Fourteen or Fight from Wild in the Streets

Sorry Albert.  I’ve seen this “movie” before.  

It was called Wild in the Streets, and yes, that’s Richard Pryor on drums in the first clip and screaming, “Amend, amend, amend” in the gallery in this second:

And it’s getting harder for a twenty-something to do even that.   There are a few good jobs out there.  But as my daughter learned through a customer service position at a famous insurance company, they can be soul-sappingly regimented and stressful. 

At that company, Big Brother watches and reports your every move and you’re rewarded or punished according to your “efficiency” ratings.  She got raises, promotions…even time off—or not--based on stats that she could check via computer. 

If she was sick…that rating fell, and the “perks”—even the basics like more sick or vacation days--grew farther and farther out of reach.  Never mind that she wasn't “at fault” for being sick.  She wasn’t there and that’s that.

A college job she had required her to find a replacement herself , no matter how sick she was or what emergency came up.  When there was a death in our Hopi family, she spent the entire 6 hour drive to the rez frantically calling other employees and begging them to take her place for the weekend. 

She got someone to do it, but she was completely stressed out by the time we reached the rez—this added to the grief was almost overwhelming.

Now, all this may come as no surprise to many of you, but I’m used to a whole different set of procedures and benefits protected by contracts that included mandatory sick, personal and emergency leave and other benefits that made me feel safe, secure, and respected for the hard work I did everyday.

I have my father to thank for this.  I am truly, truly grateful for the day he drove through the tunnel that runs right under the main post office in Chicago and advised me to work for The Government when I grew up.  He worked for that post office.  He'd deliberately chosen to work there.

Daddy had watched many of his friends lose their Great Black Migration jobs when the stores, restaurants, offices, factories, railroad passenger routes and even the almighty steel mills shut down while he sailed on into a supervisory position according to time-honored and well-protected government protocols. 

But his friends watched him retire at 55 with a pension to die for and enough vitality left to enjoy the money.   He’d worked odd jobs to augment his salary, and with pension and savings he went to New Orleans, countless beloved fishing “holes” and the Caribbean every year and also managed to leave me enough money to pay for the house I live in today. 

I divvied that up between my mom and his long time lady friend and settled for a down payment in the end--to be fair to all three loves of his life.  But when I first saw what he’d left me…I gasped.  For a black man born in near the beginning of the 1900s…he’d done ‘way better than “well.”   I will leave my daughter that house and ten gorgeous acres of land, but I’ll never be able to top what Daddy did.

Today the government is not a safe bet.   After my Sun Times years, as an educator, I was able to ride that last wave to retirement bliss a year or so ago almost as he did—teachers work for the state here.  On the rez, we used to work for the Feds, too.   

Now, I didn’t  leave with the kinda bank he stashed away, but…I made it.  Just before the bottom fell out for many of my friends, who found themselves being RIF’d a few years before they would’ve reached the age for early or full retirement benefits.

This year, some of my friends who got booted out of their positions a while back may find jobs.  But the benefits and protections they had back in the 70s are severely diminished.  And there’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to keep those jobs, given the deep cuts still being made to education spending.

My friends in the private sector…have been through hell.   As an example, one of my very best friends since grade school was laid off twice, only a few years before she might’ve been able to retire, with no safety net of any kind. 

She’d worked for educational publishing companies in positions I envied with reason, at a time when school districts seem to be made of money.   She lived in a prestigious high-rise apartment complex in Chicago, dressed to kill from head to perfect pedicured toes and bought sumptuous fur coats to keep out the notorious  winter winds—I had a little trouble with that, but, still.   Her cars?   Big, beautiful things leased by the company for her use.   No payments.  

My daughter thought she was the most elegant, extraordinary black woman in the world—Oprah-esque, in her eyes.  Today, after being laid off twice, she’s sold the furs and sent that gold jewelry off to those places you see on TV.   And she’s driving an old boat of a car that her elderly aunt has had for decades.   When it runs.

She’s my age, so getting hired at a comparable salary proved to be all but impossible.  When her unemployment ran out, she had the good fortune of being able to fall back on the teaching certification earned but refused to use back in the 70s.  And a school near her house has fallen in love with her and calls her nearly every day.  So if the car doesn’t start she’s within walking distance.  But when summer vacation comes…she has to pinch every penny.

I cry a little after every conversation we have long distance now.  I’ve told her that if things get really bad, she should come to me, the way we used to run to each other’s houses as little girls.  Arizona’s definitely different.  But she wouldn’t miss those furs so much out here, maybe. 

Sometimes the layoffs lead to miracles and rebirths.  A brilliant friend who worked as a pharmaceutical researcher and in the banking industry is now a musician—which is what he yearned to be all along.

He’s the big exception.  Most of the others, and the youngsters like my daughter, are not being “liberated” by their experiences.  Quite the contrary.  They feel like slaves.

There’s some good news.   My baby girl has already got a new job in the accounting department at one of the tribal casinos out here—their style of management is “tribal,” too.   At the first interview, her prospective “boss” let her know that she was not the kind of “boss” she was probably used to.  They were just going to talk and get acquainted.

And during that conversation, one of the first things the “boss” said was, “Never be afraid to ask for time off.   Sometimes…we just need a break.”   A true, “Don’t worry, be Hopi” moment.  The tribe doing the hiring isn’t Hopi, but she got the job because she’s an enrolled member of her father’s Hopi tribe, a tribe admired for its Zen-like behavior.   It’s hard to be Zen-like right now, but…it feels like a very safe “bet,” pun intended.

I keep wondering where that recording of Druyan’s heart has got to.   And whether we’ll still be here if some alien civilization finds and listens to it, and decides to drop by to see if we’re as hot as we think we are.

Right now...I’d say if the tension of our various issues, domestic and international, continues to rise, and we lose the optimism and imagination that inspired that recording so many decades ago completely…the odds ain’t good.

Jeez, thanks a LOT, Albert.

No, really, thanks a lot, Albert.   Thinking is good.   Could lead to understanding.  And understanding…can lead to all kinds of great stuff. 

Sounds like that Neil Armstrong, “One small step for a man…” thing we used to believe in, doesn’t it?   

Okay.  I'll finish the book now.