The Working World
Wow. I get it now. I am no longer a student. Sure, I’m a “student of the world” and there are “learning opportunities in every encounter.” I do truly believe in these mantras real worlders throw out there, but the truth is there is something distinctly different about operating without the structure of academia. This realization occurred to me at about 2pm on Monday.
My first week of work (last week) was overwhelming, but also really exciting. I was meeting new people at every turn, learning about the goals, vision, and work of the organization (www.accesscommunityhealth.net), and diving into the wonders of post-its and paperclips. No one really expected me to do any real work that first week… as was made evident when I was paid for a day of work on Friday that included meeting up with the quality team at our boss’s house in Forest Park and then going to the zoo! I work in one of those rare non-profit organizations that is so giant, it has to be run like a business, bureaucracy and all. Thus, things like “team-building fun days” are a must.
My first post-work week weekend rolled around last weekend, and I felt utterly exhausted. I still managed to have some fun at a few ultra hip non-profit benefits, do some yoga, and eat a meal with my mom as she drove through Chicago on the way to MN. I learned during this past weekend the wonders of having no homework. It turns out, when the work week is over, one can just forget about it until the next Monday. It is quite a handy mechanism for getting through life in the real world.
Nonetheless, this past Monday happened, and I imagine that I felt similar to how one would feel if a gentle earthquake was shaking the ground. That is, I had no grounding. I sat down to work on one project given to me by my supervisor, but soon after was called in by my boss and given three more projects, then I went to a meeting where I was given all the old interns’ projects, and then one of my co-workers kindly approached me with a two page document that she would just love for me to fax to all fifty health centers before the end of next week. WHOA! It’s not that any of these projects are too hard for me or even too time consuming; it was just that I had no idea how to organize myself around them. This was the moment I realized that my whole life I have been grounded in being a student, a pretty good one in fact. Now… now I am an employee of Access Community Health Network. I no longer just need to know how to use excel for the occasional chart making, but it is a daily application of my work. I don’t get to discuss and analyze all the intricacies of the projects I am given; I just have to do them. This is a different world.
After learning about the task function in Microsoft Outlook from my wise office-running father, I got to work on Tuesday and set out on rearranging my footing, on grounding myself into the work world. I feel that the earthquake has quelled, and I will ultimately manage this transition just fine. But, I’m not going to lie. There is a small part of me wanting to go get my PHD right about now.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Settling into New Realizations
Life In Chicago: Week 2
The apartment has begun to feel more and more homey with each passing day. My original painting from Zambia has taken a prominent position on our living room wall. The kitchen has just about any-sized pan one could need. My bedroom has a brand new queen size mattress and frame, a lovely Pier One chair, and 100 dollars worth of quality thrift store furniture. Many thanks to my go-getter father whom wastes no time when in set up mode. It kind of felt like Batman visited me this week. He jetted through in his Volvo station wagon, solved every annoyance I was having with the moving process, fed me good food, and still managed to not fall too far behind saving the world in Cincinnati. My friend Zach, who was also visiting proved to be one hell of a Robin. If anyone needs moving help I recommend enlisting these two fine gentlemen.
With the immediate pressure of moving out of the way I am able to more fully settle into my Chicago life. Realizations I’ve had in my first two weeks here have been many. But to list a couple…
1) Cars are lonely death boxes. Coming from places of less than adequate public transportation, too many hills, and impatient drivers has led to a mostly driving lifestyle. In just two weeks here I have fully embraced the biking/public transit lifestyle. The bike lanes make the car anxiety greatly dissipate. In fact, it seems during high traffic times, biking is not only the healthier, more environmentally friendly way to get around, but it is the fastest mode of transportation. I have gotten in a car accident, but am still bike accident free (I am knocking on wood as I write this). Oh, and perhaps the best part is the biker nod. When driving around the city, fellow drivers do not happily nod at each other acknowledging the beauty of the city by car. No… it is more of an everyone for themselves mentality. In fact, I am convinced that the assholeness often associated with big cities emerges from frustrated drivers. For it is impossible to be a kind driver in the city and get anywhere in a timely manner. Conversely, bikers have a camaraderie on the road. There is this friendly nod followed by a knowing smirk of slight pretension, but mostly of happiness to be outside, going places, and being safe. Bikers don’t angrily creep up on each other’s tails, but if they do get a little too close, they are able to actually say something face to face. There is humanity in travel outside of cars that may have more transformative potential than we realize. Writing this, I know I will still be using my car. Sometimes I’m lazy, sometimes it is still faster, sometimes I want to say “forget humanity” and crawl into my air conditioned box, and sometimes I want to go places far, far away. But, it is nice to feel this shift within me, to feel the peace of biking, to feel the friendship possible on a busy road.
2) “Gay bar” does not translate to an escape from patriarchy. In an adventurous excursion to Boystown with two male friends of mine, I was hoping to dance the night away void of groping hands and sexist comments. My friends and I began dancing to the techno grooves as best we could. Then, midway through a back bend move of mine I got a tap on my back. Next thing I knew, a man had grabbed my bag and ripped me away from my circle. He pulled me close to him and whispered, “I’m straight.” He then began gyrating against my body and said, “Let’s make them jealous.” At this I invented a creative spinny move out of his arms and politely said I would like to dance with my friends. I snuck back between them and managed to create the stereotypical gay bar dancing fantasy of most girls. But it was definitely tainted by knowing that not even at a gay bar was I immune from the ever-present chauvinism of men in dance clubs.
There are more realizations to tell, but I fear overloading my blog entries into indigestible rants. Therefore, I will stop here and allow for digestion. My job begins tomorrow. I can only hope I continue to think, learn, do, grow, and that I find the time and words to share these experiences.
The apartment has begun to feel more and more homey with each passing day. My original painting from Zambia has taken a prominent position on our living room wall. The kitchen has just about any-sized pan one could need. My bedroom has a brand new queen size mattress and frame, a lovely Pier One chair, and 100 dollars worth of quality thrift store furniture. Many thanks to my go-getter father whom wastes no time when in set up mode. It kind of felt like Batman visited me this week. He jetted through in his Volvo station wagon, solved every annoyance I was having with the moving process, fed me good food, and still managed to not fall too far behind saving the world in Cincinnati. My friend Zach, who was also visiting proved to be one hell of a Robin. If anyone needs moving help I recommend enlisting these two fine gentlemen.
With the immediate pressure of moving out of the way I am able to more fully settle into my Chicago life. Realizations I’ve had in my first two weeks here have been many. But to list a couple…
1) Cars are lonely death boxes. Coming from places of less than adequate public transportation, too many hills, and impatient drivers has led to a mostly driving lifestyle. In just two weeks here I have fully embraced the biking/public transit lifestyle. The bike lanes make the car anxiety greatly dissipate. In fact, it seems during high traffic times, biking is not only the healthier, more environmentally friendly way to get around, but it is the fastest mode of transportation. I have gotten in a car accident, but am still bike accident free (I am knocking on wood as I write this). Oh, and perhaps the best part is the biker nod. When driving around the city, fellow drivers do not happily nod at each other acknowledging the beauty of the city by car. No… it is more of an everyone for themselves mentality. In fact, I am convinced that the assholeness often associated with big cities emerges from frustrated drivers. For it is impossible to be a kind driver in the city and get anywhere in a timely manner. Conversely, bikers have a camaraderie on the road. There is this friendly nod followed by a knowing smirk of slight pretension, but mostly of happiness to be outside, going places, and being safe. Bikers don’t angrily creep up on each other’s tails, but if they do get a little too close, they are able to actually say something face to face. There is humanity in travel outside of cars that may have more transformative potential than we realize. Writing this, I know I will still be using my car. Sometimes I’m lazy, sometimes it is still faster, sometimes I want to say “forget humanity” and crawl into my air conditioned box, and sometimes I want to go places far, far away. But, it is nice to feel this shift within me, to feel the peace of biking, to feel the friendship possible on a busy road.
2) “Gay bar” does not translate to an escape from patriarchy. In an adventurous excursion to Boystown with two male friends of mine, I was hoping to dance the night away void of groping hands and sexist comments. My friends and I began dancing to the techno grooves as best we could. Then, midway through a back bend move of mine I got a tap on my back. Next thing I knew, a man had grabbed my bag and ripped me away from my circle. He pulled me close to him and whispered, “I’m straight.” He then began gyrating against my body and said, “Let’s make them jealous.” At this I invented a creative spinny move out of his arms and politely said I would like to dance with my friends. I snuck back between them and managed to create the stereotypical gay bar dancing fantasy of most girls. But it was definitely tainted by knowing that not even at a gay bar was I immune from the ever-present chauvinism of men in dance clubs.
There are more realizations to tell, but I fear overloading my blog entries into indigestible rants. Therefore, I will stop here and allow for digestion. My job begins tomorrow. I can only hope I continue to think, learn, do, grow, and that I find the time and words to share these experiences.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Be Yourself
8/9/08 Life in Chicago: Week 1
The other day I was walking down Milwaukee Ave, a major thoroughfare of my new neighborhood Wicker Park. I was late for a Millenium Park concert because I didn’t have cash for the ‘L.’ Not to mention… about an hour earlier I had been fully discombobulated when I was rear-ended by an absent-minded driver. In this frazzled state I had no time for anything but my stress. I took some deep breaths to collect myself and constructed a way out of my frenzy. The plan was to go to the Seven-Eleven near the ‘L,’ purchase a bottle of wine for the concert and get change for the train. I was on a mission. And of course, just at the moment of clarity I walked by the neighborhood hippie. Standing with her guitar, dreads, and raggedly self-sewn clothing, she kindly looked me in the eye and asked, “Can I play a song for you?” Any other time I may have said yes. But, not now, not when I was running late and a little fed up with the city. So, I gave an appreciative nod and said, “Sorry, but I’m running late,” expecting to walk on in my same hurried, frantic state of mind. Before I could get out of earshot from my new friend, she apologetically smiled, and in an enlightened slightly drugged tone of voice, said, “Don’t be sorry, be yourself.”
And so, that’s just what I’m doing here. Here in the city where street performers double as prophets, and bicyclists have the right of way, I’m feelin’ pretty good. It seems I am living in the neighborhood that recently got too hip for school and thus people both resent it and love it. I went to a gallery in Pilsen with my friend last night. The gallery owner, who prefers living in the rough artsy part of town, smirked at me when I said I was living in Wicker Park. It is funny moving into a place full of stereotypes and “locals” knowing that someday I, too, might feel like “Wicker Park just isn’t what it used to be,” as a kind woman recently let me know at a dinner party. But for now it is good for my naïve soul. Sure, there is a bit of an overtly obvious Bobo (bourgeois bohemian) flare by day and an anything goes party vibe at night. But, the fact that the hipsters, the hippies, and the frat guys can all get down here has served to make me feel all the more secure in my own unlabeled personhood. I don’t feel like I have to convert to an only organic, local, vegan diet (though if I want to, it is here) and wear only Chuck Taylors. And those that I have met who do ascribe to that lifestyle have given me nothing but warmth.
In fact, on the whole, I would say Chicagoans are very nice people. Only once did I feel a bit of contempt. It happened today when I was biking down Division. A lovely girl leaned out of the passenger window as her car drove by me and yelled “BBBIIITTTCCCHHH!!!” I was a bit startled, and even got a little choked up, wanting to say sorry despite knowing I had done nothing wrong. But then I remembered my prophet guitarist and sighed a mantra of “don’t be sorry, be yourself.” I biked on, found the yard sale I was looking for and bought a movie for two dollars. They didn’t have the dresser that I actually needed, but I wasn’t going to go through verbal abuse to get to this yard sale and buy nothing. And so the settling in continues. This week has had its ups and downs, as every week has, but overall I think Chicago might fit.
The other day I was walking down Milwaukee Ave, a major thoroughfare of my new neighborhood Wicker Park. I was late for a Millenium Park concert because I didn’t have cash for the ‘L.’ Not to mention… about an hour earlier I had been fully discombobulated when I was rear-ended by an absent-minded driver. In this frazzled state I had no time for anything but my stress. I took some deep breaths to collect myself and constructed a way out of my frenzy. The plan was to go to the Seven-Eleven near the ‘L,’ purchase a bottle of wine for the concert and get change for the train. I was on a mission. And of course, just at the moment of clarity I walked by the neighborhood hippie. Standing with her guitar, dreads, and raggedly self-sewn clothing, she kindly looked me in the eye and asked, “Can I play a song for you?” Any other time I may have said yes. But, not now, not when I was running late and a little fed up with the city. So, I gave an appreciative nod and said, “Sorry, but I’m running late,” expecting to walk on in my same hurried, frantic state of mind. Before I could get out of earshot from my new friend, she apologetically smiled, and in an enlightened slightly drugged tone of voice, said, “Don’t be sorry, be yourself.”
And so, that’s just what I’m doing here. Here in the city where street performers double as prophets, and bicyclists have the right of way, I’m feelin’ pretty good. It seems I am living in the neighborhood that recently got too hip for school and thus people both resent it and love it. I went to a gallery in Pilsen with my friend last night. The gallery owner, who prefers living in the rough artsy part of town, smirked at me when I said I was living in Wicker Park. It is funny moving into a place full of stereotypes and “locals” knowing that someday I, too, might feel like “Wicker Park just isn’t what it used to be,” as a kind woman recently let me know at a dinner party. But for now it is good for my naïve soul. Sure, there is a bit of an overtly obvious Bobo (bourgeois bohemian) flare by day and an anything goes party vibe at night. But, the fact that the hipsters, the hippies, and the frat guys can all get down here has served to make me feel all the more secure in my own unlabeled personhood. I don’t feel like I have to convert to an only organic, local, vegan diet (though if I want to, it is here) and wear only Chuck Taylors. And those that I have met who do ascribe to that lifestyle have given me nothing but warmth.
In fact, on the whole, I would say Chicagoans are very nice people. Only once did I feel a bit of contempt. It happened today when I was biking down Division. A lovely girl leaned out of the passenger window as her car drove by me and yelled “BBBIIITTTCCCHHH!!!” I was a bit startled, and even got a little choked up, wanting to say sorry despite knowing I had done nothing wrong. But then I remembered my prophet guitarist and sighed a mantra of “don’t be sorry, be yourself.” I biked on, found the yard sale I was looking for and bought a movie for two dollars. They didn’t have the dresser that I actually needed, but I wasn’t going to go through verbal abuse to get to this yard sale and buy nothing. And so the settling in continues. This week has had its ups and downs, as every week has, but overall I think Chicago might fit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)