Patent Leather Pumps: A Day in the Life

This morning I proudly walked the downtown streets of Montpelier, VT in bright red, patent leather pumps, fitted Express suit pants, and a fitted, collared, button-down, black and white ‘career top’. My hair was up in a bun—and freshly washed, I might add. (I only get to shower once a week). Red lips. Pearl earrings.

I was carrying 8-inch, all-leather, reinforced-toe, waterproof work boots in my right hand, and brown Arborware workpants and a flannel in the other. En route to harvest grapes at a vineyard in Grand Isle, VT.

There were stares. Lots of them.

I don’t blame them. Vermont is full of the farmer and outdoor laborer type. Most people here don’t wear makeup at all and most people certainly do not roam around town in candy-apple red, patent leather pumps.

But most especially—people do not usually roam the streets in both. Either you are a career woman in leather pumps, or you are a laborer in loggers. You cannot be both.

I am both. 

Maybe it is because I am an attention-craving, adventure-seeking, middle child or maybe it is because I am a textbook ENFP and have exhausted all career options that every personality test told me I should be: teacher, social worker, writer, film producer, humanitarian.

My life since returning from South Korea in 2013 after teaching English as a second language has been quite ridiculous. My time in St. Louis consisted of living with my parents in white, middle-class suburbia, waiting tables and substitute teaching, freelance photography, and too many sazeracs. But mostly—it was a time of rejection. 152 resumes and only a handful of interviews, mostly for minimum wage, no-degree-required jobs. My mother calls about once a week to remind me that I should be ‘home.’ She calls to whisper/yell into my ear that there are plenty of jobs in Missouri. The conversation always ends the same:

“Missouri doesn’t want to hire me, Mom. We’ve been over this. Remember the 152 resumes?”

And now? I live in the woods. I live in a tent in the woods and all that I own is packed quite tightly and without any sense of order into my 2003 Toyota Corrolla, Ethel. I woke up this morning under the stars and had breakfast in the forest and drove to a barn where I changed out of jeans and layers and hiking boots into career attire and patent leather pumps. I am in between jobs and spend my time working on an organic farm and applying for jobs and kayaking and hiking and blogging and having art parties and breakfast parties in the parking lot of the VYCC headquarters.

My biggest fear since returning to the States after teaching abroad has been that I would ‘give in’ to returning to the Social Work field. Yes, I have a Psychology degree and years of experience in mental health. But the last job I held in that field I loathed. I swore I would never go back. Not ever. Not even if there were no other option. Not even if it meant unemployment.

I also swore I would never live with my parents again. Or move back to St. Louis. Or still be roaming at age 30.

Here is the Truth.

The most meaningful job I’ve ever held in my entire life was my first job right out of college. I worked as a Live-in Youth Care Specialist at the Missouri Baptist Children’s Home. I was essentially a ‘house mom’ to eight teenage girls. I lived with them. I took them to school. I scheduled their appointments. I dried their tears. I laughed with them. And I went on a million and one random adventures that no one will every fully understand except those of us that were there. . . in Butler, MO. . . with the mysterious giant mushroom.

That job paid me the highest salary I have ever made. It provided the best health benefits. It was the most challenging, and the most rewarding. It was going into my room every night for the first month, falling to my knees, and sobbing for what seemed like forever after hearing my girls’ stories of abuse, neglect, rape and loss. I still talk to my girls. Not all of them, but some.  Six years later, I was Jean’s bridesmaid. I was in her delivery room visiting on the day of  her firstborn’s birth. I was the one Leah called when she needed advice. I was the inspiration behind Tina’s decision to go to school for Psychology.

Life is a mess. If it’s not, then you’re probably not living it very fully. It’s not supposed to be pretty all the time. I don’t think it’s even supposed to be pretty most of the time. I think it is supposed to be hard—if you’re doing it right. And right now, it’s not. It’s easy. It’s roaming and living in a tent and crashing couches and eating PB&J and exploring and wondering and building trail and in all honesty, not really being challenged at all.

I read a blog recently that posed “seven questions that will help show you your life purpose.” There were a few that stuck out:

1.    What struggle or sacrifice are you willing to tolerate?

I am willing to tolerate pain. Emotional pain. I am willing to take on the heartache and loss of others. To empathize with them to a point that their pain becomes my own. Because I’m good at it. And because it hurts and it sucks and it’s draining but in the end it makes a difference in someone’s life. And it’s worth it to see.

2.    What is true about you today that would make your 8 year old self cry?

I live out of my car. It’s kind of fun. . . but for the most part, it’s really not. I live out of my car because I haven’t ‘settled down.’ And that is okay for a while. But to be entirely honest—it’s getting old. People often ask me when I’ll stop. When I’ll stay. My response is both pathetic and true to middle-child syndrome—incredibly dramatic—“I like wandering. When you are always the one leaving, no one can leave you behind.”  But I’m tired. As exciting and invigorating as starting over is, I’m tired of it. I want a community that lasts more than six months. I want people to stop emailing me and asking me where in the world I currently am because I am actually staying in one place for more than a year. I want to make my 8-year-old self happy.

   

3.    How do you want to be remembered?

I want to be remembered as someone who tried. Some of my efforts have been better than others. Namely, my humanitarian efforts. But the last few years I have given in to the lie that I have to do something BIG. Like change the world. I thought that meant I had to work for some sort of worldwide, humanitarian aid, 501c3. I thought it meant I couldn’t live in the US. Or if I did, it had to be for an organization that allowed me to continue being a world-traveller. I thought it meant Peace Corps or Americorps or any job that backdoorjobs.com offered.

But the reality is that the world is changed by everyone in it. Even the ‘small’ people. It is changed by the garbage man and the postal service worker and the waitress just as much at it is changed by the corporate investment analyst and the stay-at-home-mom.

Pride has killed my passion.

When I drilled a well in Uganda, in El Salvador, in Haiti. . . when I wrote a book. . . when I volunteered to rebuild Moore, OK after the tornado. . . when I did freelance photography and loved it and met all kinds of people. . . I was in social work. The group home was wonderful and the day treatment facility I worked at later on was the worst job of my life—but the point is, I was doing something. I had a full-time job with benefits and a place to call home and community to pick me up when I needed. The things I am most proud of in life—my humanitarian efforts, my writing, my art. All of these things I accomplished when I was a social worker.

But being a social worker isn’t something I can brag about.

I can’t post pictures of my adventures with clients on facebook because of HIPPA(privacy) laws. I don’t get to write blogs about the temples and mountains and sites of Korea. And I don’t get to live in the woods and look #hardcorps  and build trail and feel like a badass about it. I just get to do what I do best—and that is invest in people. Broken people.

I like to be the one that my friends live vicariously through. I like to be told to adventure on. And most of all, I like to be told that what I’m doing in life is awesome.

People do not think that social work is awesome. They know that it’s awful and that turnover is high and that pay is horrible and that no sane person would ever choose to do it. It’s not glorious and it’s not something that anyone will envy in any way—much unlike teaching ESL, drilling wells all over the world, or living in the forest.

But it seems to be the thing I was best at. And the thing that allowed me to do what makes me feel most alive.

So here’s a farewell to pride.

Here’s to recognizing the small people.

Here’s to changing the world one raging teenager at a time :)

On turning 30. . .

We all knew this was coming.

My rant on turning thirty. The big three-zero. The end of my figuring-out-my-life twenties and the beginning-of-my-career-and-settling-down-to-a-family thirties. . . . what?

I don’t know what 30 holds and I’m not going to pretend that I do. Whenever I play the “Five years from now I see myself. . .” game it nearly always leads to being wrong.

So rather than write on all the hopes and dreams I feel 30 may bring, I will write on what I know.

And that is 29.

1.    I started wearing rouge. I always thoughts that red lipstick was either for old people or hookers. I was wrong. It is for awesome people. All people. There is something about sporting bright red lips that makes you feel on top of the world—even if you can’t wear heels. It is like an automatic, instant beautifier/sex appeal the moment it goes on. I highly recommend it.

2.    I conquered dating anxiety.  I am what one may term a “serial monogamous.” I date one man at a time, for a very long time. What I don’t do—is go on dates. All my serious, long-term relationships have begun with a friendship and bloomed into a relationship and then and only then would I go on one-on-one dates. As for going out on a date with a man whom I am not yet dating or have just met, it does not happen. Ever. . . Not until 29. I successfully went on four actual dates, with actual men, whom I actually had just met. And yes, I had anxiety attacks prior to most of them. But I went. And on the last of the four the anxiety was severely less than usual and in fact—it was fun.

3.    I cut fringe bangs.  I haven’t had bangs in years. And when I did they were thin and wispy. To cut bangs, as all women know too well, is a dangerous and sometimes fatal risk. Some people can pull them off, and some people can’t. And once you take the plunge, you are stuck with them for a very, very long time. But I watched “New Girl” just enough times that I was convinced, as  substitute teacher, that it only made sense I should look as much like Zooey Deschanel as possible.

#Iwoulddoitagain #fringebangswin

4.    I got my moxie back.  There is something deep inside every woman that crumbles when a breakup happens.  We lose our moxie. We lose our power. We feel weak. We feel vulnerable. We feel broken. Most times. . . we feel infuriated. But we lose a part of ourselves. The brave part. The courageous part. The part that knows we are something without someone. But then? Then we get it back. It may take a while, but we almost always do. This time around, I wasn’t sure I would. The crumble was brutal. But when I did? Mmmmmmm when I did it was good. So much better than ever before. Because you see—the most brutal of heartbreaks means the most powerful of healings and produces the most tenacious of single women J

5.    I discovered Netflix. This meant “180 degrees South.” And “Black Fish.” And “Happy.” And “Prince Avalanche.” And endless other documentaries and indie films that I highly recommend.

6.    I took a class through Harvard.  My brother convinced me to do it. And at the time, it seemed like a good idea. We were guaranteed to secure jobs at $50,000 starting salary if we completed the course successfully. Me? A Harvard student!?!? Yes. Done.

7.    I quit my Harvard class.  The class was pure insanity. I am not cut out to be a computer programmer. I’ll take my $12,000/year conservation corps job any day over that load of crock.

8.    I became friends with my brother.  Although our classmate status lasted only about three weeks, it was a time during which we were guaranteed a weekly hangout, which led to me realizing how much I enjoy his company and appreciate our siblinghood. My brother and I were BFFs when we were younger—I being the tomboy of the family and all—somewhere along the line, that BFF status died out. But it was nice to get a chance to re-kindle that during my year in St. Louis and I hope to continue the trend.

9.    I made my bed.  Let me be more specific: I made my bed every single day, for an entire YEAR. This, for me, is huge. I don’t make my bed. I am the type that says, “It’s going to be unmade again anyway in a matter of hours, so why make it?” But—it was that time in life when it became vital to start to habits. To make an effort. To be slightly organized in my everyday life in hopes that my long-term life have a bit of ebb and flow. 

10.  I made a website.  It was a $12.99/year .com site and it is far from fantastic—but it I did it. It was something I had wanted to do for years and hadn’t made the time to do. www.artybyamyrose.com

11.  I puked into my purse.  It was exactly as bad and as literal as it sounds. I had a purse, and I puked into it. I was headed out on a date (this was before conquering date anxiety) and had been fighting some sort of flu virus for a week. I had just chugged a bottle of vita-c water and the combination of vitamin chugging and anxiety resulted in immediate vomit . . . into my purse.  I laughed. I had no choice.

12.  I survived on a $7,500 annual income.  Granted, I was living with my parents and mostly eating large amounts of their food, but still. Seven thousand dollars?!?!  Until I filed my taxes and punched the numbers I had no idea surviving on an income so low was even possible. Welcome to returning from Korea to work part-time jobs for minimum wage.

13.  I got a job at Starbucks.  I could tell you of the incredible ways in which I justified this decision. But I am attempting (poorly) to keep this post shortish and concisish. So I will keep it simple: desperate, unemployed, uninsured = Starbucks.

14.  I quit my job at Starbucks.  Up at three o’ clock in the morning to work for minimum wage and feeling as though I was selling my soul to the corporate monster every waking moment?  Not. Worth it.

15.  I pretended to be 22 again. This is what happens when you move back to your hometown to wait tables downtown and your besties are also waitresses who happen to be fresh out of college. Endless grape bombs.  ENDLESS.

16.  I realized (yet again) that I don’t want to be a teacher.  I went to Korea to learn that I don’t want to be a teacher. I actually enjoy teaching, just not in a traditional classroom setting. But somehow, even after an entire year of teaching overseas, I convinced myself that just maybe I would actually enjoy teaching in the States. Then substitute teaching all over metropolitan St. Louis happened. Turns out—I don’t want to be a teacher.

17.  I pretended to want to go to grad school.  This happens once every couple of years. Mostly when I get tired of everyone asking me, “So when are you going to go back to school?”  So, I pretend. I think about it. I get pamphlets and send emails to admissions counselors setting up appointments. And then I cancel them and get real.

18.  I accepted that I will probably not ever go to grad school.  

19.  I moved back to St. Louis, and in with my parents. This was on my list of “things I’ll NEVER do.” Note to self: Never make a list of things you’ll never do.

20.  I discovered Roo Panes.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCkzG0sr7qM

21.  I ran a 5k. By “ran” I mean jogged . . . slowly jogged. In fact at one point I specifically and regretfully remember a young mom zipping by me while pushing a stroller with a small child in it. Nevertheless, I completed a 5k without giving in to walking even for a second. This was a life goal. #winning

22.  I produced an indie-film in Chicago with A-list actors. It was probably the most random thing I’ve ever done. A road trip to Chicago with a fellow wandering soul  and a connection with a film student led me to be a Production Assistant for the upcoming feature film, Killing Poe. #killingpoe

23.  I helped to rebuild Moore, Oklahoma.  It was a couple weeks of humidity, heat, rummaging through ruins, collecting and writing project reports, living on black coffee and gluten free crackers, data entry, finding a $10,000 safe, and learning how to build a house. Oh—and best of all—staying in a mega-church and being serenaded by a Mennonite acapella mens’ choir every night.

24.  I rediscovered a best friend in my sister.  I am usually not homesick. In fact, I can probably count on one hand the number of times I crave being back in St. Louis. But I do miss not being around family. And for the first time in eleven years, my sister was just a car ride away. Downton Dinners 4LIFE!!!

25.  I watched an ungodly amount of International House Hunters.  What happens when you haven’t owned a TV or had access to cable in seven years? Endless International Househunter, that’s what.

26.  I healed.

27.  I shot still photography for a documentary in exchange for free live music and endless sazeracs.  Shooting for a independent documentary film on America’s Blues music meant going to shows every weekend for free, meeting the artists, hanging at Moonshine Blues Bar (the bartenders are by far the best I’ve ever seen), and finally getting back in touch with my camera.

28.  I gave up on the idea of a career. And guess what? It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. 152 failed resumes later, I realized that perhaps working for the development sector of a nonprofit organization was in fact not for me. Nor was an office. A 9 to 5 job. A 401K. A house on the edge of town. . .  Maybe one day a house on the edge of town . . . The point is I quit trying to be something that I’m not. And that’s a career woman, in a big city, with a lease. Not yet.

29.  I moved to Vermont.  I got in my car and I drove for twenty-two hours to New England. To the north. To a place I swore I’d never move. The bitter-cold north. And what I found was the most wonderful place I’ve ever lived. Two-lane highways and zero billboards and Green Mountain coffee and maple syrup and Cabot cheese and pines and paper birch and maple as far as the eye can see. Contra dancing and trail building and fire circle chatting and Burlington people-watching. I found community and I found a subculture that I never knew existed. And even though the entirety of my 30^th birthday was spent in a twelve-passenger van pulling a trailer to North Carolina with my co-lead whom at the time I barely knew—it was worth it. To come to Vermont. To turn thirty in a beautiful place I felt at home. To learn that outside is where I need to be.

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.