Getting a Lyft

Many of you know of the travails of my academic quest since 2001. For those that don’t, let me give you the elevator version, albeit an elevator that goes slowly to the top of The Freedom Tower. After I quit drinking in 2000, one of my friends suggested I apply for disability, and go back to school. Since I was such a stellar student in high school, not; and community college, 1.3 GPA, I was filled with fear and trepidation. However, I had nothing else to do, and returning to the automobile business was out of the question. So I registered at a local community college with absolutely no direction, but trying to find some sort of niche that may enable me to graduate from college.
I endured derogatory comments about my age and my missing limb. The academic part was a nightmare, due to my never having developed a process for studying and doing homework. After my first semester, I wanted to quit. My grades were not very good, and I felt like a fish out of water. The sad reality was I couldn’t quit. I had no marketable skills, and I was disabled. Reluctantly, I registered for a second semester. I soon discovered an affinity for history. I received my first two “A’s.” It was that the thought of becoming a high school history teacher entered my mind. I then took an education course that required a practicum. I couldn’t pass the FBI background check due to a 26-year-old felony conviction. It was then that obtaining a master’s degree became a goal. A professor who headed the hiring committee said he would hire me to teach at the school I was attending if I got my master’s.
After an undistinguished academic career, save for the scholarship I was awarded for the person who embodied turning their life around, I embarked on journey at Florida Atlantic University. Happily, I flourished, and received all kinds of awards and scholarships due to my academic excellence. While there, I tutored for the athletic department. I did so for free once I read the NCAA rules manual. I refused to adhere to the ridiculousness. Those I tutored were my friends. I went to class with them. I didn’t want to jeopardize their eligibility just by doing things that friends did for each other.
I networked while at FAU. It is one of the things I stink at. Or, at least when it came time to ask for favors from those within the network I developed, they never panned out. During my master’s program, I spoke for a friend at a local jail. I told of where I’d been, what happened, and where I hoped I was I was heading. I received a standing ovation from the over 150 detainees. A guard said he’d been working there for seven years and they’ve never stood for anyone. It was then and there I decided my career path. After graduation, I asked those within my network for letters of recommendation. These individuals carried quite a bit of weight in certain circles. The NCAA had just come up with the CHAMPS Life Skills program. All Division I schools would be needing speakers to address issues in these student-athletes lives. I was going to be one of those who brought them a message. Or so I thought. So many people had blown smoke up my ass about what a success story I was, and how all kinds of doors of opportunity were going to open, I believed them.
I spent the last of my scholarship monies on forming a business, buying supplies, and putting together a media pack that I sent to over 200 schools. In the meantime, I wrote a memoir manuscript. I submitted query letters to over 30 literary agents and publishing houses. All was for naught. I wound up filing for bankruptcy. I then began a job hunt that met with little success. Who am I kidding? No success. 51 job applications sent out, zero interviews. A friend from the FAU history department suggested I get my PhD. in educational leadership. She felt it was just the supplement and credential I needed to get me on the road to whatever achievements I would attain. Not so fast there buckaroo.
The doctoral process was a nightmare I never want to relive again, though I am grateful for the support I received. Nearing, and then upon completion, I received the same smoke up my ass. This time from different people, and those with substantial credentials. And guess what boys and girls, the results thus far have been exactly the same, except I haven’t filed for bankruptcy again. I fucking refuse.
I have been applying for positions for nearly two years. Positions where I have been overqualified, underqualified; positions from referrals from friends, friends have recommended me for positions. Blah, blah, blah, blah blah. I dusted off my memoir, revised the query letter. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Ziltch. However, there has been a couple of added kickers.
My disability has stopped. So has my health insurance. They, Social Security, say I owe a large sum due to my exceeding the earned income amount several years ago. They are keeping my disability until the sum is paid back. Someone made the determination that losing my paltry amount would cause no economic hardship. Tell that the to the people who have been kind enough to loan me thousands of dollars. Tell that to the kind people that have done pro bono work for me for the last three years. I have discovered levels of humility I did not know I was capable of. Other life events which we all endure have occurred. I will spare you the details.
Recently, I begged for a graveyard shift entry level position at a detox facility. Kind people went out on a limb for me. Besides being treated like I was gum stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe, I was physically unable to perform my duties on an everyday basis. Which brings us to the last 3 weeks. With 5 months to go in my lease, and 6000 miles to spare, I have become a Lyft driver. Dr. Lyft if you will. The next few weeks will be blogs that focus on my observations of the job, the clients, the circumstances, and anything else that goes through my head while engaged in this endeavor.
This was cathartic. It was not meant to elicit sympathy. I don’t need or want any. We all have shit we go through. I am grateful to be alive. I know there are others much worse off than I. Please don’t lecture. I get it. People keep telling me my break is coming, be ready for it. I am not holding my breath. I’ve been down this road once before. I’ve heard it will happen in time. At my age, I may not be here to enjoy my big break. This shit can’t last forever, or can it?

The Learning Curve

Again inspired by a friend’s social post, this blog shall address my experiences with minorities. My friend contextualized her rural upbringing with her current place of residence, which happens to be Brooklyn. She referenced a person and a residence that happen to play a role in my adaption to rural life. A later thread referred to the proverbial stroll down memory lane. Mine, for one, was sufficiently jogged.
Unlike my friend, I was not part of a rural environment from day one. I spent my first seven years in Springfield, N.J. Contrary to popular myth, it is not a community that can be found in all 50 states (35). My Springfield was part of the New Jersey expanding inkblot of suburbia Newark, New Jersey spawned, which was begat by New York City. My elementary school did not have a single black child in attendance, although Springfield was only a stone’s throw from East Orange, Orange, and Irvington. White flight from these three towns had begun in earnest before I was born in 1957. However, my mother worked at Columbian School in East Orange. I always looked forward to the day her school was in session, and my school, James Caldwell was closed. That meant my mother would take me to her work, and I got to sit in with her friend, Pat Bancroft’s, (later Hague) class.
From my recollection, which is uncanny by the way, Columbian school was decidedly mixed. Meaning, there was no real clear-cut majority when it came to ethnic or racial group. I was not given a pep talk about how to interact. I was not coached about what I should or should not say in this environment. I just was. It did not take me long to become “part of” once I was allowed to play dodgeball. I possessed enough arm strength and catching ability to distinguish myself, and earn the respect of my new peers. Inclusion through sport. To me, it wasn’t a stretch to return to my lily-white school based on the Dodgeball criteria.
I had had all kinds of “mixed” interactions growing up. I use the term and put it in quotes because of our society’s insatiable need to label everything. While still living in Springfield, I couldn’t wait until Thursdays. Thursday was the day Mamie arrived. She cleaned our house and did our laundry. We were the first household I knew of where both parents worked full-time. My grandparents insisted they pay for someone to come in to help with the housework. Mamie would take the bus from Newark to Springfield. I couldn’t wait to see her. She always showered me with hugs and kisses. I adored her. It made me sad I’d have to wait a week for her to come back. Mamie’s skin color was different from mine. I didn’t care one way or another.
Thursday’s also meant the occasional trip to “Joe and John’s Beauty Parlor.” My grandfather didn’t like me to go in to see Joe and John. My grandmother would tell him, “Oh Wes, he can come in for a minute.” They adored me as well. In my later years, I figured out they were gay. This never mattered a lick to me as a child. All I knew was they made a big fuss every time they saw me. This was the first real prejudice my grandfather exhibited. I was oblivious as a tot. But this was just the beginning for him.
There were warnings of going into my friend’s house who was Armenian. There were consternations about my attending birthday parties at Abbe Becker’s and Jesse Greenstein’s. Both Jewish friends of mine. I came to learn later, the increasing Jewish population in Springfield served as a motivator for my grandparents to pick up roots and move to Chester. Once in Chester, I had to make new friends. I didn’t fully understand the implications of that simple task.
We moved to Delwood Rd. in the summer of 1965. My father, was quick to make acquaintances, but equally quick to draw ire from others. This inhibited whom I could play with without drawing a lecture. I could venture farther from my house than I was ever allowed in Springfield. My mother was always certain I would be hit by a car. She had a healthy paranoia ever since she answered a call as a volunteer on the Springfield rescue squad. That call was enough to have her quit. A child had been struck by a car while riding his bike in the street. The child was the son of one of my mother’s best friends. Hence, all things that she read, heard, experienced second hand concerning children convinced her, would eventually happen to me. The move from suburbia to rural alleviated much of her concern. Thank goodness, or I would have been limited to playing with the eventual high school valedictorian, whose interests were limited to Estes rockets, and playing various forms of army. Looking back, it may not have been such a bad thing to have hung out with Peter more. Maybe I wouldn’t have been such a scholastic fuck up. Riding my bike to the endless possibilities of Pleasant Hill Rd. opened my world considerably.
My interests were sports. I tried to relate to the Simmons boys. While the two middle boys exhibited a limited interest in sports, their abilities were more limited still. I played with Charlie when I could. He seemed to have a lot going on that summer. Danny was a nice enough kid, but a bit odd (aren’t we all). Sports, save horseback riding, were not part of his world. My time with Danny would be curtailed. A couple of houses down, I found sports Nirvana. Warren’s family, the Rubinsteins, were the caretakers of the Renfield Estate. The Renfields were the purveyors of the Martini & Rossi vermouth brand, and other liquor imports. There were considerable grounds to take care of. Warren’s family caused me a little confusion, but again, I didn’t care or give it any thought. Warren cleared everything up for me in our getting to know a new friend Q & A.
Mr. Rubinstein, Warren’s step-father was white and Jewish. Warren’s mother was black. His brother Bill and sister Doris had a different last name from Warren. Later in my life, I ran into Bill who now went by his father’s name Frank, whom he was named after. Frank was a professional dancer and gay. My sister became friends with Doris. Bill, though much older, played sports with Warren and I when we needed a third wheel. Occasionally, Warren’s cousin Jim, who was a year or 2 older than Warren, would come stay for a while. Though he would give me a beating now and again, he was an excellent sports playmate. I was unfamiliar with such a living dynamic, but it mattered little in terms of friendship. Then one day my grandfather was having a discussion with my mother concerning my playmates.
The kitchen door was closed, so I put my ear to the door crack. I heard my grandfather say, “Nancy, why do let Wade play with that N-word.” I had never heard the word before. Mamie was never referred to as an N-word. At the time, I didn’t know what it meant. My grandfather continued. “People in church are talking about Wade.” Now, my friend Jane, who inspired this blog, went to the same church. I know it wasn’t her parents talking about me.
My mother had a talk with me about my spending so much time at Warren’s. I ignored her for the most part. If she found out where I was spending my days, I’d get scolded, or the- I can’t leave Delwood this week- penalty. When my parents divorced in 1967, my mother sister and I moved to a house on the corner of Pleasant Hill Rd. and Valley View Rd. I missed playing with Warren. By this time, I had been friends with Tom, who live down the street, for quite some time since my grandparents were my primary caregivers. I often asked to have Warren over for a playdate. There was always some excuse. I didn’t understand, and I didn’t question my elders much.
By the time I reached high school, I saw my grandfather’s proclivity for bigotry and racism. He would often regale me stories of his childhood, where he would slur every ethnic group, religious group, and race, as if these were accurate and needed descriptors. I loved him dearly, but not what he believed. The life of the party at my sister’s first wedding, Martin, was gay. He thought I was terrific. All the people my mother, father, and maternal grandparents, had preconceived notions about, were all wonderful to me. I never let their prejudices affect my worldview.
I took a sociology course during my collegiate crash and burn period. The class of 73 students was asked if there was anyone who did not possess any prejudice or bigotry toward any race, religion, or ethnic group. We all answered truthfully. I was the only one who raised their hand. The professor was incredulous. I said, “Do you see that blond girl on the side of the room? I hate her as much as I hate anyone from any specific group. An asshole’s an asshole.” It’s kind of cool that 40 years ago, my thoughts were like that meme about how we judge others, that circulates social media every now and again.
Years later, my son had an opportunity to switch Middle Schools after I remarried. He chose to remain where he was. His reasoning? “Dad, everybody at Walter C. is white. Pines Middle is diverse. I like that.” The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.