have been cursed at, spit on, and assaulted. Some mornings, it takes everything I have just to walk through the staff door. There have been days I nearly turned in my badge for something safer, softer, saner. Yet I stay—because I believe I am here for a reason. I mentor rookies. I talk people down from the edge of suicide. I have knelt in someone else’s blood, applying pressure and praying the ambulance hurries. The job is brutal on bodies, minds, and relationships. But it has also given me a second family unlike any other. You hear it said that it’s not where you work, it’s who you work with. In law enforcement, that cliché is gospel. I know deputies who will drive across the county at 3 a.m. to check on a struggling coworker. I know others who crochet blankets and stuffed animals for every baby born into our extended family. I know men and women who have run into danger to save a life—sometimes the life of the very person they arrested the week before. We are protectors. We are human beings capable of profound empathy. My greatest hope is that one day the public will look past the uniform, past the headlines, and see us clearly for who we are.

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