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#adulting

The GPS navigator’s monotoned, mechanized voice orders me to Make a legal U-turn as soon as possible – although her annoyed tone belies programmed nonchalance.

I wind up a side road, through some lush greenery, and take a few sharp turns further away from the main road into an agricultural area – which is when I wonder if this churchy high school possibly worships He Who Walks Behind the Rows.

Soon enough, my view clears and I pull onto a large campus dotted with Tudor-like buildings and auditoriums. I spot the orange cones that the school’s college adviser mentioned in her email, and notice another nonprofiter scratching his head at cone-blocked spaces. I get out and move one cone, and suggest he do the same.

Per usual with these types of things, no one’s waiting for us – as we’d been assured they would be – and so I plaster on my best I-have-no-fucking-clue-where-I’m-going smile and bid the other clueless presenters to follow me – the Pied Piper of Shoreline.

***

A few days before, during one of the craziest weeks in recent memory, I’m nursing a baby migraine – cooing to it softly to chill the fuck out. Being a department of one has been taking its toll on my sleep-deprived mind, with my nightmarescapes being constructed of donor asks and website code and lost checks and droning voices nagging, “I need that now, NOW, NOWWWW!” Bags hang heavily beneath bloodshot eyes, and my stubble has grown coarse enough to grate Parmesan. I reach for the large mug relegated to one semi-clear spot on my desk, gulp down its contents, and begrudgingly remember that I’ve been weaning myself off coffee; this tea just isn’t cutting it. Still, I chock the tea up to making a concerted effort to mitigate potential stressors in more proactive, healthier ways. I shift back to the Power Point I’m creating for a Community Impact Day later in the week. Since part of the whole de-stressing tack also translates to me not taking things so seriously, I insert a few Kristen Wiig gifs, a frame from Dodgeball, and a few old high school photos as anchor points for my chat about nonprofit world – how I came into it, pointers I have for those interested in becoming part of it, and WHY TO RUN AWAY FROM IT AT ALL COSTS JUST RUN YOU FOOLS!

Kidding. I play through the animated slides, laugh a little, and think aloud to my empty building wing, “I’m so goddamned hilarious.”

***

The two elderly receptionists direct me, as well as the gradually growing group of nonprofit folks trailing behind, to the library. We gather in a large, clearly well-funded reading room and start chatting. A doppelganger for Lost‘s Hurley sidles up next to me, quickly tying back his dreadlocks into a tight bun.

“So do you, like, live here too?” he asks a sheepish student nearby. The student nods side to side, then looks back down at his phone.

“The students should each have an organization name on their paper sign,” an adviser chirps from behind him, “and then they’ll take you to your assigned room.”

My student guide, clearly engaged in judging who’s most recent Instagram is the best representation of a well-balanced breakfast, looks slightly perturbed when I pipe in, “I think I’m with you.”

I ask all the typical questions as we’re walking up the stairs to the room – where we interrupt a trio studying To Kill A Mockingbird. I stifle my urge to scream, “WHAT’S UP MAH BOOS? Get it? Boos? As in Boo Radley?”

Instead, I watch as my student guide proceeds to text her teacher, asking where she is.

“You know, when I was your age I didn’t even know anyone who had a cell phone…”

I stop myself. I’m not going to be that guy. Although I already am. Students start filing in, and I mentally assign them to a clique: jock, a/v, drama, drama, heygurlhaiiii, a/v, punks, punks, PUNKS, hayyyy.

The presentation goes well enough, with minimal eye closures and snores. I ask for questions, and almost all of them are about my years as an archaeologist, with one about the time I got stuck in a shelter dog run with a blind poodle.

The bell rings, and the next group is ushered in. They, too, seem mildly intrigued by my chatter, but most exchange knowing looks, smiling as they do.

This guy is so weird.

He thinks he’s the ‘cool presenter’ type.

What’s going on with his hair? 

PUNKS, all of them. Not really. But as I stood up there rattling off life experiences, and how I parlayed a volunteer position into a growing career in nonprofit land, I couldn’t help but feel like I was aging before their eyes.

Eyes that first opened in the year 2000.

They had no idea that most of the world was all Y2K crazed in the months before they were born. Their first years were filled with Dubya’s countenance in the White House. They’ll be asking “older people” where they were on 9/11 and “How did it make you feel?” – the same way I asked various people similarly-lined questions about JFK’s assassination, the Civil Rights Movement, and hippies.

Another ear-splitting bell rings, and I part ways with the teacher – the only other person in the room who got my Blossom reference – melting into the melee of kids in the hall. Everyone’s on their phones. A little gay shuffles past with his friend, and they both smile knowingly; I smile with my eyes and keep going, terrified I’ll smile too much or accidentally lick my lips or set off a perv alarm.

***

Back in the Subaru, the mechanical voice drones on, directing me to turn left three feet ahead. Instead, I cancel the route calculation as she, once again, begins to advise me to Make a legal U-turn.

I retreat momentarily to the horrors of high school; fun, foundational years in college; brutal self-reflective moments in grad school; bulldozing through the recession with a shovel in-hand and an empty bank account; coming into my own and finding friends, building a loving network of chosen family; moving off and starting over with my co-pilot; and melting into California, and soaking in Seattle.

I don’t mind getting a little lost. That’s sort of what my twenties were all about. Eventually, I found my way – and now in this relatively new decade, my been-there-done-that attitude acts as my guide, helping me shift from place to place – leveraging life experience and humor in equal parts to pave the way forward.

Wherever it may lead.

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White Privilege: The Lion in the Room

I’m a few hours away from another phone interview. The hurdles we clear in the course of starting a new career are stressful and tiring, and we often just long for them to be behind us, with an offer waiting in our inbox.

But for me, there’s something more wrapped up in this particular interview.

When I made the decision to leave my papered academic past for nonprofit work, I knew it wasn’t going to be glamorous, the path wouldn’t be littered with hundred dollar bills. The adage “underpaid and overworked” became my mantra, whether or not I embraced and adopted it. And it was okay, because I felt like what I was doing was worth the exhaustion that nips at most nonprofit professionals’ heels.

Part and parcel to most nonprofit work is educating the public. Whether your organization increases awareness about racial inequality, STI transmission, human trafficking, environmental conservation, planned parenting, LGBTQIA advocacy, or animal welfare, the crux is always education. Because a more informed public is more likely to speak out, stand up, and effect meaningful change.

As a kid, I didn’t always grasp the importance of why I had to do certain things, and why my parents pushed me and my sister to branch out – always reinforcing how crucial it was to be able to relate to people from different backgrounds and respect differences. During those teachable moments, I – like most my age – would roll my eyes and complain about spending yet another valuable weekend of my youth planting trees, cleaning up roadside garbage, caring for injured wildlife, or taking food to people in need.

I’d often think Where’s my freedom? Why do we have to do this? Nintendo and Bonanza marathons were much more appealing.

Little did I know, I was learning exactly what it meant to be free – and, not until I was much older, the problematic, insulating effects of white privilege.

***

Growing up in the Deep South, racial lines were socially mapped and cultivated in our consciousness through school and print media – and unabashedly writ into the landscape of our small Alabama town. In ninth grade, we weren’t taught World History, but rather Alabama History. We came to recognize “the other side of the tracks” or a “rough area” was synonymous with a predominantly black neighborhood or an area of violence. In daily dialogue, describing people without a racial preface was unheard of – there was no “There was this guy” or “That lady at the grocery”; often whispered, black became the most important identifier in a descriptive parable relayed from the day’s happenings. Without fail, that hushed tone conveyed something else – something sinister pulsing through that word and, by association, the person to whom it was applied. Everyone was guilty of such profiling – even if we didn’t realize the implications of what we were doing, we became complicit in widening that divide, contributing to tacit racial tension. But this proclivity wasn’t reserved for towns in the South. Whenever Andy and I talk about growing up, we always touch on how racism was just as prevalent farther north – just cloaked in different veils. We both grew up very differently, but we shared a privilege we couldn’t exactly articulate until now, in retrospect.

Even still, we also shared a nagging feeling that we were somehow different. In high school, I had an odd fixation with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner – the weight of the albatross a fitting analogy for the emotional baggage that’d been weighing me down, something that I was terrified was as obvious as a dead bird strung around my neck. But it wasn’t. And I could pass. Again, not until I was much older, I realized the color of my skin diluted my difference – made it more socially acceptable.

Not until I became more outspoken, and had the privilege of a collegiate education, did I start to comprehend the enormity of the problems humanity faces. We parse and segment as a means to better understand, but in so doing, we lose the connective thread that connects them all: education. And by education, I don’t mean post-secondary. I mean hands-on, face-to-face, person-to-person interaction; getting in the dirt together and finding common ground in meaningful, proactive ways. But many of us must first acknowledge our white privilege – that we have the luxury to obsess over the death of a Zimbabwe lion, while our black friends are under threat every single time they leave their home. Until we understand why black bodies are grossly policed, are subjected to structural violence, and take action to change it, we can’t really move forward to tackle everything that we face.

***

I’m inching closer to my interview, and I’m remembering why I was drawn to this particular organization: its emphasis on early, comprehensive education for every child, every family. And I can’t help but think about what I learned as a kid, and how much I want to teach my child so many of the same things – chief among them, respect.

I hope I’ll be open about difference, and be able to answer hard questions. I hope I’ll be able to appropriately frame how inequality hurts everyone, and how important it is to speak out and stand up for your friends, known and unknown – to speak and to act.

Because if we don’t first take care of our species – prioritize humanity – there’s no hope for those others with whom we share this planet.

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Back to the Grind, But Not Ground to A Pulp

“Every household should be able to support a gentleman.”

Norman laughs over the phone, letting his eggs cool on the stove.

“I never knew what my friend meant by that until I retired. You know, when you have time to stare at your wiggling toes and think, ‘What do I want to do today?’ So now, what do you think you’ll do when you have idle time again?”

I retrace my week, mulling over my attempts to balance a new job and a sustainable, feasible post-workday routine. Then furrow my brow.

“Well, when that time comes around again, I’m sure I’ll find something to do.”

Time–that once idling beast–has become ever so elusive. But hey, I’ve expected nothing less, especially now that I’ve transitioned from homomaker to working gay.

***

It’s never easy to get back to the grind.

And moving across the country, stuffing one quarter of our belongings into 450 square feet, and navigating a metropolis makes it that much harder to make the transition gracefully.

The other 3/4.

Especially after I spent five months wondering how I’d escape the shades of degrees past and score a job I’d find intellectually stimulating and personally gratifying while Andy started his new job.

But I did.

Still, I’ve been guarded throughout this entire first week. Like I’m steeling myself for some insidious harbinger–or Ron Pearlman–to reveal how this job will be another nefarious succubus. A boil on my face. A pox upon my house.

You get it: past experiences have gifted me with a healthy helping of job-related paranoia, which has complicated my ability to ease into this new position.

But after the first week, I’ve realized that it’s less likely that I’ll experience those same problems within a nonprofit context. Because the majority of staffers are personally invested in the mission. Sure, there’re always going to be scenarios with every job that’re less than ideal. But being surrounded by excited, dedicated people is making me acknowledge that I can be happy and content in my professional life.

Especially now that I’m free of my annoying internal dialogue–a recitation of rhetorical questions: Is this really what you want to do? Do you even want to be here? Again, why did you get an advanced degree in something you’re no longer passionate about?

I have a new, clean slate.

And it’s scary. But nested within the anxiety associated with venturing into unknown professional waters is a sense of excitement–of realizing the possibilities of building a new professional life from the ground up.

Knowing that this job can actually compliment my personal life–not hinder it.

A happy, exhausting, empowering first day!

That the wall I’ve constructed between two parts of my life can be pulled down. And I can be happier.

***

And while I know not everything about my new job will translate into some life-affirming revelation, it’s been sort of nice to whir like a crazed blender–experience the emotional highs and reality checks packed into the first week.

Day 1: Exclaim unto ye!

Wee, I have a job again! I’m meeting people! I barely have an email account, so I can’t do much of anything except ride the high of being employed without any responsibilities! I can watch videos of successful pet adoptions! I get a free shirt!

Day 2: Check, check. Reality, check.

Wow, I’m really employed! Everyone seems so nice! There’s a manual I need to read through. And training sessions I need to enroll in. Field trips! More introductions, more people. I’m forgetting names. But am remembering that I manage…people. Uh, right, I knew that. So, how do I submit their time sheets again?

Day 3: *Ding, ding, ding*

And here I thought Raiser’s Edge was a band.

*Ding* (10:42 AM): New message in Outlook. *Ding* (10:44 AM): New message. *Ding* (10:46 AM): New message. *Ding* (10:47 AM): New message.

*DingDingDingDingDingDingDing* (10:48 AM)

Phew.

*DING* (10:49 AM)

Day 4: Broadcasting live!

I’m helping pick up the Pet of the Week. My hands smell like hot dogs and cheese. Wow, this is a newsroom. Where broadcasters melt down. And the Pet of the Week rocks it. And we get lost. And I try to talk like a supervisor and a human. I can remember the building code.

Day 5: Making it work.

Things are coming together. I know where things are. Now I know more about the organization, and can actually speak to specific programs. 

“Can you do this really fast, so that I can get it to the President?”

“Sure thing!”

Sure. Thing. And I can. 

And then an unexpected thought.

Maybe I can do this.

Followed by a slightly terrifying one.

Because I want to.

***

Little by little, it’ll happen. Because baby steps turn into toddling, turn into walking, turn into running. And the hardest part–taking the initiative–is over.

Now, I’m realizing how far I can go.

How easily I can back myself out of a corner.