CORRECTION: PLEASE READ

Earlier today I posted the new url for my blog and it was incorrect.

The correct url is:

http://mylifeinthemiddleages.wordpress.com/

Please be sure to follow me by e-mail!

Thanks, and keep reading!

Gayle Saks-Rodriguez

Inmates As Human Beings: When The Media Gets it Right

I just finished watching the very moving Netflix series, "Orange Is The New Black," based on a book by a woman serving a 15-month sentence for a crime she committed at the request of her very alluring female lover.  I know from the work I do with female inmates, that the fictionally named Litchfied House of Correction is based on an actual prison in Connecticut where the majority of "my" women served time.

After doing a marathon binge-like watching of the show, I was very curious to ask the women I work with if the writers had gotten it right--if some of the joy and disturbing elements of being incarcerated were accurate.  My women don't have access to Netflix so I asked them some questions about the amount of sex between the inmates themselves, sex with the officers, joyful birthday and holiday celebrations and the freedom to roam around the grounds without constant supervision.  They confirmed that it seems as if the writers had captured the reality.

Most of the women said that their sentences and prison time weren't so bad, but that it's the multitude of restrictions  in the reentry program where I see them once a week that are worse.  In my position I have to remain somewhat neutral but I listen and try to understand what they mean.

People who don't work in this field have a hard time sympathizing with the male and female felons I work with.  I think they generally feel as if they brought this on themselves and deserve what they have coming to them.  They don't have the opportunity to get to know the people, the humans behind the crimes.

"Orange is The New Black" does a magnificent job of humanizing the inmates in the show. The writers transcend the drab, beige prison uniforms by allowing the narrative to slip away to the back story of at least one character each episode. We see the vulnerabilities, the mistakes, the addictions and the normalcy of these women before they landed in prison.  I have been moved to tears by each one.

In my work, I see women in two settings--one group in jail and the other in the aforementioned reentry program, an actual 5-story converted brownstone.  In jail, I stand in front of a new group of women every two weeks. They are all in their uniforms, drab colored and the same.  They are faces for the first few minutes all somewhat similar to the 1,500 or so I've already seen before them.  They are interchangeable.   As we go through my 50-minute workshop, they become much more than faces.  They are women who became addicted to painkillers in middle-age.  They are women who have shot heroin with their parents in their teens.  They are women with Master's Degrees and they are mothers.

In the grand parlor where I sit on couches with the released women, women on the threshold of going back to their lives, they are in their "street" clothes.  I see their unique style, some in maxi-dresses, some in cutoffs, some in business attire after coming back from work.  I see them.  I see who they were before their sentencing.

Since watching "Orange is The New Black," I have had these quick shadow glimpses of these women in their prison uniforms --quick flashes of them moving around to visit the other inmates or sitting in the prison cafeteria telling jokes.  I see them dancing in front of boom boxes with the drawstring of their pants flopping around, showing their moves and teaching the older inmates how to line dance.  I see them in a setting that none of them ever wanted to be in making the best of the situation.  Then, like in a movie, those images evaporate and get sucked back into their current selves.

Many of them know each other from their time in prison. They laugh, they joke, they talk about this guard and that lunch lady.  They've seen pictures of each other's children and met each other's families during visiting hours.  They cheer each other on and feel happy when their time is up and they can walk out the door of the halfway house for the last time.  They become facebook friends.

In my position I am not allowed to keep in touch with the inmates once they leave.  It is probably the hardest part of my job.  In some cases I've spent nine months, a day a week with these women and I know I'll never see them again.  I'm not even allowed to hug them goodbye after they've opened up their hearts and fears to me.  I see them in my mind picking up their children and spinning them around in the air.  I see them dancing in their living rooms.  I see them transcending their time as prisoners and starting all over again as the individuals they are, and it makes me smile.

“Good night—you Princes of Maine, you Kings of New England!”

For about a year, I have been working with a range of offenders from juveniles not yet aged-out of the system, to "hard core" felons with very long bids under their belts ("bid" = time served).

I've grown to love the five disparate and distinct groups I work with in very different ways.  They all make me laugh and have all made me cry.  It continues to be the best experience I have ever had.

About two weeks ago a lack of funding has resulted in the imminent closing of our juvenile residence.  According to my very rough calculation, I have had about 400 young men of all races and socioeconomic backgrounds pass through my group in less than a year.  Of those, about half came and went frequently, often gone for a couple of months to less than a week,  and then re-offended to find themselves right back where they started.  Most of the offenses are pretty minor in comparison to adult crimes--stealing cars, being out past their imposed curfews--but, they still get hauled in, often shuffled around to other programs or thrown right back into their communities.

When I heard the program was closing my thoughts went immediately to some of the AMAZING and incredibly loyal staff who will suddenly be without jobs at the end of this month.  Some of them will be folded into other existing programs but the others have a scary uncertainty looming ahead.  I've watched them, with tough love and compassion, make those boys relax into their very temporary home.  They lay down the law when they have to, and will sit and play cards with them during the hours of free time between dinner and lights out.  It's during those times that I see the staff bring out the boy in those hardened young men.

These kids have dreams like everyone else.  They want to be rappers and record producers, athletes and small business owners.  They want to work with horses and become pilots.   They want the ability to apologize to their parents or grandparents or whoever they feel they've let down.  Others, in their own words say "I don't give a fuck."  But, they do.

The youngest ones, the 15 and 16-yr olds with dimples and smiles a mile wide are the most hopeful.  They haven't yet been beaten down by those never ending loops of bad choices and circumstances and I'd like them to believe that they don't have to be.  Others are so calloused and at this point rather indifferent towards there own lives, that you know they'll never get out of the system that they feel has been unjust.

I don't know why I've been surprised, since many peers of mine from an early age have certainly been abusers of one sort or another, but some of these kids, mostly white from upper middle class backgrounds, are, without question, alcoholics.  (Again, why the hell should this surprise me since my best friend, a quintessential WASP from Maine is a crystal meth addict.)  It's my perspective that has changed--I'm a 48-yr old woman who is supposed to be TEACHING them something.  What in the world do I know about being a 16 year old alcoholic that they haven't figured out for themselves?

The bottom line is that in 3 weeks I will most-likely never see any of these boys again.  I will miss the ones who are often combative and the ones who take the confidence-boosting exercises I give them and put them in their pockets to look at later.  I will miss the one who volunteered to read Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken," and came up with his own rather astounding analysis.  The thing I'll miss the most however, is watching the woefully underpaid staff and the way they wear their hearts on their sleeves so that the boys can feel that love, love that most likely will feel elusive to them along their uncertain paths.

"Good night You Princes of Maine,
You Kings Of New England"--John Irving, The Cider House Rules

Why Business Trips Are One Big Clusterfuck

I very rarely go on business trips at this point in my career.  When I was in publishing right out of college I saw quite a bit of this country, albeit paying the price by standing and smiling at a booth in a subterranean exhibit hall with concrete floors for three days at a time.  By the end I would be grumpy and give off an air of  "Don't come near me because I don't have it in me anymore to pretend to be interested in what you're saying." However, I made a friend who worked for a major publishing company who used to pack up cartons of books for me and send them to me after the show was over.  Thank you, friend, for that.

I stayed in decent hotels and had an expense account and time to roam about some great cities.  When I worked for a British publishing company, I went to Oxford, twice, and spent a week at the main office.  Later, after switching careers to work for a national non-profit that served at-risk youth from the poorest cities in the country, I had the amazing privilege, and they were nothing less than a privilege, of watching these young people blossom from former gang leaders and the like, into major forces of policy change.  To this day, I can't believe my good fortune in being able to lead a group of four young people from the backwoods of Maine and Vermont around Capitol Hill to watch them meet with their Senators in order to advocate for more youth funding in their communities (The only issue with that trip is that no staff were allowed to drink for that week, no matter how far and wide we would have traveled to sit down with a shot of tequila or glass of wine).

In January of this year I was sent to Richmond, Virginia for a 5-day training.  The flight was short, under an hour, so my intense fear of flying barely had a chance to kick-in (valium and wine always help).  I traveled alone, had a cool rental car, and felt completely independent to do my thing on our off-time.  I could go to my room, plop on a perfectly made bed, and not talk to another human being until I chose to. Some people who know me would be a bit surprised at my avoidance of social situations, but those who know me WELL, know that Gayle needs her alone time or else she turns into a beast.  They cast me a wide berth and build it into their own schedules when we are together.  You know who you are and I love you for it.

In Richmond I ate alone, quite happily, nursing a glass or two of wine, doing crossword puzzles.  I was accountable to noone and my one obligation was to show up to the training on time, which I did every day.  The second the daily session was over, even though it was a wonderful training, I'd high-tail it to my car and drive back to the hotel.   I wanted no chit-chat, no small talk.  Besides a nice dinner with two of my trainers, the most back-and-forth I had was ordering my food from my server and saying goodnight to my husband and daughter.   With the automated wake-up calls, I didn't even have to say thank you to anyone.

I just returned from a 4-day long trip to Cincinnati for a refresher training in what I learned in Richmond.  This time there were four of us, including my boss (who I adore).  For months we've had monthly Web conferences with our two outposted coworkers so until then they had just been faces in little boxes on my computer screen.  I didn't realize how much I would like them until I met them in person and realized that they had actual bodies.

We stayed at the same hotel and had one rental car between us, all forced to navigate through a city that none of us had ever been to.  We met in the lobby for breakfast at the same time every day, asked the "how'd you sleep question" of each other, and left for our training at the same time.  My boss somehow ended up being the driver the whole trip with our lovely co-worker in the passenger seat.  They relied on Siri and Google maps to serve as our GPS but on our first day driving through the University of Cincinnati campus we remained stymied for about 1/2 hour on how to get to the building where we were supposed to go.  We drove in circles, passing maintenance men who could have pointed us in the right direction within minutes of our confusion.

From here on in, you need to imagine everything that I'm quoted as saying in a soft murmur from the backseat where I sat next to our male co-worker.  What I say will be in parentheses and lower case to further emphasize the ineffectiveness of my opinion:

("why don't you ask that guy for directions?")

"The map says we should take a left here.  Left, left!"

"OOPS!"

("i think we're going in circles.  look, there's someone we can ask.")

"Sorry guys!  Wow, look how gorgeous that track is!"

This goes on for quite a while until we find a garage to park in.

"What's the name of the building again?"

("the sign ahead says we can get there if we take that staircase.")

"Let's call (the trainer) because I can't remember the name of the building.  I need more coffee!"

"HAHAHA  Me too!"

It took us until the third day to avoid this conversation.

At lunch, it became:

"I think the place we want to go is that way."

("no, it's this way.")

"Didn't (our trainer) say it's that way?"

("no.  she said it was this way.")

I observed, every day, as the three of them argued over who would pay for coffee, pushing cash back and forth across the table, until one of them would stuff the cash in their wallet, pay for the coffee with their own money,  give the cash back to the other only to be greeted by "Why did you do that?  You didn't have to do that!  I'll buy you a drink later!"  (I assume that these small purchases could be expensed anyway, as lovely as the gestures were.)

So, on and on this went, in the context of dinners, airport runs, car rental returns, departure gates and seat assignments.

Being the youngest child and having bouts of feeling unheard on the rare occasions when I'm with my three (wonderful) siblings in similar situations, I get very pouty and retreat in exactly the same way.  That obviously has much more history behind it than the trip I just came off of so it has much greater impact until the next time it happens.

Sometimes I feel as if I don't play well with others.  Everyone likes to be heard.  This is the reason I never join book groups and I always shy away from girly-getaways if there are more than two other people involved.  I'm honest about it, though, and people seem not to judge.  In middle-age, we've all developed our quirks and needs and can even use the aging process as a fallback.  "I'm almost 50, I go to sleep at 9:30" (I've always gone to sleep at 9:30).  "I'm almost 50.  I can't go to TWO bars in one night." (I've never gone to two bars in one night).

I've often felt as if my needed alone time has made me miss out on some fun, especially in my 20s and 30s, but I know my limits and needs.   A lot of the anecdotes about people getting so drunk that they threw up in bushes or on each other made me realize that maybe it wasn't so much fun.  On this trip when my boss rallied the others to work out at 6:30 each morning and take pre-dinner walks, I didn't feel guilty about not joining them.  It certainly didn't seem as if I was missing out on any "fun."

I feel lucky that I have a job where I am valued enough to be sent on these types of trips.  The investment my organization is making in me shows that I have real staying power there and it makes me feel more secure than I have in a long time.  Maybe it's not that important to be right all the time even when I know I am.  Maybe it's okay to drive around in circles for 20 minutes even though I know that where we're trying to get to is right in front of our face.  Maybe it's okay to laugh along with the silly statements about coffee.  Truth be told, maybe if I had had more coffee, I wouldn't be speaking in parentheses.

Strange Bedfellows

In my close to three years of working with inmates I have had the rather rare opportunity to get an increasingly unfolding glimpse into this unique universe.  It's a privilege that very few are afforded.

When I tell people what I do, and I always tell them with a sort of matter-of-fact pride, I generally get the same reaction--a pause, a "wow" and the question "Aren't you afraid?'"

Once a week I sit in a small rather intimate space with some pretty hardcore male felons, the ones who have done some very long stints in federal prison.  I also lead a workshop in a larger space with the "county" men, those who have done less time in less restrictive settings.  I have never been afraid and in many ways, I have never been more respected by a group of people in my life.  When I go into jail in my volunteer capacity with women, even they will sometimes roll their eyes at me and ask "When is this class over?"

Folded into these groups of men, there are 19-yr olds and 70-yr olds.  The younger ones are a bit cocky, but their glowing smiles betray their swagger.  They are BABIES and I adore them. I'm sure they see me as a rather cool old lady spouting stuff they've heard before but in a much more enjoyable way than the way they're used to being talked "at."  Often when they get restless and try to "class clown" their way through the hour the older guys tell them to shut the hell up and listen.  They tell them to take what I'm saying seriously and that navigating through the adult world isn't as easy as they might think.  The last time this happened, the young ones backed down and shut up.

Another older guy spun it differently by saying that they had a lot to learn from each other--that the younger guys could teach a lot of the older ones about what they've missed while they were locked-up and that the older ones could teach the young ones about the lives they have ahead of them while hopefully diverting them away from a continued life of crime.  I liked that spin.

The male "feds" have become my favorites (ssh...don't tell anyone).  They circulate through my group in 6-week sessions and generally there are no more than 7 guys at once. During my first group I sat around a small table with men who had done, when combined, approximately 100 years behind bars.  This was my first week on the job.  I was moved beyond words by a gentle man who had just finished 26 years who upon his release had no idea how to work the payphone in the bus station, let alone get on a subway when there are no longer tokens to buy from a human being.  He later had a major panic attack during rush hour on a train that had temporarily stopped between stations.

These men put me at ease.  They teased me and kicked-off my education into life behind the big bad bars and walls of some of the most over-crowded prisons scattered about the country--the ones you hear about on shows like "Locked Up."  They snuck me food from the cafeteria, plated beautifully.

I've cycled through about six groups of these guys who are mandated by the Bureau of Prisons to sit through certain workshops.  When they reveal the nature of their crimes it really doesn't change my personal opinions of them.  I kind of love that they can laugh at their stupidity in certain instances.

What they are doing now is finishing their sentences in a reentry program, often with at least 6 more months ahead of them.   What often happens is that men have served time at the same place and they've gotten to know each other on the "inside."  Again, the crimes are all mixed-up and those who have committed them are from all demographics and economic backgrounds.

As is typical, my groups are a microcosm of that world.  Black guys, white guys, Latino guys, 21-yr. olds and 70-yr olds.   We sit in the tv room (generally pissing off the other 100 guys who can't watch for an hour) and laugh.  Really, we laugh.  In my current group there are guys who don't even have to be there, but have heard about me so just come for the hell of it.  Two of them, a 30-yr old in on drug charges, and a 48-yr old white guy doing time for a series of bank robberies, knew each other before.  The young one was in first and apparently secretly slipped some pizza from the kitchen where he worked, to the older one on his first day, like a prison welcome wagon.  Bond formed.

They always sit next to each other on a couch and have their inside jokes, making the younger one crack-up in a very unlikely girly giggle.  The bank robber talks about how he can spot a drug dealer a mile away and the drug dealer talks about how they can spot a bank robber.  They laugh with each other and clearly adore each other.  They have lived in a world that they can understand, but that I never will.  They teach me things that most on the outside would never learn, and I adore them.  When they pass through and get released, I get misty over the ones I've formed the strongest bonds with.  If we were allowed to associate on the "outside" I know, without a doubt, that they would always,  have my, a white Jewish girl's back.

Colonoscopies, Porn and Snuggies

This blog has just reached its 20,000th pageview.  In the grand scheme of things, this is a rather paltry number based on how many years its been since I "launched" it.   It's embarrassing to even say it out loud.

As those of you with a blog know, there are stats that track what posts have been read on what day, the link they've clicked on to get to the blog, a map of the world where you can see who is reading your work in Iceland, for example. (Actually, there isn't anyone reading me in Iceland but I have quite a following in Russia, France and the Philippines.)

There are big spikes in the numbers on days that I post my links to facebook and a handful of other places.  I can see who is reading these at the exact time someone has the post open and I love that some people are jumping on them within minutes.  It makes me realize that I have a teeny, tiny bit of a "following."

On the flipside, and really, it's like being kicked in the backs of the knees, are the statistics that show the    EXACT words that people have typed in as their search terms to get to my posts.

Here's what I have learned:

If you have the word "porn" ANYWHERE in your blog, especially in the title of a post, you will get a LOT of traffic.  More than one person has wanted to know if there was porn in the Middle Ages.  Really, who could blame them.  Kids and older students do their theses on much worse.

When you use a title for your post that is the same name of a Snuggie-like thing that appears in an infomercial you learn a lot about how lazy people are.  Forever Lazy.

There are a lot of people having colonoscopies that want to know if you can use Coffee Mate during the prep.  This is a very important question and certainly one that I needed the answer to.  People are also very concerned about colonoscopy insurance coverage, and what your "effluence" is supposed to look like.

I use a lot of free clipart in my posts.  Apparently, there are a lot of people who also want to get their hands on "boy sneezing clipart," "plane in storm clipart," and "female therapist" clipart.

These are in my personal Hall of Fame of search terms:

"Celebrity flabby ass"

"Jew sneeze"

"Why does Barbara Bush look so old?"

"When will corned beef be back on the shelves?

And my own personal favorite....

"Do middle-aged women like giving handjobs."

No matter how you've found this blog, thanks for reading.

The Lure Of The Blush Ball

After my last post, "From Armani to Cover Girl," my friend Mark, who I've known for 20 years, reminded me of the seminal moment when I was sent down the cosmetic path of no return.  When he brought it to my attention, I was STUNNED that I had forgotten the all-important roots of the beginning of my slight product obsession.

Guerlain was spending a lot of advertising dollars on this "revolutionary" product, known as "Meteorites," in high-end fashion magazines using tricks of photography to make them glisten and gleam.  Breathless and hyperbolic ad copy and reviews said things like, "Meteorites is a mythical makeup product issued from an avant-garde know how."  They claimed to capture the light of shooting stars in order to "fill the skin with diaphanous and celestial light."  I was sold even though I was most-likely still rather diaphanous in my twenties.  I also think it may have had something to do with the similar appearance of a favorite candy of mine usually found in bowls to scoop out at upscale restaurants:

I found myself visiting the magic blush balls at one of my favorite stores tucked into a spot in Harvard Square to get acquainted with them.  I wasn't nearly as impulsive then as I am now, so I waivered a bit on the high price--I think around $40 at the time--but when my friends Mark and Matthew started egging me on, I caved.  I was the owner of the little powdery balls of blush that promised to change my life.

The directions told me to "swirl" a makeup brush over the surface of the competing colors where they would "tumble over each other" in the round box explaining the purpose of each one--you know, gold makes you glisten, pink, yellow and green do something to calm down or compliment skin tone and white highlights and brightens.  I took this all very seriously when I used them.  Matthew and Mark checked in constantly about my satisfaction with the blush balls.  My best guess is that MAYBE they lasted in the rotation of whatever beauty routine I had adapted for less than a month and then ended up in the equivalent of the Land of Misfit Toys, relegated to the piles of forgotten products.

In one of my MANY moves, the blush balls reappeared.  I was sadly rather indifferent about seeing them again, undoubtedly having moved on to some other luminous and glisteny product.  I was wreckless and careless and by that point they had become one of many total random items in a cardboard box, probably laying on top of my birth certificate and adjacent to a power cord of some long ago broken device.

My very last memory of my sweet blush balls is of watching them, like a slo-mo section of a film that signifies something critical to pay attention to, rolling across the street, one by one, being crushed by the weight of their own forward motion.  I watched as the occasional car went by, driving over the pinks and greens, leaving them flattened into obsolescence.

From Armani to Cover Girl: The Ultimate Riches to Rags Story

I will start by saying that I never really had the money to justify buying Armani anything, let alone a $60 bottle of foundation.  Actually, I bought two at once, lured into the prospect of becoming dewy and flawless.  Oh, and I bought a ridiculously priced foundation brush (tools are VERY important) and a compact of pressed powder which was lost within a week.

What I DID have was store and other major cards with ridiculously high credit limits.  As a nice Jewish girl from Long Island, I was lured to the only Bloomingdale's in Massachusetts where I convinced myself that I was among my people when I walked through the automatic doors and into the world of top-of-the-line cosmetic and fragrance brands.  This was not Macy's or Sephora.  This was the real fucking deal.

I don't care about labels in other things--I have no need for an endless amount of  Louis Vuitton logos repeating on a bag (I kind of think they're hideous unless on turn-of-the century steamer trunks) and the only Coach bag I've ever owned was the most unlike Coach bag ever where most of the proceeds went to charity, not a logo in sight.  I understand that it's probably true that a $150 dollar pair of jeans is most-likely better quality than a $25 pair at Target, but I'd much rather spend my money on fabulous high-quality bedding than a $100 tee-shirt.

I grew up not wanting for much.  I was never materialistic like a lot of the girls who surrounded me.  I didn't feel peer-pressured into having diamond studs (usually secured as Bat Mitzvah gifts) or Candie's espadrilles. I was a bit too heavy to wear Sassoon or Jordache jeans, but I did balk a bit when I got rather cheesy imitation Frye boots, which I incidentally charged on my aforementioned Bloomingdale's charge card about 10 years ago when they had not yet made their comeback.  The $125 investment was well-worth it.

It is entirely possible that I am the only woman, who after reading a 15 (maybe 17?) page article in The New Yorker about the "nose" of Hermes who spent years replicating a certain smell along the Nile, who ran out and bought a bottle.  To this day, it is my one and only signature scent and I admit to enjoying adding the intellectual New Yorker part when I tell people what I'm wearing.  Because I haven't had the money to replace it ($90 a bottle) I pump the spray bottle to at least get the whiff of air that still has the scent.  I'm tempted to throw it against a wall so I can rub the glass shards on my pulse points.

I've closed store credit cards more times than I can count, but I know that I can walk to a counter, show my id, and within seconds, it is reopened again.  I have gone on "one last binge" before cutting up cards, which last time did indeed include a $125 pair of jeans (worth every penny).  My husband and I are still paying off the suit and shoes we charged for our wedding over two years ago.

I've talked about my new (forced) austerity in this blog before.  Long gone are the days where I walk into any store with reckless abandon.  I applauded myself when I recently bought a huge bottle of Suave shampoo (a pretty good Aveda imitation) for $1.84.  $1.84!!!!!!  The best tupperware-type things I've ever used I get at the dollar store.  I buy my underwear by the 5-pack at Target and get a three-pack of faux gold hoops for $7.99 until they turn black, and then replace them.

All this being said, I felt slightly ashamed when I found myself in the Cover Girl aisle at CVS ultimately purchasing an "age defying" concealer.  I have it in my bathroom with the label side down (not that my husband or daughter would understand the implications of what I consider to be rather rock-bottom).  I KNOW people will respond by saying that it's all the same, repackaged by one or two manufactures who pump it all out in giant factories, but, I still feel as if I want to climb back up and be able to buy a $20 of shampoo every once in a while.  I was HORRIFIED to discover that a faux-cashmere sweater I've been wearing all winter is from VALERIE BERTINELLI'S CLOTHING LINE.  OMG.  I have sunk so low...

Outsourcing Myself

My husband and I have found ourselves, due to all sorts of circumstances, in a daily panic-inducing financial crisis.  He makes a wonderful salary but almost 1/3 of it is being applied to child support (which of course he is more than willing to pay) and alimony (umm…not so much).   I have taken, because of my passion in my work, a 50% paycut from where I used to be in fairly cushy jobs.   I don’t regret that decision for a second.

We’re not unique in the living paycheck to paycheck way of life but we have often found ourselves in the somewhat scary challenge of living, for example,  on $25 for 4 days.  We pride ourselves on somehow being able to do that without ending up in the fetal position.   You’d be amazed at how delicious dollar store burritos are.

We look at things we can possibly sell for quick cash—outmoded cell phones for example—but looking around your home and trying to isolate things that might be of value is terribly depressing.

When I was laid-off from my last job and not yet employed by my current job (only 15-hrs a week), I was collecting unemployment and looking for work to supplement my weekly benefits check.  I networked a bit and have friends who stepped up to the plate for all sorts of things from writing website copy for her roofing company to personal ads.  I found three tutoring jobs through another site which has been sporadic, but ongoing.

In the past few years there have been a slew of websites, Task Rabbit, Task Mogul and even craigslist where one can “outsource” themselves.   You post your skills and talents,   find an approachable, photshopped picture and brag about yourself to no end.   Through a canned video interview you use big words while wearing a big smile.    After that you wait to see if you’re approved and deemed worthy of being on these sites. 

I have a friend who has an incredible and useful skill.  He used to work at IKEA and knows, without giving up and throwing the pieces of couches and cribs against a wall, how to assemble anything (it helps that he’s Swedish too).   People post their needs in areas such as this, and qualified people “bid” on the job.  You can see what other people think they have to offer and wait for the person to decide who they will hire. 

In my case, I vie for certain writing jobs.  I can’t clean a house to save my life (a very popular need), I don’t have the money to lay out when people need a personal shopper to pick up stuff at Target, so I stick to what I’m good at.  I was just hired for my very first “task” in response to a posting that said:  “Help With Heartfelt Writing for A Special Event, 2-3 minutes in length.”  I pounced on this, gushing about my experience writing presentations at all sorts of heartstring tugging non-profit events. 

You gush publicly where you see other people gushing in equally hyperbolic self-promoting language.  The poster revealed that the job was writing her wedding vows.  Within seconds I sent her a link to my OWN vows that I had posted on my personal blog two years ago.  It sealed the deal.

At first I found it odd that someone would ask a stranger to do this, but when we chatted I learned that she felt she couldn’t compete with her English Professor husband.  She is an incredibly lovely woman and I am honored that she is entrusting me to do this for her.  For $25.

Then there’s craigslist.   I start every day by looking at a section called “gigs” and what is posted under “writing.”  They range from the terribly absurd to the somewhat practical.  I get the sense that there are people who are up all night, hitting the refresh button, to be the first person to apply.  By the time I’m awake I’m sure that the posters have been inundated with e-mails from people who will accept a penny a word for daily thousand word blurbs on farming equipment or flooring.  When certain people are looking for writers with a sense of humor I will respond with subject lines like “I’m the funniest person I know!”   When others need someone who knows about shopping and retail, for example, I might say, “Noone loves retail more than I!”

I hate the sense of desperation in my responses.  I feel like it somehow cheapens me and my self-worth.  The truth is, though, is that I’m not unique in this current economy.  People are clamoring for those pennies a word and the $10 tasks that don’t even cover the cost of the gas involved.  I recently hired my first task rabbit to clean my bathrooms and kitchen to surprise my husband for his birthday.  We chatted a bit and she told me of the many tasks she has done for people like searching every Apple Store when the latest iphones came out, waiting in lines for hours, all for $100.  Me, I would have shot somebody if I had to do that.  For $40 she cleaned my toilets and my bathtub.  In her off hours, she plays violin in a symphony orchestra.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel for my husband and me.  It’s a nice light, and one that will alleviate all of this stress.  It’s many months away, but knowing its coming, that we won’t have to go through that contact list in our heads of who we can borrow money from or banks who might extend our credit lines, has made us look forward to the possibility of fulfilling dreams as simple as replacing our dvd player that has been broken for months to being able to buy a house.  We know it will happen and that we’ll look back and share stories with our grandkids, like our Depression-era grandparents did with us, on how you learn to make do with the things you have.  We’ll spew platitudes like “Thank God we had our health,” and “At least we had a roof over our heads.”  I absolutely know that we are lucky people and we are indeed grateful for everything we do have.  It’s a rough patch, but together, we will get through it. 

Glory Boy

Since my 30s I have had the unique and eye-opening opportunity of working with and mentoring underserved youth from the most rough and tumble neighborhoods in the country, ranging from the poorest areas of the Appalachians to South Central LA to Detroit.  The majority of them are right on the cusp of becoming career criminals or are clinging to the only positive role models they’ve had in their lives who have had the wherewithal and dedication to get them off the streets, giving them a different choice and options.

Many of the youth I have met have made the very tough decision to leave the gangs who had become their surrogate nuclear families, to finish high school, learn a trade, start families of their own, and in turn have mentored those who are exactly where they were. 

Most recently I have worked in a juvenile lockup for boys not yet aged-out of the system.  They come and go very quickly, some being held overnight until the court decides where they need to be placed, others for a month or two until they are released back to their communities and the temptations of the streets that have become their comfort zone.  Just like the women I work with in prison, there is something about the energy of the streets that has gotten into their systems that restores them to who they believe are their true selves.  When the boys and the women come back within weeks, or months, I just sigh and ask them, rather rhetorically, what the hell happened.

I lead a weekly group in the boy’s lockup.  It’s pretty informal—we sit in comfortable chairs in the common area of the residence and the staff charged with keeping things under control participate too. They are amazing at tough love with these kids and the boys know that they care and want nothing more for them to succeed.  Too often though, these kids go in and out constantly, the same ones over and over.  It becomes home.  A place of safety.

A few weeks ago a boy who had been in my group over the summer was back.    A light-skinned Latino with the rather unlikely combination of braces and tattoos, “R” sprawled on a chair all smiles and light.  I know the community he comes from, the poorest in the state, and that gang membership and all that comes with it is what has led to a long string of fairly serious charges.  I know that he has watched his friends get shot, incarcerated and killed.  I know that he is terrified of going back there.  He has told staff that he never thought he’d make it to his 18^th birthday which is just a few weeks away.

Despite all this, he is extremely proud and loyal to his city.  I’ve worked where he lives and know the sense of community that is juxtaposed with urban poverty and crime.  Somehow the group of eight boys and 4 staff started talking about what they would want to be remembered for and what they would name their memoirs.  When it was “R”s turn, this is what he said:

“I would want to go back to my neighborhood and be proud.  I want to bring happiness to the streets.  I want to protect my little sister.  I’d want to be a superhero.   I’d call myself ‘Glory Boy.’”

Some of the guys laughed but I silently marveled at the beauty of “R” and the vision he has created for himself. 

He is being released, again, in a few weeks.  I want to shadow him and protect him and scoop him up when he’s at that all-too-familiar precipice.  I want to take him away and put him in the Witness Protection Program where he can be relocated and be Glory Boy on a tree-lined street with no guns or drugs or none of those who feel that he has betrayed stalking him in parking lots or bodegas.  I want him to walk hand-in-hand with his little sister in the morning on the way to school.   What I don’t want is to ever see him again, locked up with state-issued flip flops with an ankle bracelet charging during class.  Most critically, I don’t want to see him in an open-casket.