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. The place served decent food, cheap. It still does whenever someone new buys the place and makes a go of it, only to have it fold in a few months, or maybe a couple of years. We’ve taken our boys there, and they, too, get in on that daydream, trying to figure out how we could own and run the place while still living, working and going to school in New Jersey. Small World has that same “come as you are” feel to the place, even though the scones and Havarti cheese and sprouts sandwiches on whole grain bread come with a heavier price tag. The artwork of school children hangs on the walls, local bands fill the place with music on weekends, and the clientele is more diverse than The Cup’s ever was.
In the spring of my senior year of high school, the regulars at The Cup would ask me my college plans. When I told one group that I was going to Princeton, one gentleman replied, “Is that upstate?” Never mind that it was all of about 75 miles away across the border into New Jersey. The Ivy League meant nothing to them, as it hadn’t to me until a coach mentioned it as a possibility six months earlier. It was a humbling experience, and it keeps me honest to this day. Outside certain bubbles, no one much gives two beans about the Ivy League. But I live in just such a bubble now. To be caught behind a counter serving macchiatos and loose-leaf tea to my adult peers—other parents, people I’ve worked and volunteered with—would turn some heads. They know I went to college up the street and that I have a graduate degree in urban planning.
Moreover, I worry about the message I’d be sending to the girls and young women I coach and have taught. Handing over iced decaf mochas to my players and students might make them wonder why their overeducated woman leader is not writing that novel she’s been talking about for a few years now. On the other hand, I’d be a role model of someone doing something she loves—letting the one-liners fly, sharing a laugh with a stranger, repairing the world one cup of Darjeeling at a time. Once you cross a certain line—of age, education, experience—it’s hard to go back, especially if you’re worried about other people’s expectations and judgments, which I’ll admit I am, at times.
And yet here I am, still not running for political office or trying to snare a political appointment, still not getting a job in housing finance. Apparently, with all my energy, I don’t have the drive to give my 9-5 completely over to anyone else, to any single cause, certainly not to the pursuit of conventional wealth. Would I be different if I didn’t have a husband who’s worked steadily, who’s been a paragon of job-monogamy all these years? I’m not so sure.
I imagine I’d find a way to live with less so that I could still piece together this patchwork of experiences. I’ve only recently come to realize that I crave the rush of being “in the mix” out in the world, that I love variety, that I have a deeply-held sense of obligation to others, and that I want solitude to write as well. It’s pretty obvious that something’s gotta give. I don’t think I’ve felt “balanced” for more than a few weeks, here and there, over the past sixteen years. Life is a constant struggle to feed each part of myself… and meet most of the expectations of others around me, expectations that I often established in the first place.
So, I volunteer, work part-time, and carve out space for my husband and kids. And now that the empty nest is on the horizon, I’m making more room for the writing of fiction and dream of a day when I’ll be regularly paid for that. This has required a heightened consciousness of how I spend my time. Each request from another parent or an organization is put to a new time/energy litmus test, and I don’t agree to anything if it’s going to cut into my writing time.
I’m repairing my own world, one “no” at a time.
Yes, I occasionally backslide, but I have turned down several requests that would have been major, long-term commitments. A year ago, I would have said “yes” and continued on this insane treadmill. As the pace of my life has slowed and I get more time for reflection and writing, I can see how out-of-balance my life with children has been. There’s that word again—balance.
Jennifer New, here at DivineCaroline, talks about getting rid of that word. I have to agree. To me, balance implies achieving parity between two things. If only it were that simple. For mothers, the idea of managing just two competing interests—children and job, for example—is ludicrous. We are tugged in a myriad of ways—children, job, spouse/significant other, housework, cooking, scheduling, PTA, community, book clubs, gym, creative pursuits, the list goes on and on. I’m not the only one with a personality disorder. We are now part of several generations of women who are more educated, work longer, earn more, and are competent enough to do it all. But is doing it all, and having it all, good for our souls? While I try to hold onto this new feeling of the importance of solitude and creating art in my own life, I’ll do my best to resist the flurry, the rush, the smell of beans, the whirs and the buzz—the seduction of Small World and all those other competitors for my time and energy.
But then there’s an idea knocking on the door, begging to be let in: Maybe I could organize a regular open mike night at Small World for poetry and flash fiction? There must be other writers who are looking to connect and share their work… I put my hands over my ears for a few moments and then quickly put them back on the keyboard, where I begin typing madly, trying to drown out the sound, but the knocking continues.