Will Work For Food & Benefits

Why must we work fulltime just to have medical benefits in America? I've never lived in Canada or Portugal, but I know that both countries have free medical care regardless. Why can't the same exist in the richest country (on paper) in the world? Capitalism.

I think as I get older, medical benefits have become more important. I didn't have many aches or pains in my twenties as I seem to have in my thirties. I'm not crying wolf or that the sky is falling, but there is a problem in America when senior citizens play Russian roulette with expensive prescriptions, or when they feel they have no choice but to eat pet food to afford their medications.

Is it idealistic to want a rewarding life in America? I think not. If this is the land of opportunity, why are there so many homeless people living under bridges, in abandoned buildings, and scrounging for food in dumpsters and along outdoor cafés?

Is the argument based soley on rich versus poor? I wasn't born rich, but wasn't dirt poor growing up. I wore clean clothes to school and church, and began working to buy my own clothing that my mother wouldn't. I'm not advocating handouts or rigged lottery tickets, but a redistribution of resources and power.

I know I'm blessed living in America, witnessed by any number of PBS documentaries and specials showing the hardships of Africa, Brazil, and Eastern Europe.

The American workforce can be a land of nepotism, favoritism, and personality contests. The most qualified applicant doesn't always get the job. The position might go to the first or next minority or disabled candidate.

What's the heart of my argument? I have often worked for sustenance and medical benefits, rather than personal interest and professional growth. I've worked in several industries because I happened upon a restaurant, classified ad, or terrified I'd have to call my family and return to my birthplace. I've worked as a software trainer, helpdesk agent, rollerskating host in an outdoor café, an office temp, and a retail salesperson, none of which caused me to spring out of bed and dash to work.

In recent years I've freelanced from home as an English as Second Language Tutor, Essay Writing Instructor, and Accent Reduction and Vocal Clarity Coach. I enjoy these hats, but wish I had a professional space to hold classes rather than at my kitchen table. The private workshops are exhausting, but I'm happy. It's not stable work because students filter in and out at will. I had to incorporate a contract to ensure a steady stream of income because people can be flaky.

Maybe I belong in a different country and era, a time and place where teachers and artists were valued. Where wealthy citizens and governments commissioned operas, novels, and plays.

It's not that I don't want to work, I, as many other writers, only wish it wasn't so difficult to sustain a living as an artist. Sometimes I feel otherworldly, like a character in The House of the Spirits or One Hundred Years of Solitude, two magical realism novels.

In deciding to work for food and benefits, I might be faced with a decision that might alter research, writing, and editing time. That shouldn't be an issue because as the previous post asks and answers, I know why I write. I must refine my process to yield better results. I must broaden my scope to include other forms of writing, not strictly fiction, screenplays, and personal essays.

The inherent fear in working for food and benefits, is that I could teeter of the precipice of losing myself to a job. I refuse to become a bitter or stalled artist, sulking in a corner office because I've a wife and family.

I know I've creative and editorial work to contribute to the world. I must place myself under a microscope and figure out what or who stands in my way of publishing success in this age of self-published novels being reprinted by reputable publishing houses.

Should I self-publish my short stories that I workshop in Morningside Fiction Group? Should I set up a table on West 125th in Harlem and hawk my book as many others before me have done? Should I ride the New York City subways to sell the aforementioned collection like the people who brandish alkaline batteries, giant Snickers and M&M's?

I know I will have to stop stressing about food and medical benefits and concentrate on researching, reading, and completing more creative works. Stress causes health problems, and without medical benefits as a freelancer, it's a double-whammy. One note on freelancing and medical benefits. I responded to an online ad for free medical benefits through the Family Health Plus Program sponsored by the current New York Governor. I was told that I had to be destitute or close to qualify and be ultimately approved. I think it was a waste of time because I've not heard a peep from the commissioned sales rep or the agency in three months.

I've applied for so many jobs in recent months just to have medical benefits. I can deal with a lower salary because I have a roommate and decent savings and investments. I've received few responses because I've been out of fulltime work for several years. My skill sets aren't what they used to be, and I know my tolerance for office politics has decreased.

Do I believe in energy and thought projection? Have I cast myself too high too soon, and haven't done the grunt work to get there? No bitterness or envy implied, but everyone can't be a wunderkind like Zadie Smith, Jonathan Lethem, or Dave Eggers for that matter. No need to be a wunderkind, I'll be myself, with minor and major tweaking where needed.

Will work for three square meals a day, full medical and dental benefits, and a corporate-sponsored gym membership (to look good for the book jacket photo). Is that too much to ask? I hope not.

Why Do I Write?

I have gone through several incarnations as a writer. I didn't set out to be a New York writer, but I am on my way to becoming just that once I replace bad habits with good habits. More on those later.

I can create people and places they didn't exist before I take pen to paper, smelling the blue ink as it flows in cursive letters into my notebook, or appear on the monitor as I type on the computer keyboard. Distraction can be an e-mail or website away, so it's best to close all other programs and web browsers.

I believe most creative people use our lives for the sake of art or commerce, and the sooner I accept that, the sooner I'll become a published fiction writer. I'm not a prude, but I think there's something tawdry or unsavory about prostituting my family and friends. My family is rich in conflict, strife, and scandal. Would it be so bad if I were to change the names of a few cousins, aunts, uncles, and write and publish short stories, novellas, and screenplays?

My mother has encouraged me to write a family saga. My aunt has threatened to write it if I don't get my act together and commit pen to paper, keystrokes to screen.

I originally began writing to create believable characters that I'd bring to life on the screen and stage, but along the way my focus wavered and I lost sight of my motivation. Typical actor's response: What's my motivation for this scene?

I wanted to travel along similar paths as Chazz Palminteri, Spike Lee, Robert Townsend, or John Singleton, but my personal tastes and sensibilities are more in step with the racial and social commentaries of Joyce Carol Oates, Toni Morrison, Chinua Achebe, and Edward P. Jones.

I have written artist profiles, personal biographies, dance and film reviews, but they use a different muscle. I have several creative works in progress that I need to complete as I keep life's challenges under control. I envy Miss Oates who seems to crank out novels every few months while teaching at Princeton University.

I write to clear my head of the faces, voices, and experiences that have haunted and inspired me over the years. I write to record my thoughts and impressions of the world. I write to explore my boundaries.

I'm not the first, nor will I be the last artist who thinks the work isn't good enough for public viewing and consumption. I'm not an exhibitionist as an artist, so I write for different reasons. I'm not out to prove I'm the smartest, wisest, or funniest. I sometimes stop in my tracks because I don't want to embarrass myself or others.

Writing is opening a vein to the world and being judged. Writing is standing in the midst of rush hour traffic, nude, while onlookers point, giggle, and look at each other in disbelief.

I used to write a daily journal, part of a self-help course, the Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. The twelve-week course leaves no stone unturned, and forces the reader to face the person staring back in the mirror. I tried to get other people to work through the course with me, but no one else would. I did the homework alone, and was better for having done so.

I miss writing my daily journal, which is different from keeping a blog. Handwritten journals are more intimate than a blog or one recorded on a computer. I've allowed too many people and things to consume my time and energy. I remember being happier and emotionally healthier when I didn't let the junk to pile up inside, but poured it out on the page.

I still have those journal entries, markers of my chronological, emotional, and spiritual growth. I've thought about transcribing them onto the computer, but I don't know if I will. I keep the safe for now. Perhaps I'll revisit them soon. Is there a memoir or two contained in those pages written before I set foot on the floor in the mornings?

I write because I must. I'm not a businessman, a lawyer, or doctor. I am a writer and must commit words to the page daily. I write because I've stories to tell that I'm sure others would enjoy reading. I write to mark my time on earth.

Where Have They Gone?

Fading voices, smiles, and faces that have haunted over the years. The voices that echoed throughout the apartment during birthday parties and potluck dinners have disappeared, a casualty of time immortal.

Where have they gone?

The smiles that greeted at work or play have vanished as if by magic.

The mind plays tricks while walking down a busy Manhattan street or squeezing into a crowded subway car. Once familiar faces blend into a jigsaw puzzle of commuters.

The lines between coworkers and friendship were blurred, and soon thereafter socializing and sharing dreams felt natural.

E-mail and voicemail replaced personal contact, and eventually those placeholders ceased.

Where have they gone? Where are those who said they understood and shared my beliefs? I'm left to wonder if I said or did something offensive. I wonder if I didn't return her call soon enough, after she and her boyfriend fought. Or if I should've made an exception and trekked out to edge of Brooklyn more often to attend his dinner parties.

People come and go through the revolving doors of my life. Some people I'd hope would stay, while others won't go away.

How I wish life wasn't like a country song. Everyone has a tale to tell, and a warning to spread. Today is oftentimes better than yesterday and tomorrow.

Broken promises resonate as I flip through old photographs or try to find humor in a sitcom as laugh tracks pour through the stereo speakers. The photos can cut quicker and deeper than a Japanese sword if I stare too long. Poking fun at bad actors and actresses isn't the same without a trusted friend nearby.

Where have they gone? Perhaps those once thought of as friends have taken their leave of me and are now hanging out with Godot.

Perhaps southern hospitality and or naiveté are no longer appealing to the strays and orphans who once populated my life.

Searching in the darkness for the remote control to stop those sad country songs on the carousel CD player.

Time to shave the beard, wash my face, and remove the chains that jingle and jangle behind me as I haunt my past imperfect life.

There's no definitive answer to where they've gone. They've scattered to the four winds off Montauk Point, They've gotten married, had children, divorced, and returned to school.

Regardless of where they've gone, it's time to etch out a new path and reinvent myself, again.

High Road or Axe To Grind?

To err is human, to forgive, divine.

I grew up in the South, and attended church regularly until I was sixteen years old, at which time I challenged the reason for going to a church where the first four or five pews on either side in the front were filled with hypocrites. These people sat near the pulpit and lectern, Bibles and colored highlighters in tow, waving their hands and praising Jesus and God, Amen and Preach On, rising in the sanctuary.

No sooner had the morning service ended, these upstanding Christians would stand just outside the church, smoking, flirting, and gossiping about church members and visitors.

I didn't like hypocrites back then, nor do I like or appreciate them as an adult.

I don't know if religious or secular hypocrites are more reviling. In a church or religious setting, we were taught to take the high road, turn the other cheek, love our enemies, even going so far as taking the shirt off our backs to clothe them.Oftentimes that's not realistic and requires patience, practices, and forgiveness.

In the heat of the moment, most people react and want to strike out, strike back at the person or people who has caused the pain. However, religious leaders, scholars, and parents advise us to walk away from the offending situation, take a deep breath, and regroup.

In recent weeks I have had to deal with an immature and unprofessional situation. Yes, I wanted to strike out, call upon God and my dead ancestors to rain down fire and brimstone, and even thought about consulting a santero or santera to do their best to rid me of the people who upset my apple cart.

Alas, I didn't consult the spiritual healer as much as I might have wanted. I didn't want to mess with mojo that involved colored candles, incense, and animal blood or bones. It was a temporary childish vengeful moment.

I am comforted knowing that God will take care of me and my enemies. I've turned over the situation to a Higher Power to deal with when and where He wants.

Administrative Hijinks & Power Plays

Certain jobs in corporate America are ripe with office politics, power plays, and inept administrators and managers who maneuvered their way not unlike a chess piece, into a corner office or choice cubicle.

I am a writer. I am an editor. I am a teacher. I was an actor. I have directed staged readings. I am an artist. Oftentimes artists don't fit into restrictive corporate arenas. I can only speak of New York City, but can imagine the same applies to cities large and small throughout the world. New York is one of the financial and business centers of the world. Is it then irresponsible for an artist to seek temporary employment, complete with full medical benefits, while pursuing and financing creative endeavors?

I never liked playing office bingo or politics. I have worked with people who were competitive because I was able to blend into the woodwork while maintaining a smile and sunny disposition. In their minds, this wasn't supposed to have happened. I was supposed to be miserable or bitter, and join them in a rousing verse of Misery Loves Company. If I've learned anything from my eighty-nine year old granny, is that we're here today, gone tomorrow: "Some of us who were here last night, aren't here today," she often says during our weekly long-distance Sunday afternoon phone call.

I have worked with and for barracudas, or tiger sharks, whichever applies. I remember this one attractive female supervisor (who later met with an unfavorable end) who could equally rally (and or beguile) female and male staff. She reminded me of All My Children's Erica Kane. I'm sure there were women in the office who wanted be her when they grew up. She was a smooth operator, and one didn't feel the sting of poisonous dart for several minutes after leaving her presence.

I'm not female, so I can't say what it's like to be a woman in a man's world. When I first worked on a helpdesk, there was another female supervisor, reminiscent of Whitney Houston, or some other black diva, without much of the attitude. I think her being a reborn Christian helped her manage us. She too, had a way of inspiring the troops, but she did so with a smile on her face, gift mugs from Disneyland, or homemade cookies.

One of my worst immediate female supervisors was the only other black person in the department, who wanted me to align myself against the man, whitey. She had an annoying habit of flicking her long unpolished nails outward like a movie villainess as she spoke. We didn't like each other, and I did everything in my power to find a new job and move on.

One of my best immediate female supervisors reminded me of my cousin's stepmother. It was my first job in New York City, and I was admittedly homesick. I worked in credit authorization, but wasn't content, so I transferred to the credit collections department. Big mistake. I should've stayed in authorization with the homemade treats and carefully dispensed motherly advice.

A close second worst female supervisor was a woman who had major control issues. It was a long-term temp assignment, and she replaced an outgoing supervisor who was loved and respected. Inside of her first two weeks she had chipped away at the comraderie in the office, and set about trying to divide and conquer. This was a troubling environment because the staff worked well together before she arrived. I'd never seen someone with such insecurities, not even the aftermentioned nail-flicking villainess. She was rude, unprofessional, and deserved what came her way.

The male supervisors paled in comparison to the women, much like they do in men's professional tennis. I'm not one for drama, heightened or otherwise, but some men tend to grunt and shift only for the sake of announcing their continual presence.

One male supervisor stands out. He liked me in ways that I didn't want to be liked. He'd call me into his office and make subtle sexual overtures to see if I'd take the bait. I knew what he was doing, and turned a deaf ear. His attention and pet projects made me uncomfortable. I resigned after having found a new job.

Endnote:I imagine that all jobs have some level of administrative hijinks and power plays. I prefer to work in a team environment, and there's no I in team. There should be no egos, divas, stars, and slackers, but there are and will be. Everyone has a role in life and oftentimes the chess pieces collide and explode, propelling the unsuccessful players off the board and into the unemployment line.

One of my favorite lines of dialogue is in the movie Wonder Boys based on the novel by Michael Chabon. Rip Torn plays "Q", an often-published novelist/teacher to Michael Douglas's stalled and currently unpublished status. Midway through the movie, at a writer's festival on campus, Q announces: "I am a writer!" To that, the audience applauds.

My quote: "I am an artist. Crazymakers and those bent on destruction, keep five hundred feet behind."

Teaching in Spanish Harlem

I have taught an Adult Essay Writing/English Workshop in a GED program Spanish Harlem for the last year. I originally didn't think I'd get the job, concerned that I was a square peg trying to fit into a community that I didn't belong. I'd applied for the job once before, but was passed over for an unknown reason. When I saw the posting a second time on Craigslist, the seemingly one-stop place for anything, everything, and anyone on the Internet, I didn't blink before reapplying.

I arranged an interview more out of curiosity, than an actual desire to get the job. I wanted to know who it was that dissed me the first time. I was asked to teach for an hour, an audition, and ended up going beyond the allotted time.

Walking into that storefront classroom was one of few times I was nervous. I did not feel as I though I was in the hood, but close, and the faces that looked out at me weren't welcoming. It wasn't their fault, the previous teacher was a drill sergeant, and had only lasted a few weeks before resigning (or being terminated).

I pulled from my public speaking, acting, reading Bible verses in church toolbox to calm any fears that I could handle myself in what I later realized can be a hostile environment. I often think of Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds when I look at some of the students. I've no martial arts skills, high cheekbones, or pouty lips to beguile my adult students. I have to rely on my conviction to make an impact in my students' lives.

We all make bad choices, and sometimes choices are made for us. However, I don't believe that we should spend a lifetime in the shadows or making excuses for what has happened. Whose past isn't imperfect?

Each week I learn as much about myself as I impart to the students who pay attention and take notes. My capacity as a big brother and mentor extends to the classroom. I know that I'm contributing to a higher cause (no climbing on a soapbox). Depending upon the week or hour, I see fear, revelation, and sheer confusion on the students' faces.

I didn't foresee my teaching this course, and for this long. Kudos to teachers who are in the classroom five days a week, with assignments and exams to grade, dealing with various student personalities, and their parents. My aunt retired this summer after thirty-nine years as a third grade teacher.

Teaching an essay course keeps my writing and editing skills sharp. Teaching this course, I'm privileged to read about the triumphs and disappointments my students share with me, well, those who attempt or complete the homework.

I don't know if I enjoy more the literary fiction discussions, to hear my students blurt out essay types, forms of punctuation, or the increased confidence in previously shy students.

I know I've changed because of my students, and this evolution wouldn't have otherwise taken place in an office or corporate job. I owe them as much gratitude as they express to me with their weekly attendance, in what has become a standing-room only workshop.

Building blocks for future success . . .

Independence Day

This year's Independence Day took on a new meaning for me. I was finally able to let go of people who have long since let go of me. It wasn't difficult to do; most of the people I thought were true friends turned out to be fair-weather friends. The difficulty was accepting that I was a poor judge of character.

New York is a city of orphans. Everyone is from somewhere else, or want to escape to someplace, if only in their minds.

My official role as social director with co-workers, cast mates, and strays is a thing of the past. I've not gone to a club or lounge in many years, and no longer care what's hot in New York Nightlife. It was a system of supply and demand. The promoters requested names for their guest lists, and I supplied the bodies. After my last hoorah in a club, I felt relieved. I no longer had to worry about what to wear and who to accompany to various midtown and downtown hotspots. I don't know if I've mourned the absence of my annual birthday, brunch, or potluck guests, but I've definitely questioned my bull meter. I was a big brother, mentor, and unpaid therapist to many people, exhausting myself emotionally, spiritually, and physically to help them solve their crisis of the moment.

What was my life that I invited and cultivated such relationships? I'm not a crazymaker, but I used to attract people that would be better served by a trained clinician and a healthy dose of prescription drugs. I used to think it was my destiny to minister to them, but would undoubtedly feel drained and apprehensive each time the phone would ring.

The names in my address book are strangers. The phone numbers once committed to memory have faded with time, just as the sound of their voices, and expressions on their faces.

Is life cyclical, or do people and experiences happen in our lives because they are suppose to happen? Whatever the answer, today I celebrate not with fireworks and hot dogs, but with a sigh of relief that I'm no longer the person I used to be.