Dear Work Ethic,
We used to be cool, you and I. You helped me out when I was little. Joe was kicking my mom's ass, they were drunk on Peppermint Schnapps, tweeking and trying to scratch the scabies out of their arms, but you -- you helped me read books, do my homework, and earn straight A's. I decided that you were gonna be my best friend when I was eight inside that dumpster where my brother and I were fishing for cans for Joe to cash in so he could buy beer and we could get koolaid because it made the river water taste better. Remember, because of you, I was the only 3rd-grader at the 4th through 6th Grade El Dorado County Spelling Bee, even though we were homeless and I only had one thrift store dress? Hehe, good times. :)
Then I lived with my Dad and his girlfriend Ann in high school and she was throwing plates at his face and kittens against my bedroom door and those two were, too, high on crystal meth and heroin, letting strange men go through my room using the porch -- but you helped me with my physics homework, my pre-calc, AP history, honors English, and practicing the piano, all by candlelight because we didn't have any electricity. And this is besides the point, but, shitting outside in the backyard into a hole in the dirt really was the shittiest thing ever. But you were there for me, and you helped me get a 4.0 that year. Because of you, I had a 3.8 cumulative GPA at the end of high school.
For ten years you promised you were gonna get me out. And you did.
You helped me get accepted by some of the more prestigious schools in California: UC Berkeley, UCSD, USC, UCLA. I knew I wanted to stay local because I was afraid to go off alone where I didn't know any one -- I was always a shy kid -- so I ended up picking UCSD because my (other) bff and scholarly rival chose to go there, Evelyn Ramirez. (She was the math and science nerd; I was the English geek.) You helped me get a B+ in calculus, which was freakin' hard, and of course I chose English with an emphasis in Greco-Roman Literature as my major, because I was awesome at writing and grammar but also such a dork about prefixes and suffixes and root words. Plus I loved Xena: Warrior Princess with Lucy Lawless and Hercules with Kevin Sorbo and was pretty much obsessed with Greek gods. They were badass. Then I found out how badass Plato was, and I was set.
During my third trimester at UCSD, though, that's when I left you. I threw you out -- BOOM, gone, like a beat-up old couch with dog shit and period stains all over it, hoisted over a third-story balcony and hauled away by a dump truck. And for what? For the heroin-addict who fell in love with me.
His mom found his stash taped to the inside of his dresser drawer and kicked him out, and, after a short stint with his uncle who demanded he shape up or ship out, he moved into my dorm room. Evelyn wasn't too happy about that, but, she found a nerdy Asian boyfriend to hang out with. (Oh, I'm sorry - with whom to hang out. See? I'm just not the same.) My guy, he got me put on academic probation after he was caught with a pipe while I was in my badass third-trimester Greco-Roman Lit and History class. We were finally on the Romans, dang it.
I was so used to being such a good little girl that I couldn't even handle the shame sitting in the residential dean's office, signing that acknowledgement with the list of all the things that would get me kicked out if anything else happened. I cried, of course. It was like that one time in 8th grade when Mrs. Larson put my name on the board because my friend Zephyr had said something so funny that I couldn't stop laughing. Except, this was so much worse.
You and I had been so close, you know? I had been working 33 hours a week as Assistant Manager at the La Jolla Domino's Pizza on top of taking 13 units and handling it, no problem, because of you. But, once he moved in, I spent less time with you, and I started getting C's. Then, I asked my dad for a copy of his tax return so I could get financial aid for my sophomore year, but he hadn't done his taxes - of course, he never does (I had done his taxes the year before) - and I tried to gain Independent Status, but I didn't make the deadline. I was too distracted. You had kept me on top of deadlines before, but without you, I was screwed.
So, I dropped out and moved into my boyfriend's grandma's place and started going to community college. He's an American Indian and started getting money from his tribe when he turned 21, so, suddenly I was taken care of financially. So I took "fun" classes - music, singing. Who even cared about a degree any more? You were long gone. I tried double-majoring in English and music, but I couldn't write essays after getting rid of you, so that didn't work out. Singing didn't take as much "work" as writing papers, but of course, I didn't go any where with that, either.
Look, you know why I'm writing to you. It's time: I need you again.
I never earned a degree. I became my parents. Somehow we thought we'd be good parents without you. But, nope. We had more money than my parents did, sure -- four to five grand a month was nothing to scoff at. Still, it was nothing I had earned - just like my mom's welfare checks and the money my dad borrowed from his parents. And we sure spent it just like they did: on drugs and alcohol.
And like my parents and their significant others, we fought all the time, punching holes in walls, screaming, kicking doors down, pulling knives.... Once, I had a flashback of when Joe had my mom on the kitchen floor with a knife to her throat. This was while I was pulling a knife out of the kitchen drawer before chasing my boyfriend outside with it, before his grandma told his mom and his mom called the cops on me.
But we were gonna change, we promised. Still, nope. After a couple of years with our precious little baby Louie and Child Welfare Services being frequently involved, I saw that I was putting my kid through exactly what I went through as a kid. Two years in, it was the same damn thing. So, I had to do something. I left, filed for divorce, and got into recovery.
I'm happy to say that I'll have four years of sobriety this coming March, and my son's dad has been clean for almost a year. Our son is six, now, and may be the smartest little guy on the planet. I'm finally starting to uncover the girl I used to be before all this, the one who got straight A's in school and who just wanted to do a good job -- the girl who stuck with you, Work Ethic, because she knew you were going to take her places.
I've started to catch a glimpse of you again. I'm finally working over 40 hours a week...but it's at nearly minimum wage. I'm still in poverty. Our son is wanting to spend more time with his dad, who's been diagnosed with congestive heart failure, which has scared him into taking sobriety, and parenting, seriously. So, without my son with me as much, I have a little bit of time on my hands all of a sudden, and I realize, I'm 32, and I feel like I don't even know where the past 14 years have gone. Sure, I made it "out," but I made it back "in" and I've had to make it back "out" again.
I certainly can't spend the rest of my life making hardly enough money to survive when I used to be so goddamn smart. And I need to set an example for my son. A good one.
So whatever I have to do to get you back, I'll do it. LET'S GO.
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