The Social Security statement says it all, neatly summarizing my dismal earnings record for the past twenty-eight years. Although I’ve been extraordinarily busy, I haven’t been paid much, if at all, for most of it. I had a promising career as an urban planner, trying to get affordable housing built in New Jersey, but put all that on the back burner when I had a couple of kids.
Since then, I’ve been piecing together all kinds of volunteer and part-time work: research assistant, president of a Montessori preschool board, freelance writer, high school girls’ basketball and softball coach, planning board member, editor for a Jewish Reconstructionist newsletter, middle school English teacher, journalism camp instructor, tutor, community activist, women and leadership camp director, and, most recently—coming full circle—secretary of a non-profit determined to build group homes for young adults with autism. Why the multiple personalities, you might ask? More on that later.
Even with all my public service, I still find myself fantasizing about one of the most elemental forms of service to others—offering them sustenance, their coffee and daily bread—or cappuccino and cranberry orange scone, as the case may be. I want to be a barista. But not at a chain—I refuse to wear a uniform even if it’s just a green apron. I’m thinking of a certain independently-owned coffee house in Princeton, New Jersey—Small World—where there are long lines of people waiting to have their needs met. I’d wear a shirt that says “Namaste” on it with a picture of the Buddha, like one of the other baristas, and it wouldn’t be the least bit ironic.
Becoming a barista would call into play all the skills from my other “jobs.” First, I’d be part of a team. I like being around other people working toward a common goal. Being a barista also requires a certain athleticism to participate in the choreographed economy of movement in the tight space behind the counter. On the intellectual side, I’d get to learn all the types of coffee and tea drinks and their variants, essentially a new language. And I’d get to show off my fluency when calling out the orders: “Half-caf tall skim latte, to stay!” I’d also possibly—finally—acquire some marketable artistic skill after they teach me how to froth the foam just right and finish it off with their signature swirl. Last, but certainly not least, I’d be serving others, some of whom are deeply dependent. They’d be properly appreciative of my efforts with a kind word or a smile—something mothers often do not get from society in general.
And I’d get to go home at the end of my shift, satisfied with a job well done, with no further responsibilities hanging over my head, no one waiting for me to do something else for them. This would be the essence of a life of simplicity, for me anyway. Maybe this is the last stop on my road to recovery from what has been called “The Disease to Please” in a book by the same name by the late Harriet Braiker.
The compulsion to do good was driven into me by my first grade teacher, a nun, who taught us to make the sign of the cross and say a little prayer for the sick and wounded souls whenever an ambulance drove past our school, which was located near the intersection of two busy streets. Wailing ambulances were a regular occurrence, so at a young age I was made acutely aware of the suffering of others. I took my religious upbringing to heart. Pile on the role models of Jesus, St. Francis of Assisi, Mother Theresa and my own self-sacrificing mother of six, and you’ve got all the ingredients for a full-blown case of the disease to please - placing the needs of others ahead of own’s own needs or best interests.
Or maybe my daydream about becoming a barista is as psychologically simple as a mid-life attempt to recapture something from my youth—the thrill and pride of accomplishment of my second job (my first was “paperboy”) as a waitress, counter person, dishwasher, ice cream server, and sometimes grill attendant at a place called The Cup in Pottstown, Pennsylvania during my last two years of high school. On summer nights, after the dinner rush, the line for ice cream cones, sundaes, shakes, and floats began. There is something about being at the giving end of a line like that, being desired in some way by all those people, possessor of their Holy Grail—whether it be a banana split, Dusty Road sundae, or two scoops of chocolate peanut butter on a sugar cone.
At The Cup, there was no pretension.
