Aloha GOP,

References to death are not intended to be morbid or bleak, or a call for help before taking a flying leap off the Pali. Rather it is to accurately articulate the depths of despair associated with not having a meaningful livelihood over an unbearably long period of time. Without a reliable paycheck, living through the events of a single day is like an unending roller coaster ride, but without the thrills.

In truth, for the most part, my life can be viewed as exceptional. It is! My son is highly talented, smart, morally sound, and handsome beyond measure; my health is excellent; I share an unbreakable bond with each member of my family; I keep company with extraordinary friends; both my parents are still living and have been incredibly positive influences in my life. 
 
 The only setback in my present life is not finding work, but the resultant impact has far reaching consequences which are not limited to the mere absence of a paycheck. Aside from the stress of not being able to meet incidental or essential needs, the emotional toll is intense.

As a parent, particularly as a single mother, I expect to make certain sacrifices for my son’s benefit and well-being. But the heartache of knowing my son makes sacrifices to ease my burden is indescribable. Despite my best efforts to pretend we are “not poor” by occasionally taking in a movie, or splurging on saimin and chili fries at Zippy’s, my son knows that our future is uncertain.

Since he was five, my son has not experienced a single day without concerns about having enough money. He is a stalwart soldier in this regard and, unlike me, is without complaint. He will be fifteen on his next birthday and still kisses me goodbye every day before leaving for school.

Naturally, my guilt is infinite. So much so that acknowledging its magnitude overwhelms me with unimaginable sadness. Not only because he can’t enjoy the heedless freedom of doing what he wants when he wants, or provided with everything he needs and deserves. But because I did, and I had it in abundance - and my son doesn’t even know it.

I never had the heart to tell him that, at his age, I had already been to Disneyland too many times to count; though I attended a school that required us to wear uniforms, I had an obscene wardrobe from Liberty House; I was unfairly rewarded with a new, shiny, red Mustang upon graduation; our whole family vacationed in New Zealand; the “after graduation party” was at my house; our family frequently dined at Honolulu’s best restaurants; and, I even had orthodontic braces I didn’t really need. We weren’t wealthy. We were upper middle-class.

Though I dutifully and most lovingly appreciate my parents’ efforts, there is no fondness in this recount of my former life. My parental sensibilities make it ‘ok’ that I cannot buy my son everything he wants. But, the inability to provide him with the stability and security that I unknowingly depended on when I was his age is a crushing blow.

I attended one school from Kindergarten to high school graduation and lived in two houses on the same block. My son is in the ninth grade and has already attended six different schools and lived in nine different places. Until now, I never thought that simply being stable and secure was also to be free.

The absurd irony is that my son is far more appreciative of the little we now have in comparison to my reckless regard for being able to live and play in Kahala. He actually thanks me for every meal I prepare for him, and even thanks me when I wash the dishes. Frequently, I ask myself, “Who is this guy and what has he done with my son?”

Some may say that I should be thankful for this magnanimous quality my son has acquired.

I am, Mother Fuckers! But he needs orthodontic braces!

Aloha GOP,

     Except for growing up in Hawaii, I think I am not that different from most other people. My arrival on Earth was uneventful. I am the product of an unlikely union. My father was born in a small railroad town south of Chicago in 1930, the youngest of five freckled, hungry red-heads.

  

     My mother was born in 1937 on tiny Tutuila island, better known to the world as American Samoa. She was my grandparents’ thirteenth and last child, as her birth was followed by my grandmother’s death. My old Papa took a second wife and went on to have more children. In total, Mom’s siblings are too many to count, seriously. But none ever went hungry on a tropical island where food literally fell at their feet.  

     Leaving their homes for different reasons, Mom and Dad found each other in territorial Hawaii, Waikiki specifically, and were married soon after their first date. I was born in 1959, two months after Hawaii became the last of fifty United States. Three bi-racial siblings followed my birth.

     I attended the same private school from first grade through high school, a mediocre student and outstanding athlete. In the early 1960’s, our first house was situated in the heart of Honolulu’s 96816 zip code on Pueo Street, and when I was in the fifth grade, we moved around the corner onto Kilauea Avenue and settled into a bigger house with a swimming pool.

     My early aspirations were unremarkable and not particular, planning only to get married some day and bear an acceptable number of children. My father put me to work the day after I graduated from high school, and I went to college for a while. Only once have I been madly and heedlessly in love – once. He marched down the aisle, I did not.

     Mom and Dad divorced in 1983, and today their grandchildren number a perfect dozen, each one beautiful and incredibly exceptional in every way. My contribution to our clan is my only son, Kiata, an inconceivable conception which has been my greatest accomplishment thus far, by far.

     The basic components of my uncomplicated and stable younger years are in stark contrast to where I find myself today. The stress of my current collapse moves me to write, perhaps as an outlet for my frustration, perhaps to share my experiences with others, perhaps to find justification for being unemployed, or perhaps merely to keep my mind and hands occupied. Whatever the reason, the urge is irresistible.

     However, I do not adhere to the conventional rules of academia related to writing, except to be grammatically correct. Robert Louis Stevenson did not research his target audience, Martin Luther King did not develop a marketing plan, and Mahatma Gandhi was not dissuaded by his lack of credentials. Yet, their individual contributions toward the advancement of humankind are immeasurable.

     Certainly, I am not in a league with these extraordinarily altruistic people. I can’t even sing or dance, or do a cartwheel. But, they are dead and I am alive. And so, when I am under the covers in the morning asking myself if I am dead, on some level it occurs to me that – on this day – even I can accomplish more than Stevenson, King and Gandhi simply by being alive!

     Despite the disappointments of the day, I dig deep to keep on going. Not because I want to, but because the alternative is unthinkable. As the sun sets, I dig deep to remember my past victories - enough to keep hope alive, enough to overwhelm and shut out the defeats of the day.

     I make every effort to set up opportunities for the following day and boldly list them on my empty board. I can sleep soundly because I kept my son safe, fed and loved for one more day.

     When my head hits the pillow at night, and exhaustion sets in, I give thanks that I am still alive. The familiar voice of my younger self rises in me and a smile irresistibly crosses my lips. I say the words out loud, ”I am the hardest working, unemployed, minority, single-mom in the frickin’ world!” Am I dead? Not today, Mother Fuckers!

Aloha GOP,

Am I dead yet? Every morning I ask myself that question. It is routinely my first thought of the day and for that brief instant I experience tremendous relief believing that my days on earth are finally over. But in the next moment, consciousness forces my eyes open in the early morning and brings the realization that my earthly existence continues. My subconscious self remains blissful and continues to enjoy the warmth of a fluffy pillow, and dreams of a reality far superior to my own.

But my body, tired and sluggish, stirs involuntarily to separate from the bed. I do not control my feet as they step one after the other toward the bathroom. I do not control my mouth as it opens to get my teeth brushed by a hand that appears to move automatically. There is no sign of life in the image unavoidably reflected in the mirror.

After consuming two cups of piping hot, black coffee and catching up on the morning news, I put on my game face. I go through the motions of getting my son up and off to school. On the way, we engage in some small talk and share a few laughs as he switches radio stations every few seconds. I make sure he has everything he needs before saying goodbye. It all seems somewhat mechanical, until my son leans over and kisses my cheek in front of his little school friends. He has learned that this works to resuscitate a human emotion in me.

“Go get ‘em, Killer! Oh, and don’t do drugs,” I say as he hops out of our car. He will be gone until dinner time. Dinner! Oh my God, what’s for dinner tonight? Am I dead yet?

After returning home, it is not until mid-morning that my mind unwillingly reunites with my physical body, if only out of necessity because there’s work to be done. Above my desk, I examine the items listed on my dry eraser board on the wall and am hopeful that this is the day my life will change. Each item on the list is followed by an optimistic question mark. I clear my desk of orange window envelopes amassed over time and, much like an accomplished pianist, take a seat and rest my fingertips on my computer keyboard. I bow my head forward and commence typing. My internet search to find work begins again.

As I power through the day, I am intermittently interrupted by telephone calls, emails and text messages. The magnitude of disappointment that follows a notification message has not diminished with time. Again, every job I’ve applied for, every opportunity I’ve pursued, every possibility for a better life has fallen through. After saluting my dry eraser board, I erase all its contents along with the potential each item represented. Am I dead yet?

This is the time of the day where I suspend my job search and descend into madness. Time ceases to pass as my writing begins, and I don’t stop until I have completely emptied out every thought in my head, every ache in my heart, and every question in my brain.

I have been either unemployed or severely underemployed for a total of ten years. My faith teaches me that this experience is not a personal failure, rather this series of disappointments are designed to strengthen my beliefs and measure my capacity to be of service to others. An inner voice assures me that there is a purpose behind this dark episode. But still, I ponder over the journey that led me to this lonely place. This was not supposed to be my life.

Aloha GOP,

At the onset of creating this blog, my initial intent was to journal every day.  I forgot that there are days that I simply cannot function and therefore have been skipping daily entries to combat depression.  Often, I have stated to family and close friends that except for the inability to secure stable employment, my life is otherwise exceptional.  That remains my truth, but also makes the point about the emotional impact of not working. 

Pounding the pavement in search of work can be exhilarating, and makes me hopeful that at some point my quality of life will improve.  However, multiple rejections and disappointments take a toll at some point.  Very often lately, I feel like I’m in a pair of cement shoes, stuck on a busy street watching others live full and productive lives. 

In my quiet, darker moments, I try to make sense of some workplace experiences that have left me confused and wondering when my world changed.  I was recently reminded of my very first interview upon returning home ten years ago.  Thinking myself highly qualified for many opportunities, I signed up with an employment agency and was promptly dispatched to a local mid-sized law firm.  I took special care to dress professionally, wearing a conservative, coordinated pants suit with very expensive shoes.  Just before entering the building, I spotted a tiare bush, and mindlessly plucked a tiny, sweet-smelling flower and customarily placed it over my ear.   My confidence was soaring and I was extremely optimistic as I exited the elevator and approached the designated office. 

Upon meeting my interviewer I performed the usual office rituals; i.e., smile, firm handshake, etc.  Then the interview commenced.  My interviewer never engaged, did not refer to my resume or my skills and experience, then abruptly concluded our meeting with, “Thanks for coming.” I was then quickly shuffled outta there.  I descended on the same elevator, however my confidence had evaporated and confusion overwhelmed me instead.  I specifically remember looking at my reflection in the elevator mirror, and asking myself, “What just happened?”

The representative at the employment agency contacted me shortly thereafter and “chastised” me for wearing pants and a flower to an interview.  Quelle horreur!!  I responded that I moved home so I could wear flowers in both ears, a common practice in offices all over Honolulu.  I also stated that being 6 feet tall, I am more comfortable in slacks – nice, expensive slacks worn in offices all over the world!  How could this individual, a “human” resources professional, be so distracted from my qualifications by a tiny, white, sweet-smelling flower?  In Hawaii?  It was much later that I recalled that my interviewer was wearing CAPRIS! Much later because that wasn't my focus during our meeting.

Thus begins the saga of my search for stable, secure employment ten years ago.  I still wear a flower in my ear whenever I feel like it.  Oh, and by the way, the interview I described in my previous post? I have since been notified via email that I was NOT one of the candidates selected for the next part of their interview process. 

Aloha GOP,

Last Thursday I had a telephone interview for another position of which I am perfectly qualified, and the salary is substantial.  I was told that I would be notified today whether or not I will be on the short list of candidates for an upcoming in-person interview.  In my estimation, I nailed the telephone interview and would be surprised if I am not selected to move forward in this process.

Last Friday, I also submitted a proposal for a consulting contract and am awaiting a response.  If awarded the contract, there is potential to secure several additional contracts within the same group.  But, as of this moment, the waiting is paralyzing.  Not only do I NEED to work, I love to work.  I am a very job-centric worker.

I love to work even when I’m not working!  I love to attend workshops and seminars to make me a better worker!  I love conducting research and developing proposals without compensation in hopes of securing an opportunity for a better future.  I love to be mentored, and I love to mentor others.  I love waking up in the morning and preparing for a day of work!  But, there’s two things I hate: 1) Waiting; and 2) Interviews. 

Interviews should consist of a focus on matching up skills and experience with the responsibilities of the job.  Interviews should be designed to determine if the candidate fits in with the organizational culture and philosophy.  I don’t understand questions like, “If your superior were doing something unethical, what would you do?”  I have actually been in this situation, and did not hesitate to submit written documentation to the entity’s leadership exposing this individual’s activities.  Shortly thereafter, this individual was asked to resign.  Is that what an interviewer wants to hear? It’s an unknown.

Recently, I googled this question and learned that this question is designed to measure the candidate’s opinions related to Power.  Power, really?  More research into this perplexing interview question reveals that employers view ethics as a non-issue, but ask this question to quickly determine if the candidate will “go along,” irrespective of his/her view of ethics.  In other words, there is no right answer to this question, however there is a definite wrong answer, depending on the culture of the company/organization.

Thought that would be of interest to you.