Has Social Media Gone Too Far?

I suppose I am an idealist.

I moved to the country because I wanted my children to embrace a slower, simpler and ostensibly safer way of life. Cows are our nearest neighbors. Country music is played on school buses. People wake early and go to bed the same. Out here, I wanted to believe in some idealistic tenets of Americana.

While my role as a professor of writing and literature is to teach, my students at the college never cease to alert me to various (ahem) other things as well. Today during class, a vibrant discussion about racial profiling and how the events of September 11, 2001 have changed our view of society and people in this country led them to enlightening me about a video on social media where a man believed to be from a Mexican village beheads his wife for cheating. Facebook won't remove the video, stating that people are "sharing the video to condemn it" and a spokesperson for Facebook said "Facebook has long been a place where people turn to share their experiences, particularly when they're connected to controversial events..." A BBC article offers an excellent discussion here.

The video shows a woman in a hot pink tank top and jeans on her knees outside in the dirt, hands bound behind her back, with a man - assumed to be her husband - holding her head up by her hair. Another person presumably is filming, and there are others around. She does not struggle or fight; she seems to accept her fate, only wincing at the first cuts of the knife. Within 15 seconds, she is gone. The last seconds of her life taken from her by her husband in such a gruesome way, recorded and put out on the Net for anyone with a connection to the interwebs to witness. A warning to other women, perhaps. A misogynistic hallmark that says boldly: cheat, and you will face a similar fate - a fate of humiliation, domination and control.

Social media has changed our culture (says the blogger), and not always for the better. Sure, it's made marketing to many different audiences easier, connects us to loved ones far away and is a source for information and entertainment. But at what expense?

I remember in high school, back in the days of VHS tapes, a buzz circulating about a movie called Faces of Death. We have a morbid curiosity for pain and hurt in others, and while I didn't see the movie, I know it depicted real and graphic scenes of death and dying.

In the early 1990s the Net - the "Information Superhighway" as it was called - was unheard of yet. There were computers, but not in every American household. I learned how to type on a typewriter.

Today, one can conjure up real and graphic scenes of not only death and dying, but torture, rape and mutilation in a 10 second Google search.

I am angered and disturbed about multiple elements of this particular video, which has spawned a debate (ironically, across social media and the Net) about how social media has or hasn't gone too far. Where do we draw the line? Has social media gone too far? Is freedom of speech worth exposure to such graphic forms of violence? Or, more importantly, worth potentially exposing our youth to?

And while these issues are certainly key, this video has me thinking a lot about other issues, like control. Like the insidious nature of domination and control. Like the control of men over women, or even people over other people; the control of a culture which is still so obviously rooted in archaic and barbaric means; and our own lack of self-control with regard to social media.

I am a mother to two daughters. I am a sister, and an aunt. And I shudder with rage and disgust to think that my girls could be exposed to such graphic images. Some things should be left to crime scene investigators, not exposed on social media.

Call me an idealist, but I want to insulate my daughters, sisters and nieces from a world in which such hatred for women exists.

And yet, they must learn sometime the realities, that life isn't always good.

I hope they learn that through me, with my guidance, not through their Facebook page.

What does it mean to be "American?"

I am beyond excited.

Ironically, during the second time in American history when our government has shut down, I have been offered a position at a local college teaching, among other things, American Literature.

My textbooks

In the eight years it took to finish my masters degree, I read my share of European literature: A whole year of Shakespeare. Semesters with Ulysses, Madame Bovary, The Canterbury Tales. But my favorites were, by far, writers from small American hometowns like my own. Annie Dillard. Jack Kerouac. Gretel Ehrlich. Tom Robbins. Walt Whitman. e. e. cummings. Toni Morrison. Ernest Hemingway. Mark Twain.

Which got me thinking: what does it mean to be "American?"

There is an underlying sense of curiosity in American writing, a desire to turn over rocks to see what's underneath. Annie Dillard said, "I walk out; I see something, some event that would otherwise have been utterly missed and lost; or something sees me, some enormous power brushes me with its clean wing, and I resound like a beaten bell." She continues, "'Never lose a holy curiosity,' Einstein said; and so I lift my microscope down from the shelf, spread a drop of duck pond on a glass slide, and try to look spring in the eye," (Pilgrim at Tinker Creek).

There is certainly a penchant for unbridled freedom, self-reliance and a spirit that cannot be caged. Walt Whitman embodies this American spirit for freedom, "From this house I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines,/ Going where I list, my own master total and absolute..." (Song of the Open Road). 

Being an American means having a wacky sense of humor and a simple good-natured desire to do good, "If you tell the truth, you do not need a good memory!" said Mark Twain (The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn).

It means, according to Jack Kerouac, living by the seat of our Levis: “...we all must admit that everything is fine and there's no need in the world to worry, and in fact we should realize what it would mean to us to UNDERSTAND that we're not REALLY worried about ANYTHING,” (On the Road). 

And pride in having dignity and principles, “Better to sleep in an uncomfortable bed free, than sleep in a comfortable bed unfree,” (On the Road). 

It's a certain rebellion: 

“To be nobody but
yourself in a world
which is doing its best day and night to make you like
everybody else means to fight the hardest battle
which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.” e. e. cummings

It might not pay a lot, but oh how excited I am to share these authors with others and to return to a classroom. And if American literature is a testament, somehow I think we Americans will survive, despite our government. :)

Cracked

In the summer of 1996, when most people in their early 20's were partying or falling in love, I attended cadaver lab at the medical school nearby. Like "Henry," the nickname we gave the 58 year old man who had donated his body to science - and to us - the experience cracked me open.

Henry's last meal was corn. And, as we cut into the meaty area to remove and dissect his lungs, he exhaled. We had taken his last breath. Despite the sterile unemotional environment of cadaver lab, I couldn't abandon my poetic brain. I wanted to know his story. How did he die? How did he live? Did he love? Was he happy? Heartbroken? Angry? What kept him awake at night? Did his hands once embrace children and a wife?

Students aren't given any information about the cause of death in cadaver lab; that's part of the learning process: to discover how your cadaver passed from this life. We were only given very basic information: age, race, demographics.

I was struck immediately with how vulnerable and fragile we are when I learned how easily fascia, the thin fibrous connective tissue that surrounds muscle, tears away; I thought in metaphors. Fascia was like the finest linen, lungs like sponge. And yet, for all of our vulnerability, I marveled at our resilience as I learned Henry had survived open heart surgery, the staples still embedded in his chest.

One of my favorite lines in all of literature comes from the 18th and final chapter of James Joyce's Ulysses. It is often referred to as Molly Bloom's soliloquy. In the passage, among other things, Molly Bloom says "...and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes ..."

Sometimes, all we have to do is say a resounding "yes" to what we are offered to be transformed. 

I have been thinking a lot about Henry lately and the experiences I took away from cadaver lab because, now 17 years later, I have returned to that medical school. And once again, I feel cracked open. With gratitude.

After nearly two years of the highs and lows that have come with my unemployement journey, I applied and was offered a job via that same medical school.

The position is through an AmeriCorps grant funneled through the medical school. It is essentially a pipeline project to guide and encourage middle school and high school age students in rural communities toward careers in healthcare. This week was my first week.

During training, I sat in a room with physicians counselors and students discussing things like how to guide teens into lucrative areas of study, how to help them make decisions to avoid astronomical student loan debts, and the factors that affect the demographic who enters medical school.

This was a far cry from chicken marsala.

This is important work. Work I can believe in and be proud of. Meaningful work. Work that has the potential to shape future generations of physicians, surgeons, nurses and psychologists.

But, if I'm being honest, I would make more if I continued to dish out chicken marsala.

I entered college in 1992 as a biology major. In my second or third semester, I took organic chemistry and received a D. I decided then to switch my major to English and embrace who I was, who I had always been.

But, just because we are good with words and not with numbers does not mean we cannot shape and contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways. Just because we serve chicken marsala doesn't mean we cannot contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways.

We all have the ability to give, contribute, guide and transform when we are willing to dig deep, be true to ourselves and give a resounding "Yes!" to what we are offered.

I have been cracked open once again. I've learned during this period how vulnerable I can be, but also how resilient. I might not make much money. But I am so thankful for who I am and for being true to myself. I am thankful for parents who allowed me to not fit into the box, who celebrated who I was and continue to be for all of my quirky idiosyncrasies.

I have to believe that, if I continue to say "Yes!" the world will provide the rest.

Reinventing oneself in an uncertain economy: gratitude and grace with aside of biscuits and gravy

I've just accepted a second waitressing job.

Evolution is a powerful thing. Just a few months ago, I wrote about my job as a server with a certain amount of shame. I made sure to tell at least one of my tables on any given night that I was just "in transition" - that I had a master's degree and years of professional experience.

As if that means anything.

Our silly little egos. We must soothe them. We tell ourselves what we need to in order to make ourselves feel better.

The truth is, who am I not to be grateful for what I am, or what I have been, or what I have been given?

I've been a lot of things that might surprise you. I was once a telemarketer for a very large portrait studio chain. It was my first job. I called people, usually interrupting their dinner, to try to persuade them to buy portrait packages. I was 14. From then, a long line of job titles evolved, and not all of the titles are impressive: dishwasher, camp counselor, horse trainer, camel handler, zoo keeper, camp cook, landscaper, marketing associate, dog sled handler/guide, cashier, waitress, tutor, substitute teacher, adjunct professor, health educator, research associate, communications specialist, addiction and tobacco treatment specialist, and now...freelance writer/photographer/waitress.

I have lamented my fate in the job market over the last year, becoming more and more despondent  with each rejection letter. I've taken them personally even though I know in my heart those letters were simple form letters and not personal in any way. I've spent sleepless nights asking myself what am I doing wrong? I've read books on cover letter and resume writing, blogs on job market and interviewing skills, felt jealousy and anger at others who have comfortable, predictable salaries and savings accounts. I've scoured job search engines all over the Midwest, crafted cover letters that were conventional and not-so-much-so. I've cried, prayed and wished upon stars.

And all the while, I didn't realize a transformation was taking place inside of me.

I started becoming better at what I do best: following my creative heart. I started reinventing myself. I started saying thank you. I started to enjoy being a waitress almost as much as being a writer or photographer. Once, the two jobs intersected. I was called to photograph beautiful food at my friend's restaurant, and, the next thing I knew, I was waiting tables and serving IPA beers behind her bar!

A "Farmhand Burger" at the Farm Girls Pub & Grub in Alliance, Ohio

Cheryl Strayed said in Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar: “You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt with. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding and my dear one, you and I have been granted a mighty generous one.”

I have been waiting: for the right time, the right job, the right moment when things will miraculously open up for me.  I've been sacrificing now waiting to relive then. Suddenly my mind has shifted, like a "forest for the trees." All we have is now. And, right now, I am a waitress. I am a writer. I am a photographer. And not one of those things is shameful or less important than the others. The best thing we can do in this life is to play the cards we are dealt.

And, to again quote Cheryl Strayed, “The best thing you can possibly do with your life is to tackle the motherf*%king shit out of it.”

Indeed.

Quiet or, the twelve year goodbye

It happened again today. 

A friend wrote me an email to ask why I'd been so quiet lately. Another friend did the same thing about a month ago. 

I have been quiet lately. I don't like to put things out there that are draining or depressing, and that's what I feel lately. If I'm being honest, I am quiet because I am processing a lot of sad emotions.

But tonight, some thoughts surfaced. Maybe they are worth offering.

Twelve years is a long time.

Chris and I had our first "date" on June 29, 2001. Both musicians, we decided to go to see live music. We ended up stumbling onto the scene of an obnoxiously loud punk band that hurt our ears. I went to the bathroom for some tissue to stuff into my ears, and brought him some too.

Before long, we were on our fifth date. He came to play music with me at a homey little bar called the Luna Grille during a time when I was regularly playing drums. He made me laugh until my sides hurt. He was talented, seemed gentle and compassionate, and although he had a job as a reporter making just a couple bucks above minimum wage, I took a chance. We were married on September 12, 2003.

Like so many, the foundation of our marriage whittled away, buckling under the weight of parenting, responsibilities and financial stress. After I lost my job in 2008, I dove into writing again. Who knows what caused the beginning of the erosion, but during those quiet nights, as I tried to write, seven words floated up from some dark abyss despite my best efforts to muddy the waters and bury them deep. 

 
I don’t want to be married anymore. The words echoed in my mind, until the idea started to take hold. I don’t want to be married anymore. At first, I tried to block the words out. We hung on, trying to make it work for the kids, for the finances, for any number of reasons. We hung on until last summer. Then I could bear it no more. I initiated our separation, and in a short amount of time, Chris agreed. It was time to move on. We wanted different things. We had become different people. Our marriage was over.

But even though it was a mutual decision, and even though it's been, for the most part, amicable, there's still a certain amount of grief. There are still certain things that sting. When I said my vows, I meant them. I envisioned us as old fogies together and took refuge in the idea of "forever." I think often about how it is some people, like my parents, manage to weather changes and tough times and stay together. My parents just celebrated their 42nd anniversary.

Here's what I've come up with. And, if I could have a "do over," these are some things I would do differently.

Be Polite

1 Corinthians 13:4-7 - Love is patient, love is kind. One of the most quoted verses in weddings. But how many of us can actually say we are loving or kind to our partners on a daily basis? First, I have to say, I still believe in love. But enduring years intimately involved with another person takes more than love. It takes consideration and basic manners - the common courtesy you'd give your coworkers or a fellow passenger on the bus. If I could have a do over, I would try my best to always be polite. Say excuse me. Fill the toilet paper holder. Simple courtesy can go a long way.

Check your tongue

I won't lie: I'm all about peace, love and happiness until you cross me. Then, I brandish words like weapons. Chris and I have thrown some awful verbal barbs at each other in the last ten years. We're taught when growing up to apologize for our wrongs, as if two simple words "I'm sorry" can erase hurt. And while saying you're sorry is certainly a start, it doesn't undo the hurt caused by verbal sparring. If I could have a do over, I would zip it and not ever say crap I had to apologize for.

               Compassion is the guide star

This goes beyond being polite. When we need something (time, attention, help with a project, etc), it can be difficult to step outside of ourselves and remember that someone else may have had a crappy, long day at work, been chewed out by their boss, be tired or dealt with some other mishap or disappointment throughout the day. If I could have a do over, I would try to be more compassionate of my partner's needs and limitations, and realize when he had a bad day.

Take time to connect

It's easy to lose sight of this one. We get busy. We need time to unwind after a long day. We seal ourselves off from the world, and sometimes even our partners. Time slips away, and suddenly it's been years since we have done the things we used to do to connect. Shortly after the honeymoon, Chris and I stopped playing music together. We would make plans to spend time with friends, but never made spending time alone together a priority. Taking time to connect is vital. Otherwise, you're left with a disconnect that eventually cannot be repaired.

Humility

Have respect. Admit when you're wrong. Simple. We're human. We can get boastful or moody or otherwise act like jackasses. Having the humility to step outside of yourself and recognize when you are being a jackass takes skill. If I could have a do over, I'd recognize when I was being a jackass more readily and apologize sincerely.

Shut your mouth and open your ears (and heart)

In an argument, this is especially difficult. We get caught up in thinking of our point, what we're going to say next, that we don't shut up and listen to what our partner is saying. Even when we shut our mouths, our minds might still be preoccupied with our own concerns. Listening to another person's point of view/thoughts/feelings can go a long way. Telling that person you heard them can go even farther. If I could have a do over, I'd shut up. I'd invest in some Q-tips ®. And I would reflect back to my partner what I heard him saying, to let him know I was listening.

I am sure I will come up with more thoughts over the next few weeks. But if you are one of the people who has wondered why I am quiet lately, this is why. Healing, for me, takes patience, solitude, thoughtfulness and reflection. It's been a long process, but I think I'm finally rounding a corner. To those of you who have written with concerns, thank you. It means more than you know.

Namaste

Green

There is a long-held belief that our thoughts determine our lives. Shakespeare put this idea into literature long before The Secret, despite popular belief; in the 15th Century Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet: "there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so," (Act 2, Scene II).

In other words, if you think good things will happen, good things will happen. Conversely, if you think you are "doomed" or will have bad luck, you will.

For the last few months I have documented my unemployment journey, all the while, keeping in mind this quote. The Universe had to see my willingness, I reasoned, and willingness was everything, right?

Recently, like the protagonist Hamlet in the classic tragedy, I have found myself trapped in a prison of negative thinking. A friend wrote me an email the other day to ask why I've been so quiet. I have hesitated to write anything because I haven't felt like I've had much to offer. This has been such a profound period of grief and loss.

In an effort to quell my sad heart, I recently headed outside at midnight with a tripod and a camera and tiptoed quietly across the front pasture to the fields and tree line on this seven acres. My intent was to shoot fireflies. Stripes, my beautiful, green-eyed farm cat, had something else in mind.

It had stormed earlier in the afternoon. The grass was wet on my flip-flopped feet as I walked. Stripes led the way through the darkness. He reminded me of the lemurs I used to care for when I was a zookeeper: balancing carefully as he walked, his striped tail straight up and slightly rotund belly swaying underneath.  I set up my equipment and prepared for some long exposure shots.

Fireflies

I had been restless earlier in the evening. I sought balance in solitude and darkness.

As I pulled the trigger for a long, thirty-second exposure, Stripes weaved himself in and out of the legs of the tripod and my legs, rubbing each as he met it with his soft body and purring loudly.

I scooped him up into my arms, cradling him like a baby on his back.  

"Stop bumping my camera," I scolded him lovingly for bumping my tripod when my shutter was open. I wanted to capture the glowing orbs of fireflies, not have them blurred from accidental movement of the camera. 

He purred louder.

I am not a cat person typically. But Stripes picked my family. He was abandoned in a second-story duplex apartment next door to my old house when I lived in town. His previous family had left him without food or water and covered with fleas when they moved. The landlord emerged one day with Stripes in a pet carrier, plopping it down indifferently on my front lawn.

"Can you take this?" she asked, referring to the cat.

I said no, but she found this answer unacceptable. Turning on her heel, she said while walking away, "If you don't want him, take him to the pound." My daughter, Elise, who was about four at the time, greeted the cat with enthusiasm.

She named him Striped Fleas initially because he was so completely covered, we could hardly tell the stripes from the fleas. We bathed him and treated him. When the fleas fell away, the name Stripes stuck.

Elise and Stripes, May 25, 2012

A year later, we moved to the farm. Stripes flourished out here on these seven acres, with lots of new places, tall weeds and woods to explore. He made himself a little "door" in the screen of my bedroom window where my desk sits. Sometimes at night, when I'd be busily typing away, he'd emerge suddenly, his green eyes wide and pupils dilated. He'd sound a muffled meow through the dead mouse or other "present" he'd have in his mouth - a gift of loyalty to me.

Perhaps that's why Stripes endeared himself to me. He was loyal as a dog.

On this night, he, once again, demonstrated his loyalty to me, ignorant to the fact that it might ruin my photos. What use does a cat have for photos? He was blissfully unaware.

Or maybe I was the one who was blissfully unaware; perhaps Stripes knew far more than I.

I collected my equipment and went back into the house after about an hour. Stripes stayed outside, to hunt mice, I figured. 

The next morning, I found Stripes dead in the road.

I walked down the road to collect his body so Elise would not see.  I wanted so badly to come upon the hunched-up body lying in the road and discover it was not him. I hoped it was a neighbor's cat, or even a raccoon. He was still slightly warm and soft. It hadn't happened long before.

As I picked him up, great sobs pumped out of my chest. I cried unabashedly, walking down the middle of this country road at 7:30 a.m., not caring who saw my grief.

At first, I thought how awful and unfair. Such a loyal and loving life cut short by a vehicle speeding to work (I reasoned hypothetically) in the pre-dawn light of a Monday morning. I struggled to make sense of it. I longed to reverse time - to go back to our firefly photo session from the night before and, instead of leaving him outside to hunt, I would take him inside with me to sleep on my bed. He always slept on my bed. Why not that night? Why couldn't I take it back? Make it better? Damn!

But then, slowly, I remembered Shakespeare.

I like to think, now, that Stripes knew (somehow) that would be his last night on earth. I like to think he wanted to celebrate it in joy, playfully disturbing my photo session with his loving slalom in and out of the tripod legs.

Thank you, Stripes, for sharing your last wonderful night on earth with me in such a special way, and for picking us to share your life with. You will be greatly missed.

Magic words and mondays

I love Mondays.

Mondays mean quiet. Mondays mean recuperation and rest from a crazy weekend of waiting tables. Mondays are my time, the time I sit down, coffee in hand, and remember who I am.

Signs of spring

A recent weekend was especially hectic. A few Saturday nights ago, the restaurant I work at closed for a private wedding reception, which left me conflicted. I knew the moment would come, and I braced myself for it: the moment the photographer walked in the door.

I would watch him or her scrupulously, critiquing every shot, envisioning how it would look in my mind, criticizing. But it's only because, for this night, I was on this side: serving Prime Rib and Chicken Marsala instead of being where I love to be - my second favorite place in the world to be besides behind my dog team: behind a camera.

As the night went on, while tending to my tables, I couldn't help but focus on the photographer. At one point, a gorgeous halo of light fell right on the bride and the groom sitting at the head table. I walked over to the photog, who was sitting at the bar, drinking a beer and eating Prime Rib to tell him about the moment begging for capture with his Canon Mark IV. He shrugged and took another bite, indifferent to the golden light of the setting sun.
 
My favorite magic words these days are these: "you're phased."

Those of you in the service industry are undoubtedly familiar with this phrase. For servers, these words mean you are slowly being phased out of actively taking tables. Things have died down enough that you stop taking tables in your section and can begin your side work. It means you will soon be leaving work. 

Before long, I was phased. Once I finished my side work, I felt especially downhearted. I left the photographer and the reverie of the reception and wandered outside. Where I work is a bustling area in a college town, a block full of bars and taverns, restaurants and studios. I walked across the street to another pub for a beer. Such a relief to sit down, the beer went down all too easily and I had another. I decided to leave before I was tempted to have another.

As I walked to my truck, eager, hopeful faces of college kids passed by in all directions. One young man with a vaguely familiar face stumbled up to me, clearly already quite drunk at only 11:30 p.m.

"Hey!" he said, slurring his speech. He touched my hand, his blue eyes sparkled with a youthful exuberance. He was tan, with sandy brown hair and an aqua green button-down shirt. "You were my server!"

I smiled. I didn't know whether to be flattered or startled by his simple recognition; I think I was a little of both.

"Yes," I replied, returning his touch by steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, I was. And it seems like you made the most of that open bar!"

"Can I give you a dollar?" he asked. Now I was taken aback.

"No, you can keep your dollar," I laughed.

"What if I give you twenty?" he asked. He reached for my hand again, this time cupping the crisp bill between his and my own palm.

"What?" I said, flabbergasted. "Why would you want to give me twenty?"

"Because you did a great job ... and I know how hard it is." He said, at 22 years old, he had recently started his own landscaping company and "rakes in two-thousand dollars a day." I don't know that I believe him, but he insisted I keep the 20-spot. He was so drunk, I doubted he would remember giving it to me, but I was quite thankful for his generosity. He hugged me before stumbling further down the pub-lined sidewalk. He smelled like Old Spice Swaggar and Bud Light.

Who wakes up and thinks to themselves, "I want to be a starving artist when I grow up?" I sure didn't. But somehow, I feel fortunate and grateful for the random blessings of strangers, and the lessons of this time period.

I am the sum of all of these parts: mother, sister, daughter, lover, dog driver, writer, photographer, and yes, server of Chicken Marsala. I am not too proud to accept the gifts of random strangers. And I am pulling myself up by my bootstraps, one boot lace at a time.

Thank you, handsome young man in the dapper aqua green shirt who handed me a 20-spot that night on the sidewalk. I hope karma returns your generosity one-hundredfold. Namaste.

The time I was a nomad: how I discovered horses, maxi pads and pornography

The year I entered sixth grade, my parents moved four times. As if sixth grade isn't difficult enough, try being the "new kid" on perpetual repeat. My family’s semi-nomadic lifestyle was spawned by a dream.   

Mom and dad had honeymooned in Naples, Florida in 1970, and ever since, dad dreamed of living there. So, in 1984 dad sold the family business and headed for Naples. Life in Naples was fascinating for an 11-year-old girl from Ohio. The Gulf of Mexico was a veritable playground of wild creatures not at all like anything I encountered in Ohio. One evening, after returning from dinner, the peaceful trill of crickets was thwarted by the startled screams of my mother from the family room. 

I accompanied dad into the family room to discover mom in near hysterics over a bright green tree frog stuck to the wall.  There was much clamor about how to capture and transport the thing back into the wilds of our tropical backyard. We opted for a large bowl, about the size of a Cool Whip container and threw it over the frog. Slowly, heroically, dad slid the lid of the container between the wall and the opening of the bowl, trapping the frog safely inside. 

Then there were encounters with black snakes.  

For the sake of clarification, Florida's "Black Racer" is non-venomous. But try telling that to an Ohio transplant.

My dad was trimming hedges in our Naples backyard one sunny afternoon when mom and I saw him suddenly flinging the hedge trimmers wildly into the bushes. In a matter of seconds, he hacked the neatly-trimmed hedges with irrevocable damage. Mom and I ran out to see what had prompted such a spontaneous fit of flailing, only to discover a large black racer lounging deep within the shadows the the hedges.

Dad managed to kill it, but not long after, a dozen or so mini-black racers hatched in our backyard. Every time mom went out the sliding door to hang laundry, she stomped her feet with each step in an attempt to get the snakes to clear out of her way.

It seemed we had just settled in when we were whisked off again: this time to Orlando. I was sad to leave our stucco three-bedroom ranch in Naples. Mom dragged the boxes out, which were still labeled "bedroom" and "kitchen" and I knew there was nothing I could do. Protesting was futile.
Things weren’t going as planned for dad in the insurance sales business, and when the going got tough, my parents got packing.

I learned to pack boxes with precision, wrapping fragile items in newspaper. Each city seemed to offer hope for a fresh start, but whittled away quickly. After a brief stint in Orlando's "Chickasaw Woods," an upper middle class development, we landed at the home of my mom’s sister in Melbourne. It was here that I discovered, among other things, how to ride a horse, what it meant to have a period, and pornography.

My three older cousins were all boys. The youngest one was 17 when we moved in. They didn't talk to me much. All I knew of them were that they were all into older muscle cars, and the youngest had a giant poster of Farrah Fawcett in a bathing suit on his bedroom wall.

Chery Teigs was on the opposite wall.

I was 11 years old, staring in the buxom bosom of these voluptuous women. Their flowing 80's feathered hair and glowing skin seemed to embody what a woman should be and what boys liked. I struggled to find my place in this world.

I had always been a shy, tomboyish-type with too much belly flub, what my mom called "baby fat" even though I was 11. My favorite thing in the world was my hamster, Critter. The year before, when my pre- pubescent breasts started to blossom before any of the other girls in my class, I wore a light weight jacket to school every day, all day, in an effort to hide the cone-shaped breasts that had become my shame.

And yet, my body kept changing, stirring within me new feelings. My parents' money problems and career struggles became muted to the hum of my own thoughts and concerns: like, about boys in the new school in Melbourne, why I had to start wearing a bra, what the aching cramping feeling was in my stomach, and trying absorb life in a bi-lingual school where I was a minority among African American, Hispanic and Puerto Rican children.

One Saturday, my youngest cousin's girlfriend, Darlene, asked me if I wanted to learn how to ride a horse. She lived in an orphanage nearby, and the kids in the home had horses. I felt bad that she had no parents, but having horses seemed like kinda a trade off.

Darlene introduced me to Cassy, an 18 year old gentle dappled grey mare Quarter horse. We spent the day riding around the arena. Darlene taught me the basics of Western (heels back, straight back, relaxed shoulders) and showed me the difference between a Western and an English saddle. The difference was clear to me: English was just way tiny and more uncomfortable looking. She then asked me if I wanted to try riding bare back. I was nervous, but jumped in, reassured Cassy's gentle demeanor.

Darlene led us around the arena walking at first, until I became used to the gait of the horse and how to hold on with my thighs. Darlene showed me how the horse read my body language through the contact my body made with her back.

"Keep your legs in the same position you would if you had your feet in stirrups," Darlene instructed. She told me to keep my back straight and sit forward in order to maintain my balance. She then let go of Cassy and I walked her around the arena myself, proud of my accomplishment.

I squeezed her sides a little and called her up into an easy trot. At first, my butt collided with her back, bumping up and down. But then I caught onto her gait - which was nice and smooth - and learned to move with her movement.

That day started the beginning of many years of a love of horses for me. As Darlene drove back to my aunt's house in her little MG sports car, I felt somehow like I had crossed over into some new realm of adulthood.

I didn't realize how very literal that was when, to my surprise, I found blood in my underwear when I went to the bathroom back home. I fastened a maxi pad into the clean white crotch of a new pair of underwear. I came out into the den feeling like I had somehow arrived, like I was a woman, akin to Farrah Fawcett and Cheryl Teigs after all.

Later that night, perhaps out of boredom, curiosity or a combination of the two, I started rummaging through bags of things in the back half of the room I stayed in. The room had been a later addition to the house, added right off of the den, and my middle older cousin had previously lived in the room. There were bags of his things left behind. I had no business searching through his things. But nothing could have prepared me for what I found. 

Tucked under a sheet I found a plastic bag of the grocery variety. Nosy, I pulled the bag out from it's hiding place and started to unwrap its contents. Imagine my surprise when I saw, on the cover of a stack of magazines of the same variety, a nearly naked woman. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy, her breasts exposed with a man's tie wrapped around her neck. She wore a black lace garter belt, and nothing more. 

I felt a mix of shame and curiosity come over me. I couldn't resist but to pull the rest of the contents out of the bag. Names like "Dirty Girl" and "Private" and "Penthouse" spilled out. I had never seen a penis before, and suddenly, all variety of penis's stared at me: black ones, pink ones, huge ones, small ones; penis's stuffed in all variety of orifices. I had never looked at my own body in such detail, and now the most private, intimate parts of other people were exposed during intimate activities with other people's private parts. 

Was this why my older cousin's lusted after Farrah Fawcett?

I felt confused, ashamed, and somehow strangely aroused. Is this what people did when they loved each other? Is this what I would eventually have to do? 

Suddenly, I lamented the maxi pad between my legs. Suddenly, I no longer wanted to be a woman, but remain the child I once was. The child I was leaving behind.

Mimosas and martinis: the fine madness of waiting tables

Rejection letters always start off the same. Thank you for your interest. After careful consideration, we've chosen another candidate. blah blah blah blah.

My "stack" - rejection letters

I've started a small collection of rejection letters. Some may say this is masochistic. I thought so, too, when I'd heard of people saving rejection letters in the past. A friend once saved every rejection letter he'd received from the literary journals he'd submitted work to.

Each letter (and a lot of them are electronic, so I don't have hard copies) is a reminder of something I wanted, something I invested and believed in. And, I have to believe that with each rejection comes the possibility of honing my skills, building character, an opportunity to adapt and add grace to my life.

I started waiting tables two weeks ago, and so far, here's what I know: it's a hella more difficult to wait tables at 40 than it was at 25. But, I walked in on a Monday to fill out an application, and walked back into the same restaurant on Wednesday ready to serve. It's a fairly swanky, one-of-a-kind local place where people order mimosas with Sunday brunch and martinis with Porterhouse steaks.

Here's what else I know: you have to be willing. When you are willing, opportunities present themselves. 

Author Cheryl Strayed said in Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar, “Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.”

My small quiet room is a bustling room of mimosas and martinis, of chicken marsalas and porterhouse steaks, of American Express and Visa. And every day I'm hustling.

For whatever reason, this is what presented itself to me at this time. I've chosen to embrace it with love and as much grace as I can muster. I have to believe there is a method to the madness.

I'm lying on my hammock half dozing, lulled by a warm breeze that sways the hammock gently from side to side. Above me, tiny buds emerge from the small stand of dogwood trees that support the hammock cradling me; beyond the branches, the sky is a delicious azure. Bald eagles screech and  red-winged black birds call from trees surrounding the Ranch's seven acres.

I am savoring this day off and have vowed to stay off my feet -- and outside -- as much as possible. I've curled up with a copy of Kathleen Norris's The Cloister Walk,  which seems perfect.

I open the book to a random page, and find this:

“Prayer is not asking for what you think you want, but asking to be changed in ways you can't imagine.”

Amen. 

Thanks to my friend Jim for recommending The Cloister Walk. 

What's the frequency, Kenneth?

About two weeks ago, I received an email from a recruiter who found my profile/resume on monster.com. Her email explained that she was impressed with the versatility of my skill set, and that my kind of diversity and original, creative thinking  is exactly what her company - a large manufacturer of "over 510,000 different products used to maintain facilities, solve problems, and fuel the imagination" - strives to bring on board. She ended her email with a request for a phone interview and an attachment for a job description that I couldn't, for the life of me, decipher or decode, so thick was the jargon.

Now, mind you, I spent eight years critically reading, processing, thinking about and churning out words. I've waded through an entire year of Shakespeare and all 52 of his plays; slogged my way begrudgingly through all of Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales; devoured all 800 pages of James Joyce's Ulysses (as well as Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Dubliners);  and spent an entire summer with the entire collection of Willa Cather's novels. I also managed within those eight years to produce God-only-knows how many 20-page essays as well as 100 pages of a master's thesis fulfilling the requirement for my creative writing program. 

If anyone knows drivel, I know drivel. And this job description was full of it. 

Still, what did I have to lose.

Wednesday

So, after a successful initial phone interview, I headed to the company headquarters for a three hour interview despite coming down with the first head cold I'd had since I could remember. I stopped at a drug store on the way to the interview for some pseudoephadrine-filled goodness, then headed to the interview. It was a beautiful Wednesday as my gps lead the way through the corporate landscape to the building that would be my destination. The atmosphere was modern, corporate and sterile inside; row upon row of cubicles filled a giant, open room.

A perky older lady with an updo glanced at me through her bifocals at the reception desk. 

"I have a meeting with Cathy at 1:30," I explained. 

She looked quickly at her day planner, then asked, "Oh, are you Shannon?"  

"Yes," I nodded. She smiled warmly and handed me a clipboard with a three-page application. "If you could fill this out, I will let Cathy know you're here." She smiled briefly, dismissing me to a corner of the reception area next to an art-deco looking sculpture of giant rectangles in primary colors stacked in an alternating pattern. 

I met with Cathy, a slightly rotund blond with a button nose in a mundane burgundy cardigan and matching t-shirt. Very "office casual." She spoke a language I did not speak, referring to a large catalog of over 500,000 products. 

"Clearly we care a lot about presentation," she said. "You can tell that by this catalog of our products. The paper is of the highest quality, and even though it is thin, it is superior in strength." She pinched her fingers along the edge of about five pages of the giant catalog and picked the whole thing up by these pages as a demonstration.

She went on, "Our signature catalog contains more than 500,000 of the highest-quality, highest-demand products, and our supply chain and logistics management allows us to deliver those products to our customers quickly and reliably."

I met with Allison, a bubbly 20-something with calf-length boots and blond highlights through her mouse-brown hair. She spoke the same language as Cathy. I asked for clarification about what the position entailed. 

"Your job as a Generalist would be to guide our diverse clientele quickly and effectively through our enormous inventory to the specific products they need to meet their business goals," said Allison without skipping a beat. 

I listened attentively. As it turned out, Allison formerly worked in my field, in health education, and knew a former colleague of mine from the medical school I worked at two years ago. We discussed the struggles with grant-funded positions and why health educators aren't valued more in the medical field over nurse educators. 

I met with Beth, who would be my manager. She explained her vision of the Generalist position. 

"This job as I see it is not only to quickly and efficiently supply customers with the products they need, it is to ferret out more information from them so they do not have to ask the same questions the next time. Our job is to figure out what the customer needs before they even need it."r 

So this is a customer service job answering phones and taking orders. The picture finally began to come into focus. 

"Escape"

I left feeling confident I would receive a job offer.  I thought of the relief I would feel receiving, finally, the first paycheck and how I could finally get caught up financially. 

Thursday

But then, a dread began to fill my heart. My career spans fifteen years in education and non-profit work. I am driven by jobs that do something good for others, give something back. What would this job provide? At the end of the day, I could go home knowing I helped Mr. Jones find the perfect air carbon-gouging electrodes? Sure, I could catch up on my credit card bill, but where is the intrinsic value? 

Friday finds me in near panic mode, convinced I would be locked into a corporate job that lured me in with its compelling salary and sexy predictability. 

So imagine my shock when I opened a rejection letter from none other than the "industry leader in distribution, operations and customer service." A generic form letter, Cathy stated that upon review of my credentials, they had chosen a candidate that more closely matched their needs. 

I sighed with relief, thanking God for narrowly escaping corporate hell. 

Then, I scratched my chin, furrowed my brow and thought, "who the hell do they think they are? Rejection letter! Pfft!"

It's hard to receive a rejection letter, even when it's from a position you don't necessarily want. But I seem to receive them weekly these days. I feel a solidarity with the thousands of unemployed masses seeking to find that golden opportunity, seeking to find that someone who will recognize our talents for what they are and scoop us up into their arms.

I keep trying to understand the lesson I am supposed to learn from all of this. I am trying to accept that I am exactly where I need to be right now, despite the fact that I want desperately to change where I am, both in latitude and longitude, as well as figuratively.

 Monday

Perhaps what I need is another job waiting tables and bar tending.  I put on some make up, curl my hair, and put on something other than a hoodie and sweatpants and head to town to an upper scale restaurant/bar. I meet with the manager who I spoke with on the phone just two days before. He is middle aged, clearly anxious for he is fidgety, constantly looking around, wringing his hands.

By Monday afternoon, I am employed as the newest member of their wait staff and bar tending crew.

Forty years old, a masters degree, and 15 years of experience in non-profit outreach, education and communications/PR and I am a bartender. It might not make a dent in the $85k I accrued in graduate school, I might not find the satisfaction or intrinsic value of "doing good" divvying out martinis and plates of Chicken Parmesan. But maybe, just maybe I can get caught up on my credit card.

Shannon Miller is a freelance writer and photographer from northeast Ohio.  Her worthless resume can be viewed here