October 17, 2011
When I was a senior in high school I worked at a movie theater and I hated it. There was something extremely traumatic about having to sweep up the spilled popcorn of the girl you had a major crush on while she was on a date with the captain of the basketball team. I couldn’t wait until I went away to college so I would never have to work in that pissy place again. Now over ten years later I have a much better job as an educator; molding the minds of young people, changing society one child at a time and blah, blah, blah—to be honest with you I hate this job too. I realize now, however, that it’s not so much the gig that I hate as much as I just have an extreme dislike for working.
Just in case you were wondering, I am fully aware that it is a recession and I should be grateful to have a job at all. And for the first week or so I was very grateful but now it’s just lame all over again. It’s not the daily tasks that bother me so much, nor is it the students. What I find to be so unbearable is the hierarchy. During my adult life I have had an impossible time dealing with people who feel as though they have the right to tell me what to do. It just really annoys me. I mean supervisors, coordinators, leads… often times the fake titles become too much for me to stand. And the extent to which people internalize these titles can be downright laughable at times. But then again maybe it’s me.
I must confess that I have always been an odd ball. Even at the movie theater when we were getting paid minimum wage I remember some people trying to make a career out of it. I have had so many jobs in my life—some a lot better than others—and I have always managed to mentally check out of all of them. I never cared. They always tried to brainwash us with that propaganda of being a family whether it be the movie theater, the grocery store, the restaurant, the electronics store or wherever, yet they always fired people for bogus reasons. I never bought into that trash, not even as a teenager.
My obligations in life are pretty simple; I work to keep a roof over my head and I write to stay out of the psychiatric ward. But if I had to choose between the two I’d rather be homeless with a pen in my hand and less than a penny to my name.