43. Right Livelihood

Dear right livelihood,

Why are you so hard to find?

At first it seemed like the problem was that work in general was hard to find. I still joke that the only thing worse than having a job is looking for one, but (to borrow a phrase from Dan Bern) that's not funny, it's just true. Applying to jobs is depressing, both boring and stressful, and I take rejections personally, even when I know I shouldn't, even when I don't have to call and ask whether my application has even been received, let alone rejected. Searching for jobs to apply to is almost as bad, only in a more impersonal and desperate-feeling kind of way. I was unemployed for six months after moving to Eugene, and by the end of that time I went from sincerely looking for interesting work to applying to any place that seemed like it might take me, all the way back to applying only to jobs I was fairly sure I actually wanted, because I was so sick of hating myself for rejections from jobs that didn't even seem that good to begin with. Now that I'm back to being unemployed, it's once again really hard to motivate myself to look for jobs, let alone apply, but I'll get to that in a bit, after my flashback to those first six months.

One time, I ended up relieved to be rejected after getting my hopes up that I might actually find work that was almost related to my undergraduate field of study. A local company was accepting applications for a part-time research assistantship, but it turned out to be for a project on training bartenders to refuse to serve alcohol to pregnant women. Like bartenders don't have enough to do already, right? And like pregnant women are completely incapable of making decisions, like somehow it's not enough to lecture them on the potential dangers of every single thing they might do? Please. "Before I pour you a beer, would you please pee in this cup?" I don't think so. By the time I was done interviewing, I knew that job was not for me.

Which brings me to the next aspect of why you're so hard to find, right livelihood: you're hard to define. When I got my last job, at my favorite local natural foods store, it came with an employee handbook that read in places like a manifesto all about you: individuals nurturing community and each other and in turn being enriched by that experience and all that good hippie stuff. It got me really hopeful, but that hope faded after about a month, when I realized the manual didn't come with a section on how to deal with idiot customers who can't be bothered to look in front of their faces for the biodegradable compostable spoons made from corn which just happen to be conveniently placed at eye level. (I developed a theory, a bad one both because it's incorrect but also because it reflects poorly on me as a human being: people actually use the salad bar blindfolded. Either that, or I'm some kind of genius for being able to put tongs back in the container they came from, but let's face it, that's a pretty bogus mutant superpower.) But whatever. After a month, when the novelty of a new job started wearing off, despite the fact that I liked all my new coworkers, I found myself wondering if I'd really moved up in the world of employment, because I still liked most of the coworkers at my old job, too. The free food was great, as was the employee discount and the knowledge that I was helping one of my favorite places in Eugene stay in business, but the work was boring and the customers? Beyond tedious and on to stressful way more often than I'd like, which, along with worrying about whether to quit my old job and when, was what got me started writing this letter in the first place.
Eventually I moved away from the front lines of customer service in the hippie deli, retreating to the kitchen, where depending on my shift I often didn't have to talk to anyone but my coworkers all day. It was great; two or three days a week, it was my job to cook whatever delicious organic vegetarian or vegan food I wanted, with whatever ingredients were available, as long as it fit in well with our other dishes and could be sold at our standard prices for a reasonable profit. It was creative and self-directed and fun. I quit my other job and kept a few hours out front every week, and sometimes wished all my fellow kitchen crew did the same, as a way of not forgetting who it is we were working for out there (hint: not just our managers). But as you may have guessed by the fact that I'm writing this letter, it did not last. After about six months and a few hellish staff meetings, one of which (along with too much coffee) was good for several more paragraphs of this letter, the kitchen department was restructured, leaving me without a job I wanted, and I moved back to the front of the store, this time as head of the cheese department, four days a week. I lasted about six months before I tried to give up some of those days and instead ended up leaving awkwardly, despite all my best attempts to be graceful. It was a pretty miserable experience all around, one that summarized all of my reasons for quitting.

And so I'm back to worrying that you don't really exist, right livelihood, even though I once had a job I both liked and was good at. I know I need a job if I'm going to continue to support my reading and writing and house and cat habits, despite the part of my brain that thinks Allen Ginsberg had a real point when he asked, "Why can't I go to the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?" Having a job that forces me to get out of the house a few days a week is good on a general staying sane level, too. But I don't like the fact that even when I have a good job, my bad days at work spill over into the rest of my life, and even the good days often tire me out and leave me less fit to enjoy my house and cat and partner, let alone get any kind of writing done. And that's when I work part-time! The standard five-day, forty-hour work week is pretty much right out as far as I'm concerned. I guess you could say I'm less than motivated to look for jobs again.

What I need to keep reminding myself is that there's more to you than jobs and work, right livelihood. Which brings me back to the problem of your being so hard to define. My dreams about you are all incredibly vague, stuff like using my powers for good instead of evil, not that I really know those powers, but that's probably a topic for another letter, and all kinds of soul-searching about how maybe I'd already have superpowers but for my lack of trying, blah blah blah. You seem to be well-defined for some people, right livelihood, even if I'm 27 years old and should really know better about comparing my insides to other people's outsides. For instance, I read an article about people who work for the government agencies in charge of the horrible decisions involved in taking children away from their birth families (and of course, it's almost never the families with the privilege and resources to fight the system). One of those people grew up in a family with two or three birth siblings and maybe a dozen foster siblings, and was quoted in the interview about the importance of balancing those early life experiences with the work experiences that proved that foster care was not always that beneficial. It seemed logical, inevitable, and right for this person to be working in that capacity. Closer to home, I met a sign language interpreter at a work party. She was there to help one of the new kids in the kitchen interact with his coworkers. She was amazing. Inspired, and embarrassed by all the Sign I'd forgotten, I asked her where she'd learned, only to find out that her brothers are deaf. Damn. I grew up bilingual, but Dutch isn't generally considered a disability, or maybe I'd have found a way to make speaking it my life's work. Or maybe I wouldn't have, because I'm just a slacker bitch kind of person, I don't know. Either way, it was kind of a downer to think about later on, and I'm going to move onto a new subject so I don't have to be brought down by it any more right now.

Back to definitions. When I talk about you in terms of using my powers for good instead of evil, what I mean is that I want everything I do, including what I do for money, to make the world more awesome. I also want to be good at what I do, but most importantly, it has to be something I like enough to want to do it, or it won't get done. So freelancing is a possibility, provided it's work I like and finding it isn't too painful. I know I'm the worst boss I'll ever have, both micromanaging and never there to help when I need me, but again, I can set my own hours and get stuff done fine if the goals and deadlines are well-defined. (Secret confession: I want to be a rogue scholar when I grow up. Mercenary nerd-for-hire, with a whole string of arguably-useless advanced degrees and a truly fearsome command of all kinds of only possibly relevant information. I'll charge a flat daily rate plus expenses, like a private investigator, only geekier. Ask me a question, let me loose in a library, and see what I come up with. Like the guys in Foucault's Pendulum, only preferably without the madness and conspiracy theories and death. Also I want to fight crime and the forces of evil. And while I'm dreaming, I want a pony. And a punk rock teahouse of my very own, to share with my friends.) Meanwhile, I have a job interview this afternoon, for work that may or may not be awesome but would be most welcome for relieving various and sundry financial pressures.

You see, right livelihood, I need the money to force my own hand. Last term I took a class at my friendly local university, and I'd like to continue this trend, in the hopes of creating a more grad-school-friendly transcript and GPA. Worst case scenario, it's another notch in my rogue scholar utility belt, but who knows? Maybe I'll discover some heretofore unknown to me avenue towards more actively making the world a better place. Maybe. I hope I'm not just lying to myself, right livelihood. It sure would be great if you could give me a sign that you're out there. And wish me luck on that interview.

Love,
-Tracy

Started 15 February 2005, published 2 January 2007, edited 6 January 2007, title abridged 1 December 2011, last updated 6 June 2014.

39. Apple

Dear Apple,

You're a dream, I know. But sometimes I still think it would be cool to get together with my friend Allison to start a punk rock teahouse, and we both agreed your name would be Apple, in honor of Eugene Mirman's "Punk" sketch, and there you go. On a scale from one to ten, how punk are we? You guessed it.

I daydream that you would be a huge old Victorian house, like the Pied Cow in Portland, with a yard that we could use for extra seating when the weather's nice. Live music could happen outside, too, and how extra-mega-super-awesome would it be if we could garden parts of the yard and make teahouse treats using fruits and veggies grown on the premises? Aw, yeah. The ground floor would be the teahouse, serving fair trade, preferably organic tea, and of course scones, and little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and other treats. For people into occasionally eating things bigger than the palms of their hands, we could run meals Moosewood Daily Special-style: soup, sandwich, and salad. I would be in charge of the soup, which would almost always be vegan, because I'm so proud of the many vegan soups I made or invented during my time as prep cook at Sundance. Sandwiches would be a little trickier, but I think I could manage them, too. We'd have to hire somebody good at baking for the scones and similar treats, especially the sweets. Penny maybe, while I'm dreaming, since she's good at both the vegan baking and the punk stuff. Also she's up for just messing around with food till it works, and we could sell her less-successful experiments at half price, or at least make a display case of them as decoration because a sign that says "eat me at your own risk" is punk rock. (Hell, we should sell T-shirts with that slogan.) Also of course, Apple, you'd be an art gallery, if only for Penny's stuff and whatever else we feel like sticking to the walls. Damn, I really get into dreaming you.

Besides Penny's spectacular baked goods, we would of course do high tea with all the trimmings. Allison would be in charge of costuming, hats and gloves and safety pins and zippers and of course lots of black eyeliner (she pointed out that since I'm the hippie, Penny's the punk, and she's the goth, we have to keep an eye out for a kickass raver to join our crew... of course, we're all giant geeks). Back to the food, because I'm obsessed. I wonder if a cup of soup would balance on one of those three-tiered high tea serving contraptions. We'd have to hire kickass waitstaff, I guess. Not that I'd want anything else. I can't really fully express my high opinion of kickass waitstaff, nor do they ever believe me when I tell them they're awesome on a level that I will never achieve, so I mostly just tip really well. But I digress. Apple, only your ground floor would be the teahouse and restaurant (we'd have coffee, too, something locally roasted and organic and fair trade, like Eugene's Wandering Goat, only I don't think you'd be in Eugene) because Allison and Penny and I would live upstairs. Ideally we'd also have an attic, nice and roomy enough for someone to live in (or studio space?), and a basement for storage, although mostly deep storage --- it would sort of be a logistical nightmare if we had to put the kitchen or walk-in fridge down a flight of stairs. Eek.

Before I forget, back to the staff. Like I said, they'll be awesome. So awesome that I wouldn't ever need to talk to customers, except of course if we needed to bounce someone. That kind of customer service I'll perform with pleasure. At Apple, we'll explicitly reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. Period. First of all, we could hardly be punk fucking rock without being able to tell people to go to hell (with spitting if necessary), and second of all, it's in our religion. Allison and I are the founders of the First Discordian Church of Don't Be A Jackass, after all, and it seems only fair that all of our enterprises, including the fantasy businesses, proceed in accordance with those principles. (Did I mention that our menus will be more like manifestoes? They'll change a lot, with waitstaff of course fully authorized to edit them with black marker whenever we run out of stuff or they get sick of describing the specials, and would include lots of room for people to draw and color and whatever. Crayons on the table for everyone, and paper tablecloths in case the menus aren't big enough. In my "unlimited funds" daydreams the tablecloths are fabric and we give everyone markers and paint pens, but I digress.) In keeping with our proud Discordian heritage, we'll serve hot dogs on Friday at Apple. (Yes, your name is very fitting here, too.) The special should be veggie dogs with bacon, for extra bonus points. Hail Eris!

What else? Well, Apple, you love cats. My Iggy Pop and Otis and Allison's Lilith and Penny's Samantha all live in and around you, in whatever way we can get away with and not get busted by the health department. (Penny's law degree could come in handy all over the place!) And because you are a dream, I hereby declare that any and all cats associated with you will live forever, which is all the more reason for you to magically come true already because Samantha is not doing very well, but she is a fantastic sweet lovable kitty and I love her and don't want to miss her in a permanent way and if I'm saying this having only met her the once, you can probably imagine how much I'm freaking out wanting to hug Penny every time I hear about how Sam is doing. Wah.

And while I'm complaining about reality, Apple, I should probably mention that it's the biggest obstacle standing between you and me. Stupid reality, what with the fact that restaurants run super-tight margins and all our fair trade and organic and local ideals aren't exactly the cheapest around (and do NOT get me started on how fucked it is that ethically raised animal products are so expensive). Our ideal clientele couldn't afford to patronize us, and even if we lucked out and punk rock "the customer is wrong, bitch" service was trendy for like a week, that'd mean we'd what, break even for like a day? Yeah, that's not so good. Stupid reality.

But enough ranting about reality. Apple, you're a beautiful dream, and I enjoy fantasizing about you to escape from stupid, stressful, boring old reality. Thank you for always being there, in my imagination, and for growing steadily more awesome with every re-imagining.

Love,
-Tracy

Started 23 October 2006; published 8 November 2006, way early in the morning, when I should have been sleeping, last updated 6 January 2007. Title abridged 1 December 2011.

38. Management

Dear management,

I saw a bumper sticker about you the other day that made me laugh. It said:

MANAGEMENT:
The folks who brought you the labor movement.

I'm sure you probably recognize this as a parody of the slogan: "The labor movement: the folks who brought you the weekend", but I like that saying so much I repeat it every chance I get, so there you go.

But here's the really funny thing, and the thought I'm not entirely sure that funny bumper sticker was meant to inspire: When I think about what was needed to bring about the labor movement, I think about organization, motivation, and a sense of fairness adding up to a collective pursuit of social justice. But organization, motivation, and fairness... these are all qualities I want in anybody I work with, not just the managers but maybe them especially.

Maybe that is what that bumper sticker is all about: the fact that it took awesome managerial skills to direct a movement that created major political change. Maybe it says, enough with the "us versus them" rhetoric. Or maybe it's a little more ambiguously corporate newspeak than that, something like: "Bad management makes you want justice; good management helps you create it." Heh.

Either way, thought-provoking stuff, in that ha-ha, only serious way I seem to have about me all the time lately. It's been four months since I started my new gig (like a new job, only at the same employer) and people are still referring to me as a manager, although I keep explaining that really, I'm not: I just do lots of paperwork, I can't hire or fire or even schedule anybody. And I try to do my job the same way I've always tried to work: responsibly, with intent, good organization, and fairness. And I guess to be completely honest, I should admit that I saw that bumper sticker over six months ago, before my job was anything that could be described with the word "manager", before my sort-of promotion, which more than anything else was just an escape from a department in turmoil brought on by — you guessed it — new management.

I don't know what else to say. I'd like for this letter to end with some kind of clever remark, maybe a quotation from whatever philosopher or philosophers famous for discussing the difference between "should" and "is". But (since I'm writing this letter mostly for myself, and you're an abstract concept, and thus unlikely to complain), as manager, employee, and customer of my little writing project, I'm willing to let well enough alone for this particular chapter. If nothing else, there's nothing to stop me from coming back and fixing the ending later.

Love,
-Tracy

Started 8 March 2006; rediscovered, rewritten, and published 16 September 2006. Title abridged 1 December 2011.