I am not a Victim

I am not a victim.

I said this aloud today, in my car. While driving home from a day of substitute teaching at Epstein Hebrew Academy. Other than having to cover myself from collarbone to wrist-bone to anklebone in layers of shirts and skirts, it’s a pretty good gig. I get to play with insanely adorable two to four year old Jewish children for seven hours a day, learn some Hebrew, and on a good day like today—sit in the sun. The teachers are some of the best I’ve worked with yet and the added bonus of learning about traditions of a culture/religion I actually came from (German-Jew roots) is pretty fantastic.

Of course, there are days like today when it is more apparent that I am the non-Jew. Days like today when Morah (Hebrew for “teacher”) Bobbi spent an hour teaching the children about which animals are kosher and which are not—as my very UN-kosher ham sandwich sat on the counter in my lunch bag only feet away.

I chose instead to eat a school lunch today.

And then there was the handshake. Or non-handshake, rather. When Rabbi Moran introduced himself and I eagerly reached forward to shake his hand—as he proceeded to hold his own firmly behind his back, explaining that he does not  “do that.” 

Live and learn.

I am afforded these unique learning opportunities because I am a substitute teacher. Not only do I substitute for Epstein Hebrew Academy, but also for New City, Orchard Farm School District, Living Word Christian Schools and Hazelwood School District. For those of you who may not be entirely familiar with the St. Louis Metro region, what this means is that I get to sub the East-side children of the hood; the northwest side low-income children of the corn; the very typical, middle-class, close-minded children of suburbia; the west county wealthy; and the cultured, privileged-or-scholarshipped, open-minded quazi-hippy children of the Delmar Divide. (NOT listed respectively)

Please note I said “sub” and not “teach” these children because there is a very big difference. I taught English in Korea. Kind of. . . I taught elementary math and writing and social studies and art and science in English so, the children being forced to learn and speak in English—learned. But sub-teaching? I am essentially babysitting. I am filling in. I am passing out packets upon packets of busy-work or tests and sitting in for the teachers’ absence. There have been a few times I’ve legitimately taught. I taught a senior Psychology class and a freshman literature class successfully—like actually taught. It was nice. I felt effective. Twice.

But such is the life of a substitute teacher. Which is what I am right now.

A substitute teacher.

At least for now I am. In the past year, since returning from my year abroad in Korea, I have held a variety of job titles . . .

*Production Assistant- “Killing Poe” indie film

*Disaster Relief Volunteer

*Server

*Barista

*Nanny

*House-cleaner

*Aspiring Writer

*Work-for-trade photographer

My mainstream friends call me a hippie and my hippie friends call me mainstream. To the conservative Christians I’m a tattooed sinner and to the atheists and anti-religious I am a prude a saint. The world travelers tell me I’ve “been a few places” and the suburbanites say I’ve seen the world. My country-girl college roommate and her in-laws call me a ‘city girl’ and the city girls call me a country girl. To the yogis I will “get better with practice” and to the non-yogis I am “crazy flexible.”  To the musicians I “used to play” and to the musically challenged I am a gifted pianist. To the true educators of America I am “just a sub” and to those outside of the educational system I am “aweee wow, a teacher!”

I am a woman who wears many hats.

I am a chameleon.

I am a Gemini.

I am a daughter.

I am a sister.

I am an aunt.

I was a granddaughter. (love you, Grandma)

I am a teacher.

I am a writer.

I am a photographer.

I am a ridiculously undisciplined pianist who will one day play again.

I am a dreamer.

I am an optimist.

I am a visionary.

I am a procrastinator.

I am a wanderer.

I am a friend.

I am a reckless lover of all people—most especially the broken and forgotten ones.

I am a wonderer.

I am a skeptic.

I am a doubter.

I am a believer.

I am an outdoor enthusiast.

I am an honorary big sister to a handful of beautiful souls.

I am a romantic.

I am a poet.

I am an adventurer.

I am a humanitarian.

I am a world changer.

I am forever young.

I am not a victim.

I was a victim. Since last April I was a victim. I was a failure. I was the girl who didn’t see it coming. I did all the things I swore I’d never do again in all my life—move back to St. Louis, move in with my parents, and wait tables.

I was a victim because I chose to be. I was a victim because I allowed it to define me. I was a victim because the pain blinded me from seeing all the beautiful things I actually was—am.

He didn’t love me back.

And that’s okay. That’s life. It happens to everyone and I am no exception. It’s no one’s fault. Not mine nor his. The only true fault lies in the decisions made after the devastation. I chose to be a victim. I chose to say “Poor me. Everyone look how I have been wronged. Look at how I have a degree and can’t get a job. Feel bad for me. Feel sorry for me. Help me. I am in a bad place for a bad reason and I feel I will stay here forever. He wronged me. In the worst of ways he wronged me. . . “

I am not a victim. Not anymore.

There is a difference between being a victim and allowing true grief. I think true grief is one of the most beautiful things, but also one of the most rarely practiced. I cannot recall how many times this past year I was asked, “How are you?” and my response was both shocking and most times oddly unwelcomed.

I made a point to never say “Good,” because I wasn’t. I wasn’t good at all. I was working a minimum wage job with a four-year degree. I was lonely and heartbroken and disappointed in myself and my current state of being. I wasn’t okay at all. And I wasn’t about to pretend I was. So most times I said, “I’m decent,” or “I’m going to be okay,” or “I’m surviving,” or “I’m making it,” or—on some occasions—“I’m pretty awful actually.” Because I was. I was pretty awful actually. It was the hardest year of my life.

The other night I was talking with my little brother about sadness. I had one of those crazy moments where you realize a grand Truth just as it leaves you mouth—a Truth you didn’t even know was hidden inside your mind until you said it aloud—a Truth so empowering you have to stop for a moment to and sit in awe at the words you didn’t know were there. . .

Lucas. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re going to be “okay.” You’re not going to be okay. You’re going to survive. And that’s sometimes all you can do when you’re in the darkest of places. Sometimes all you can do is survive. And that’s okay. That’s more than okay. Because one day you’ll wake up and you won’t be just surviving anymore. You’ll be living—really living. But only because you allowed yourself to first fully grieve—to first simply survive, even when everyone around you just wanted you to be okay—to be better. And you’ll be better for it. I promise you will be. You’ll be fantastic. Not just okay. Grief is vital, you know. It is vital for life. It is important to embrace your grief so that you can really live after you survive it.

I am ready.

I am ready to really live.

Silver Spoon. Plastic Bowl.

The other morning I sat at the kitchen counter forcing cereal down my throat. Sipping K-cup coffee. Staring into the dark oblivion.

3:30a.m.

That is what time I woke up, fell out of bed, wrapped myself tightly inside my baby blue bathrobe, and stumbled down the stairs to eat breakfast before going to my first day of training at Starbucks.

As I stared into the darkness through the kitchen window and wondered how I had come to this place in life—getting up at 3:30a.m. to work a minimum wage job—I realized something quite significant.

I was eating from a silver spoon.

Not just a silver spoon, but a silver spoon and a fine china bowl. I was sitting in a two-story home, in white, middle class suburbia, eating organic granola out of a fine china bowl. . . from a silver spoon.

Not only was I displeased—I was horrified.

What. Is my life.

I wondered aloud.

What is my life and where is my blue, plastic bowl full of posho and beans and where is my Desire (orphan boy) with whom to share my posho and beans??? Where is my African sun and my red-dirt stained pants and my $0.25 fresh pineapple????

Where is my plastic bowl.

Later that evening I shared red wine and Baby Mama (a Tina Fey classic) with my two St. Louis girlfriends, the three of us crammed onto a love seat, stuffing our faces with cold pizza and discussing life.

“I had a very enlightening moment this morning,” I said. “I realized that I need to get out. I am antsy and tired of living in America. St. Louis is soul-crushing. I don’t like suburbia. I miss being a foreigner. I miss having foreign friends. I can never stay here for too long. In America—much less St. Louis! Eight months is too long. Way too long.”

I told them about my plastic bowl epiphany.

At this point, my dear friend Carrie, in her let-me-tell-it-to-you-straight Carrie sort of way, offered me a morsel of Truth:

“AmyRose. You need to find your plastic bowl in St. Louis. You need to quit putting living abroad in foreign countries on a pedestal and find your plastic bowl right here. You haven’t found it yet. But you need to. And you will.”

I didn’t respond.

I’m pretty sure I just took a swig of Merlot and gave her my usual “I hate that you’re right, Carrie!!!” glare.

When I lived in Korea while teaching ESL, I remember the day I realized that most of us were there avoiding life. I don’t think I met a single foreign teacher who was legitimately passionate about teaching English as a second language. We were all there in order to travel. We were there for adventure. We were there because we couldn’t find jobs back in the United States. We were there for a decent paycheck, a pension, free rent and cheap Soju (Korean vodka). We were there for all kinds of reasons—not necessarily negative reasons—but the point is none of us were there because teaching was our passion. We were there for every other reason, and teaching afforded us the opportunity to live abroad.

I also remember turning to my boyfriend one day and saying, “I feel like coming here was, in a sense, putting my life on hold. I’m glad I came. So glad. But I don’t want to do this forever. I want to do so much more. I want something so different. I thought I would come to Korea and realize I wanted to be a teacher. Instead I came to Korea and realized that I don’t. Now what?”

Now?

Now I am a teacher.

I spent the last several months getting background checks, filing for a substitute teaching certificate, and applying for various school districts, private schools, and most recently, Teach for America.

A couple weeks ago, after quitting my job at the winery, I applied for an ESL teaching job in Brazil.

Why?

Because I can’t find a job doing what I want to do here. Because the economy is horrid. Because I work for minimum wage. Because I’m restless. Because I want to travel again. Because I want to be a foreigner again.

But mostly because I can.

Because I don’t know that I can get a job in nonprofit development. Because I am surrounded by people that look and walk and talk and eat like me and it is appalling.  

Notice, I did not say I want to move to Brazil because I want to be a teacher. I want to go to Brazil because it's not the United States. 

Christine asked me last night what I know I would be good at. She asked me, of the two (nonprofit humanitarian aid/teaching) which do I know for certain I would be really great at and really enjoy.

Nonprofit work. I said.  Hands down, nonprofit development. Humanitarian aid. I am a good teacher. I know that. But I don’t think being in a traditional classroom for eight hours a day for the rest of my life is for me. Fundraising and raising awareness for something I believe in is.

“Then do that. There’s your answer. It’s that simple. Do that. Why haven’t you done it already?”

Because what if I fail.

I very well may. I may fail. Already I have ‘failed’ twenty-six times. That is the number of development resumes I have turned in during the last eight months. And because I have not yet acquired a job in the career field of my choice—I have decided to be a teacher. I have decided to move to Brazil.

Because I’m tired of eating from a silver spoon. Because I haven’t found my plastic bowl. Because I haven’t tried.

Not here. Not in America.

When I lived in Uganda for six months, almost everyone that knew me believed me to be some sort of saint. They imagined me in a straw hut in the Sahara surrounded by lions and cockroaches and living on rations. The only reality to any of that was the surrounded by cockroaches part.

Africa was easy. It was safe. I don’t mean physically safe—we were robbed in broad daylight in the middle of the city. I mean that when I lived there I was automatically doing something right. I was in Africa. I was a world traveler. I was a humanitarian. I was an adventurer. In reality I didn’t have to do much at all while there—my mere presence in Africa and absence from America meant that I was something special. I was “really living.”

The same was true of my time in Korea. Although it was far less ‘easy.’ It was not easy at all, in fact. I was sick more than 50% of the time. I hated city life.  And because I was there with my boyfriend I was an entirely anti-social version of myself. But again, being there meant I was a traveler. A teacher. A go-getter. Even. . . “brave.”

Traveling, to me, is safe. It is like the go-to answer for when I don’t know what I am doing with my life. I don’t regret living in either place. They were both life-changing experiences to say the least. And at the time, it was a good choice to go.

But now? Now it is a cop out. Now it is a safety. It is what I want to do because life doesn’t make sense here. It is what I want to do because I haven’t found my plastic bowl.

My brother, while sharing his philosophy of life the other week, said to me,

“Amy, there is no such thing as safety.”

He is right.

There is not. 

Dumpster Dinners

The other night I went dumpster diving. I had done this in college at the end of the year when the new graduates threw out trashcans, blow driers, lamps, furniture and toiletries galore.

I specifically remember a time when my non-dumpster-diving friends drove into their apartment complex parking lot late one evening only to find Whitney and I entirely inside their apartment dumpster, with flashlight and headlamp, wallowing in filth . . . or treasures, rather. 

We froze in the glare of their headlights, of their stares, for a moment ashamed--and then quickly soared beyond shame upon remembering what lie below and continued rummaging. Whitney and I were the poorest of our clique. She grew up on government cheese and discount food items from the nearby Native American reservation and I grew up on expired food and 100% garage sale attire. We were the ones working through college. If free goods were to be had, Whitney and I wanted in. So—dumpster-diving.

That was seven years ago. I was twenty-one years old and in college shopping for free furniture and half-used name brand shampoo. Maybe a full-length mirror if I was really lucky. 

This time was different. This time I was twenty-nine years old and rummaging through the cockroach-infested dumpster of an organic food store, in search of groceries for my best friend. 

We were looking for food. In a dumpster.

And while Jade felt right at home and practically dove in headfirst—tearing open bags and slowly becoming covered in grime—I did not. 

When I hit the dumpster in college I was shopping for accessories, for whatever was free and looked neat. Most of the good stuff was actually set neatly outside the dumpster and anything else was piled in heaps—not hidden beneath the stench of rotting strawberries and greasy mayo. I realized, while in the dumpster, watching the cockroaches, that some people don't do this for fun.

They do it to live. 

I don't mind dirt. In fact, one of my favorite past times in all the world is running and playing in the rain and mud. I wait tables. I am covered in sweat and food particles the majority of my shift. I have slept with cockroaches that were literally as big as my hand, crawling the walls of my home in the African heat. I have worked disaster relief jobs that required me to suck raw sewage from carpets with a wet vac. Again, I don’t mind dirt.

But this? This was repulsive. The stench. The cockroaches crawling on the food we were picking at. The cockroaches with which we were trapped inside a six by six foot metal box. The filth on my hands—my face—my clothes—my car. It was truly disgusting.

For some reason I thought dumpster diving would be fun. Maybe that’s because in college, it was. We didn’t need the items we were looking for to survive. We simply wanted them. And they were free.

Dumpster diving this time wasn’t about free lamps and apartment accessories. It was about getting free food to be taken home, rinsed off, eaten and stored because food stamp money was running low. And that made me uncomfortable. It made dumpster diving not so fun after all.

Jade, however, seemed to be having a blast. As I said, she dove right in. We went home with two watermelons, a carton of strawberries, a bag of lemons, a box of mushrooms, two eggs, three blueberry scones, several tomatoes, a box of cereal, a zucchini, and three or four not-so-frozen-anymore stir-fry dinners. 

She could eat for days.

Really, she had food at home. It may not have lasted long, but it was there. Jade dumpster-diving for her dinner didn’t make me uncomfortable. The thoughts the situation provoked did. I thought about all of Jade’s California friends, her homeless friends, her wandering friends—who do this not once a month for extra food, but every day for all their food. I thought about all the starving people in all the world who don’t do this for a ‘late night adventure’ but rather, simply to survive.

Honestly, this wasn’t one of those life-changing moments for me where I realized I needed to ‘quit my day job’ (that I don’t have) and go feed the hungry.

I realized I’m glad I have friends like Jade.

There was a time in my life (age 0-24 years) when almost every person I knew was white, middle-class and conservative Christian. I am entirely grateful for my upbringing and my education and I would not change anything at all given the chance. But sometimes, when I look back and see that, I want to vomit.

I am overwhelmed when I look at my life now, and back at the last five years, and see conversations with bearded homeless men; car rides with hitchhikers and their dogs; art parties in Korea with Americans, Canadians, Christians, Jews; sharing coffee with abortion rights activists; accidentally attending a lesbian beach bonfire (which for the record was maybe the most entertaining/fun bonfire of my life).

I am thankful for these interactions. I am thankful for the ‘Nons.’ The non-believers. The non-whites. The non-middle-class. The non-'normal'. The dumpster divers.

Because they make me see.