I haven’t written much of anything in years. Not a blog. Not a post on Facebook.
Getting a degree wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. That magical piece of paper, my diploma, was supposed to open doors like the Golden Ticket in Charlie’s Chocolate Factory. It was supposed to be a leg up. It wasn’t anything of the sort.
After college, I stayed in the restaurants while I looked for work. Eventually was fired from the last bar I’d written about because I refused to be a wench, cleaning up colossal messes after holiday parties I did not partake in by myself. This moment forced me into the job market, searching desperately for anything that my skills applied to. Here is where I tell you majoring in Communications was a very bad idea.
I worked for a marketing firm for one week. I find it hard to say marketing firm as the group, Jacob James, hired in kids off the street to go door-to-door, B2B in my case and pedal either T-Mobile accounts or get people to switch over to Direct Energy as their alternative gas supplier. I shadowed a girl for a week, didn’t make the cut because forcing people’s hands in business was not my thing. I was literally dumped off at a McDonalds on her route and had to find a way home- the company did not pay me a penny for the time worked.
Eventually I caught a break and got a position as a call center representative for the gas company and in a year, made it out of that department into another role where I currently do work.
Nothing is glamorous; life is check-to-check.
I was accompanied through much of this time by a boyfriend, of now five years together. And just now have confirmed suspicions that he is not who I thought- living a double life, a wife at home who had rarely seen him in the last half decade.
Needless to say, life throws you curveballs. Lemons. What have you.
It’s what you make of it.
I don’t know where I’ll go from here, and frankly I’m all but quite lost.
In a job that I hate, with no one to greet me at home. Life was much easier pretending to care about what customers wanted to eat for the evening, as I sit here now thinking I haven’t eaten in days.
It was easier being surrounded by fake people than those who can truly hurt you.
The Waiting Game has now become my life.
The Good.
The Bad...
And the Ugly.
Thursday, September 5, 2019
Monday, August 17, 2015
Let's Be Honest
It's been awhile, once again.I am plagued with the truth. The reality. I am a twenty-seven year-old female, and as we all like to say, "not getting any younger". My resume indicates that I have worked at many different customer service establishments, whether it be retail, salon services, or restaurants. I have taken longer than necessary to complete a mere four-year degree, my Bachelor of Arts in Communication. What did this shit-your-pants, overly-expensive piece of paper guarantee me? Absolutely nothing.
College does not prepare you for what happens after you hit that glorious milestone of walking across the stage and shaking the uncomfortably sweaty palm of the dean himself. It fails to mention this unbearable and hellish purgatory of interminable waiting and mindless searching you will be faced with, dealing with one door after another either shut, or worse, with no one to answer your knock.
Graduating did not guarantee me a job, much less a fighting chance in the massive pool of other applicants vying for similar positions. My resume shows others that I have had consistent work experience since I was much younger. That I am disciplined. That I can multitask between school and work. That I am willing to learn. That I can adapt. I did not have the opportunity to access a non-existent college fund that allowed
me to attend a prestigious
university of my choice (and let's be honest- didn't have the grades to back it), and furthermore to become a shoe-in at mommy or daddy's law firm. While living on my own, and digging myself out of a self-induced hole, I knew I could not afford to work for free, so scratch any internship-- behind the bar I resided.
Inching closer to six months post graduation, I have to figure out a way to deal with the repayment of loans, doomed to wait tables because any possible leads I had, people who said, "Send me your cover letter and resume," were really nothing but hot air. Hot air that dissipates, much like my hopes in finding an employer to accept my skill set. Although frustrated, I've failed and found myself back at the drawing board countless times, searching for Square One.
I am stuck between a rock and a hard place, staying at a restaurant I am growing to dislike more and more each day. Life is too short to be miserable.
Let me be clear. I am a bartender on paper. Nothing more, nothing less.
You ask, on paper? Yes, on paper. That is my work title. So what do you envision? A girl, behind the bar, pouring drinks. Smiling like an idiot. Serving food. Maintaining tasks. Teamwork.
Ah, but I am much more. I have just grown old of the revolving door and serious lack of growth potential.
My goal is to ride it out. Let it be.
But really,
let's be honest.
When you have been treading water vigorously for quite a while, you become excruciatingly exhausted. The point where your muscles burn, your lungs feel weighted and crushed before you dare to choose to give up. To let your head slip beneath the surface. I'm at that point. I want out. While the service industry has been good, there comes a time where all good things must come to an end.
But that is just it-- where I become painfully aware of the rock and that hard place.
There is no Plan B.
-- Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
www.oakland.edu
www.burntorangereport.com
www.991thewhale.com
www.3000newswire.blogs.com
www.udayavani.com
Monday, June 1, 2015
The "S" Word
There's always "that special guest" every once in awhile that makes your shift just a little more memorable. That particular night was this past Sunday.
She had come in earlier that afternoon. The White Rabbit is actually closed on the weekend from 3:00-5:00pm, allowing the workers a long enough break to flip over the kitchen stock and execute the necessary sidework.
Our worker, Ali, set down what she was doing, and greeted the woman, apologizing for the inconvenience but inviting her to return at 5:00. The woman had nothing short of a dozen questions before she left. Patiently, Ali answered each query before the woman left.
Hours later, the same woman returns. Lucky me, she sits at the bar. I warmly greet her, and offer a food and drink menu, awaiting her request.
...But then she starts, "I was here earlier. I came all the way from Dearborn, and I need to tell you, your worker in the blue is very rude."
Those are always my favorite icebreakers with guests. I in turn apologized and heard out her side of the story... Not that I hadn't already seen and heard the entire exchange earlier. I thanked her for coming back in to dine with us, and continued on to take what I already had a gut-feeling about, the single-handedly most obnoxious drink order I have ever encountered. I spent the next few minutes hurriedly running to the basement several times to check our stock.
Finally, muddling every piece of fruit we had to offer, I shook up her cocktail. Our guest then puts in her order. Minutes drag by as I'm listening to her rant on about professionalism in the workplace, hoping this appetizer would come out soon.
It was one of those days.
Alas. The appetizer.
The woman picks a piece of food up, sniffs it (oh yes, she did), and then proceeds to take a bite. As if
she was having an epiphany, she was suddenly aware of what she was eating. She told me to call
over the manager. I couldn't wait for this one.
Richard approaches.
She pinched a wad of food off of her plate. Holding it in the air, she exclaims, "This is a damn potato chop. I'm married to a Chaldean, and this is a Chaldean dish."
My manager has this expression on his face that reads, yes-- obviously, it is a potato chop. Your point is?She waves the little fried disc in his face. "How are you going to be Chaldean and have a Chaldean dish on your menu, and not call it by it's Chaldean name? That is an injustice to your people. You need to change the name on your menu."
Here's the deal. The restaurant is owned by Richard's wife, Ellen. Yes, they are Chaldean. A good portion of the people who come into the restaurant are friends and family of the couple, so they know what is on the menu. Everyone else? Regular, plain, boring, all-American people. Just your average Joes.
If I said "potato chop" would you know what you were eating? Chances are, no, you wouldn't. The name we use at the restaurant gives guests who are not familiar with a cultural dish a better undertanding of what they are ordering. That's all. No harm, no foul, no offense intended.
So. We go from her upset with Ali, to barking at Richard, to insinuating another manager of mine is "a little sweet, if you know what I mean".
Anything else?
Yes, I'm afraid she didn't stop there.
Two younger girls sat down beside the woman. Off in their own little world, they sipped on martinis made by yours truly, and carried on with conversations of where they had just traveled.
"Scotland was wonderful," the blonde gushed, "Best trip ever!"
The brunette beside her nodded in agreement, adding, "Georgia was amazing. We went on a haunted tour of places in the area and saw some homes that were used in the underground railroad during slavery. "
Now, I didn't mention this before because it is truly irrelevant to me who I wait on-- what color they are, how much money they make, where they come from, what they drive, who their daddy is, you name it. Everybody's money is green to me. Having said that, the woman who had been under my skin for the last hour and a half, is fully or at least part African-American.
She had whipped around in her seat, and nearly went off on the two girls who had been minding their own business until now.
"What did you just say?! I find that VERY offensive"
Mind you, so far, everything seemed to be offensive that day.
She reeled a deathlook at the girl who just returned from Georgia. "You need to watch what you say. You don't know what you're talking about and who was affected...."
Completely abashed, the girls looked at eachother lost for words. I stepped away from my bar entirely worn out from this woman, leaving the hot-headed situation to my male-counterpart coworker to defuse.
Look. I get it.
All she heard-- the only word that made her ears ring-- was the "s" word, slavery.
The girl meant nothing by it. Are people a bit numb to it? Yes. Are people also over-sensitive as well? Absolutely.
I am not going to sit here and go on about how long ago slavery was. That my daddy, nor his daddy, or the daddies before him-- did they ever own slaves. That just because I am white did "my people" ever oppress yours, nor were we born with a silver spoon in our mouths. My ancestors were indentured servants from Eastern Europe. I am only the second generation in. They had come over here with no money, and no belongings and no idea as to where they belonged in this country. My ancestors were so poor, they used flour sacks for underwear. Do not be so quick to judge when you assume someone is talking badly about a non-joking matter just because they are lighter than your own skin tone. When it comes down to it, you are very privileged yourself and there should be no room to talk. Here I am, listening to you complain, all the while I am serving your highness.
The golden moment of handing out the check came, and I gladly took payment, bidding her adieu.
All I could say was "wow". There are two lessons I took away from that exchange.
1. What I took from the girls: Be careful what you say, and who can hear you. There may be people who misconstrue your message, even if you are being decent.
2. From my guest of honor: Not everyone is out to get you. Nobody in the restaurant was attacking you, ignoring you, or defaming you or your husband's "people". That until you started bad-mouthing everyone, I gave you my best service as you are my guest, and even after then did I ask "how high" when told to jump. Just because someone had the audacity to dare use the "s" word did they use it with any racist undertones. You are sitting here in one of the wealthiest cities in Michigan, sipping on some alcohol. Just breathe.
While Sunday night was in the very least as intriguing as it also was a migraine to sit through, I cannot wait for the next dose of entertainment.
Until then, it's all in a day's work.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Keep Calm - www.keepcalm-o-matic.co.uk
Potato Chop Tutorial- www.youtube.com
S Word - www.archive.burlingtonfreepress.com
Ralph Said Fudge - www.pleasecutthecrap.com
Your People - www.etsy.com
She had come in earlier that afternoon. The White Rabbit is actually closed on the weekend from 3:00-5:00pm, allowing the workers a long enough break to flip over the kitchen stock and execute the necessary sidework.
Our worker, Ali, set down what she was doing, and greeted the woman, apologizing for the inconvenience but inviting her to return at 5:00. The woman had nothing short of a dozen questions before she left. Patiently, Ali answered each query before the woman left.
Hours later, the same woman returns. Lucky me, she sits at the bar. I warmly greet her, and offer a food and drink menu, awaiting her request.
...But then she starts, "I was here earlier. I came all the way from Dearborn, and I need to tell you, your worker in the blue is very rude."
Those are always my favorite icebreakers with guests. I in turn apologized and heard out her side of the story... Not that I hadn't already seen and heard the entire exchange earlier. I thanked her for coming back in to dine with us, and continued on to take what I already had a gut-feeling about, the single-handedly most obnoxious drink order I have ever encountered. I spent the next few minutes hurriedly running to the basement several times to check our stock.
Finally, muddling every piece of fruit we had to offer, I shook up her cocktail. Our guest then puts in her order. Minutes drag by as I'm listening to her rant on about professionalism in the workplace, hoping this appetizer would come out soon.
It was one of those days.
Alas. The appetizer.
The woman picks a piece of food up, sniffs it (oh yes, she did), and then proceeds to take a bite. As if
she was having an epiphany, she was suddenly aware of what she was eating. She told me to call
over the manager. I couldn't wait for this one.
Richard approaches.
She pinched a wad of food off of her plate. Holding it in the air, she exclaims, "This is a damn potato chop. I'm married to a Chaldean, and this is a Chaldean dish."
My manager has this expression on his face that reads, yes-- obviously, it is a potato chop. Your point is?She waves the little fried disc in his face. "How are you going to be Chaldean and have a Chaldean dish on your menu, and not call it by it's Chaldean name? That is an injustice to your people. You need to change the name on your menu."
Here's the deal. The restaurant is owned by Richard's wife, Ellen. Yes, they are Chaldean. A good portion of the people who come into the restaurant are friends and family of the couple, so they know what is on the menu. Everyone else? Regular, plain, boring, all-American people. Just your average Joes.
If I said "potato chop" would you know what you were eating? Chances are, no, you wouldn't. The name we use at the restaurant gives guests who are not familiar with a cultural dish a better undertanding of what they are ordering. That's all. No harm, no foul, no offense intended.
So. We go from her upset with Ali, to barking at Richard, to insinuating another manager of mine is "a little sweet, if you know what I mean".
Anything else?
Yes, I'm afraid she didn't stop there.
Two younger girls sat down beside the woman. Off in their own little world, they sipped on martinis made by yours truly, and carried on with conversations of where they had just traveled.
"Scotland was wonderful," the blonde gushed, "Best trip ever!"
The brunette beside her nodded in agreement, adding, "Georgia was amazing. We went on a haunted tour of places in the area and saw some homes that were used in the underground railroad during slavery. "
Now, I didn't mention this before because it is truly irrelevant to me who I wait on-- what color they are, how much money they make, where they come from, what they drive, who their daddy is, you name it. Everybody's money is green to me. Having said that, the woman who had been under my skin for the last hour and a half, is fully or at least part African-American.
She had whipped around in her seat, and nearly went off on the two girls who had been minding their own business until now.
"What did you just say?! I find that VERY offensive"
Mind you, so far, everything seemed to be offensive that day.
She reeled a deathlook at the girl who just returned from Georgia. "You need to watch what you say. You don't know what you're talking about and who was affected...."
Completely abashed, the girls looked at eachother lost for words. I stepped away from my bar entirely worn out from this woman, leaving the hot-headed situation to my male-counterpart coworker to defuse.
Look. I get it.
All she heard-- the only word that made her ears ring-- was the "s" word, slavery.
The girl meant nothing by it. Are people a bit numb to it? Yes. Are people also over-sensitive as well? Absolutely.
I am not going to sit here and go on about how long ago slavery was. That my daddy, nor his daddy, or the daddies before him-- did they ever own slaves. That just because I am white did "my people" ever oppress yours, nor were we born with a silver spoon in our mouths. My ancestors were indentured servants from Eastern Europe. I am only the second generation in. They had come over here with no money, and no belongings and no idea as to where they belonged in this country. My ancestors were so poor, they used flour sacks for underwear. Do not be so quick to judge when you assume someone is talking badly about a non-joking matter just because they are lighter than your own skin tone. When it comes down to it, you are very privileged yourself and there should be no room to talk. Here I am, listening to you complain, all the while I am serving your highness.
The golden moment of handing out the check came, and I gladly took payment, bidding her adieu.
All I could say was "wow". There are two lessons I took away from that exchange.
1. What I took from the girls: Be careful what you say, and who can hear you. There may be people who misconstrue your message, even if you are being decent.
2. From my guest of honor: Not everyone is out to get you. Nobody in the restaurant was attacking you, ignoring you, or defaming you or your husband's "people". That until you started bad-mouthing everyone, I gave you my best service as you are my guest, and even after then did I ask "how high" when told to jump. Just because someone had the audacity to dare use the "s" word did they use it with any racist undertones. You are sitting here in one of the wealthiest cities in Michigan, sipping on some alcohol. Just breathe.
While Sunday night was in the very least as intriguing as it also was a migraine to sit through, I cannot wait for the next dose of entertainment.
Until then, it's all in a day's work.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Keep Calm - www.keepcalm-o-matic.co.uk
Potato Chop Tutorial- www.youtube.com
S Word - www.archive.burlingtonfreepress.com
Ralph Said Fudge - www.pleasecutthecrap.com
Your People - www.etsy.com
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Who I Am
It's easy-- all too easy-- to immerse yourself in an environment different than what you are accustomed to, and in time gradually lose yourself. You lose your social identity and gain traits, practices, and beliefs of those around you. You assimilate and become just another face in the enormous crowd milling around you, melding in with the next.
Yet there are times that violently jerk you out of your skewed, pseudo-reality and remind you that this of which you have surrounded yourself with... isn't who you are at all. Like awakening out of a sweat-inducing nightmare, you open your eyes and realize the actual truth, and in knowing so, you are saved.
With that, let me tell you I have played this game. A pawn at best, I've shifted around the board, dodging the coup de grace from "friends" and enemies alike, trying to hold my place to the best of my ability.
I recently found myself pinned in a booth at a coney after work one evening-- clustered by familiar people whom had closed out the bars downtown prior to needing their fourth meal. I was offered money to go home with one of them. $500...whatever I wanted... $800.
"Come home with me," he incessantly begged, grabbing at my face.
What shocked me is that not less than a month ago I had been a guest in his home, accompanied by my current, and potentially my last boyfriend. He had already been introduced to my future of which I am invested in... I reminded the man of this.
Scoffing, he griped about my boyfriend's profession, an honorable one at that. Shaking a disheveled head and contorted face at the confusion to my adamant response, he replied that I would never be taken care of-- but what does that mean? With money? When you leave this world, you leave with nothing. What is money if there is no love...
Insulted and angered, I left that night and stewed. The thought that the horrific ideology of others in this insidious society which everything-- and everyone-- has a price was both alarming and offensive. It was catching spit to the face. Excuses (from others) that he was drunk were to of no effect to me, and do not rectify the situation. As we all know, alcohol lowers inhibition and the true character rears its ugly head.
This was my realization. I am better than that. I deserve better than that. The last few years of running amuck in a crowd that prides itself on wealth and vanity won't get me anywhere, and was an egregious error on my behalf for ever doing so. What do I have to offer in a group such as that? I cannot even bring myself to think... I only devalue myself by continuing to be devalued by others. This isn't me.
I've always had a tendency to be savoir-faire. To do what it took to be accepted, and get ahead. To be agreeable. To be liked. To say what others wanted to hear. To adapt and make do of any given situation. There comes a time though, when adapting only hurts you and hinders individuality. It goes against your beliefs, your feelings and everything you stand for. This behavior, the pomp and circumstance of an elitist crowd, was never a part of me which defined me-- I was raised better than that, but it is one of the broken fragments of my past that I need to put to rest and in doing so, move forward,.
I am happy to have found work, albeit temporary, until I can segue into a career. I am happy to have a family that supports me as I continue to better myself, and I am proud to be with someone who loves me for who I am.
I can't be bought-- not with money, purses nor red-bottomed shoes. None of your colorful, silken shirts will ever win me over, Gatsby. I'm not a friend for when it is only convenient.
And to you? I am just your bartender, with a brighter future than you could ever imagine.
-- Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Money- www.passedupstrange.blogspot.com - getty images
Assimilation- www.loosenessofassociation.com
Ecard- www.steffieshare.wordpress.com
Great Gatsby- www.pinterest.com
Yet there are times that violently jerk you out of your skewed, pseudo-reality and remind you that this of which you have surrounded yourself with... isn't who you are at all. Like awakening out of a sweat-inducing nightmare, you open your eyes and realize the actual truth, and in knowing so, you are saved.
With that, let me tell you I have played this game. A pawn at best, I've shifted around the board, dodging the coup de grace from "friends" and enemies alike, trying to hold my place to the best of my ability.
I recently found myself pinned in a booth at a coney after work one evening-- clustered by familiar people whom had closed out the bars downtown prior to needing their fourth meal. I was offered money to go home with one of them. $500...whatever I wanted... $800.
"Come home with me," he incessantly begged, grabbing at my face.
What shocked me is that not less than a month ago I had been a guest in his home, accompanied by my current, and potentially my last boyfriend. He had already been introduced to my future of which I am invested in... I reminded the man of this.
Scoffing, he griped about my boyfriend's profession, an honorable one at that. Shaking a disheveled head and contorted face at the confusion to my adamant response, he replied that I would never be taken care of-- but what does that mean? With money? When you leave this world, you leave with nothing. What is money if there is no love...
Insulted and angered, I left that night and stewed. The thought that the horrific ideology of others in this insidious society which everything-- and everyone-- has a price was both alarming and offensive. It was catching spit to the face. Excuses (from others) that he was drunk were to of no effect to me, and do not rectify the situation. As we all know, alcohol lowers inhibition and the true character rears its ugly head.
This was my realization. I am better than that. I deserve better than that. The last few years of running amuck in a crowd that prides itself on wealth and vanity won't get me anywhere, and was an egregious error on my behalf for ever doing so. What do I have to offer in a group such as that? I cannot even bring myself to think... I only devalue myself by continuing to be devalued by others. This isn't me.
I've always had a tendency to be savoir-faire. To do what it took to be accepted, and get ahead. To be agreeable. To be liked. To say what others wanted to hear. To adapt and make do of any given situation. There comes a time though, when adapting only hurts you and hinders individuality. It goes against your beliefs, your feelings and everything you stand for. This behavior, the pomp and circumstance of an elitist crowd, was never a part of me which defined me-- I was raised better than that, but it is one of the broken fragments of my past that I need to put to rest and in doing so, move forward,.
I am happy to have found work, albeit temporary, until I can segue into a career. I am happy to have a family that supports me as I continue to better myself, and I am proud to be with someone who loves me for who I am.
I can't be bought-- not with money, purses nor red-bottomed shoes. None of your colorful, silken shirts will ever win me over, Gatsby. I'm not a friend for when it is only convenient.
And to you? I am just your bartender, with a brighter future than you could ever imagine.
-- Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Money- www.passedupstrange.blogspot.com - getty images
Assimilation- www.loosenessofassociation.com
Ecard- www.steffieshare.wordpress.com
Great Gatsby- www.pinterest.com
Monday, January 26, 2015
So, A Guy Walks into the Bar...
That's how all good stories start, right?
On a more serious note, today he walks into the bar weary, worn and chilled from being outside too long, improperly bundled for the bitter Michigan weather. I ask the man if he needs any help. His eyes lit up for a moment and then shamefully lowered back down. Reluctantly, he looks out the window to the bus stop and then reproachfully back to me. A bus fare was all he wishes. A bus fare to take him home, out of the cold.
Without hesitation, I turn to my tip jar and pull out a few crinkled up singles. Just a few dollars, something I put towards an eighteen-syllable, unnecessarily-priced gourmet cup of coffee on the regular anyway. A couple of dollars is what I toss away vainly, burn up, or consume without any care in the world on a very regular basis. What was a few dollars to me?
The man thanks me and then rushes out of the door into the miserably low temperatures to catch his bus-- almost missing the stop because he couldn't say thank you enough. I didn't mind helping out, and I am grateful he chose to stop at my place of employment as opposed to any other. I know he may not have been treated in the same fashion. Not everyone else would have taken as kindly to being implored generosity, obligated to show mercy in a society that doesn't always approve of helping others. We say we do, sure, but when faced with a moment of stepping up, many of us sit on the sidelines hoping for someone else to be the first to take action, to be the first to raise their hand in a class full of peers.
The ban on panhandling in the particular city I live and work in was lifted not long ago. You see the young guy on the corner of Maple heading into the downtown by the grocery store...you see the paraplegic outside of a few businesses. Do you walk by, hoping with baited breath to dodge an uncomfortable eye contact? Do you make up an excuse as if to say, "sorry, all I have is my debit card"? Do you just avoid the entire situation altogether and cross the street?
The man today reminds me of a woman once before coming into the fancy-pants coffee shop I frequent. Her very presence disrupted the Stepford community, shocking them so. This bubble I live in is so cloistered, so sheltered, tucked away safely in their affluence that the in-the-face encounter with issues like poverty and homelessness are earth-shattering concepts that don't exist in their reality. Some guests were appalled at the gall of the woman to come in, an intruder, asking for food. She was tired, hungry and clearly hurting. In a matter of seconds after she was shooed from the premise, the highly disgruntled customers exchanged uneasy glances and returned to their smart tablets, their iProducts, or whatever else they had going on in their lives that was more important. No one had moved. After buying an extra breakfast sandwich, I left the shop to look for the woman. She was no where to be found, and I had balked. Moreover, I was disappointed for not acting sooner.
The man from this afternoon offered me a chance to do good, and I took it. I think there are many times we are faced with being the bigger person in a number of circumstances, and we instead base our actions on what we believe others will think. That to me is only cowardice. We are not without reason but nonetheless skeptical of those in need, and cynics towards if we alone can have any impact. Do good. Help others. Give back. Disregard the opinions of small-minded people. There may be a day you too will need help. You will also hope there is someone there to catch you when you fall...even if it is a complete stranger with a few bucks to spare.
Everything comes full circle.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit-
Smart Bus- www.archive.freep.com
Spare Change- www.thrivedetroit.net
Natalie Sewell MT quote- www.needhelpandinspiration.wordpress.com
On a more serious note, today he walks into the bar weary, worn and chilled from being outside too long, improperly bundled for the bitter Michigan weather. I ask the man if he needs any help. His eyes lit up for a moment and then shamefully lowered back down. Reluctantly, he looks out the window to the bus stop and then reproachfully back to me. A bus fare was all he wishes. A bus fare to take him home, out of the cold.
Without hesitation, I turn to my tip jar and pull out a few crinkled up singles. Just a few dollars, something I put towards an eighteen-syllable, unnecessarily-priced gourmet cup of coffee on the regular anyway. A couple of dollars is what I toss away vainly, burn up, or consume without any care in the world on a very regular basis. What was a few dollars to me?
The man thanks me and then rushes out of the door into the miserably low temperatures to catch his bus-- almost missing the stop because he couldn't say thank you enough. I didn't mind helping out, and I am grateful he chose to stop at my place of employment as opposed to any other. I know he may not have been treated in the same fashion. Not everyone else would have taken as kindly to being implored generosity, obligated to show mercy in a society that doesn't always approve of helping others. We say we do, sure, but when faced with a moment of stepping up, many of us sit on the sidelines hoping for someone else to be the first to take action, to be the first to raise their hand in a class full of peers.
The ban on panhandling in the particular city I live and work in was lifted not long ago. You see the young guy on the corner of Maple heading into the downtown by the grocery store...you see the paraplegic outside of a few businesses. Do you walk by, hoping with baited breath to dodge an uncomfortable eye contact? Do you make up an excuse as if to say, "sorry, all I have is my debit card"? Do you just avoid the entire situation altogether and cross the street?
The man today reminds me of a woman once before coming into the fancy-pants coffee shop I frequent. Her very presence disrupted the Stepford community, shocking them so. This bubble I live in is so cloistered, so sheltered, tucked away safely in their affluence that the in-the-face encounter with issues like poverty and homelessness are earth-shattering concepts that don't exist in their reality. Some guests were appalled at the gall of the woman to come in, an intruder, asking for food. She was tired, hungry and clearly hurting. In a matter of seconds after she was shooed from the premise, the highly disgruntled customers exchanged uneasy glances and returned to their smart tablets, their iProducts, or whatever else they had going on in their lives that was more important. No one had moved. After buying an extra breakfast sandwich, I left the shop to look for the woman. She was no where to be found, and I had balked. Moreover, I was disappointed for not acting sooner.
The man from this afternoon offered me a chance to do good, and I took it. I think there are many times we are faced with being the bigger person in a number of circumstances, and we instead base our actions on what we believe others will think. That to me is only cowardice. We are not without reason but nonetheless skeptical of those in need, and cynics towards if we alone can have any impact. Do good. Help others. Give back. Disregard the opinions of small-minded people. There may be a day you too will need help. You will also hope there is someone there to catch you when you fall...even if it is a complete stranger with a few bucks to spare.
Everything comes full circle.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit-
Smart Bus- www.archive.freep.com
Spare Change- www.thrivedetroit.net
Natalie Sewell MT quote- www.needhelpandinspiration.wordpress.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)