(NOTE: Edited again during class when class discussion brought to mind another perspective.)
Picture this: a girl, about the age of nine or ten, who is hauling a bucket about as big as her own torso and obviously heavy with both hands and all her upper body strength. It's hot and humid outside, mid afternoon during summer vacation. Water sloshes out of the bucket, splashing wet spots on her cut-off denim shorts and the bottom of a well-worn, cherry red tank top featuring "AMERICAN RAG" across it. She mutters to herself about spilling the cool water, then continues walking, barefoot, through the grass towards a huge weeping willow tree where two Labrador-Collie-mixed dogs are barking happily.
After sitting down the bucket by one happy mutt, it licks the girl's bare legs, hands, and arms in thanks before it drops its snout down into the water and begins to gulp down the water. The girl walks over to the other dog, pats it on the head, and retrieves a second bucket that has been toppled by the cable leash. She makes the trip back up to the house where the only hose is located. She repeats this process three times a day, all year round, for the two farm dogs, named Pepper and Candy. The eldest dog, an Akita by the name of Khaki, is the girl's personal nanny since she was five. He follows in her shadow obediently every single trip from the house to the dog-run, and the trips to feed and water the fifteen barn cats who keep mice out of the hay stocks at the other end of the family's countryside property.
That little girl? That's me. Every single day of my life from the age of five until seventeen I repeated the constant attention and care of the family pets. In the extreme heat and extreme cold, yes, I grouched and grumbled about having the responsibility, but my love for our pets -- animals in general, really -- kept me at their "bark and call."
At the age of ten, this was my idea of work. It was part of my chores, on top of sweeping off the patios, cleaning my room, and helping my mother with dishes and folding laundry. I didn't mind; I was often happy to help anyone who asked. I tended the neighbors' flower garden and horses -- which included the exciting adventure of riding around the countryside on horseback, like a scene from The Lord of the Rings; and yes, I had permission to do so -- when they went on vacation, my grandparents' dogs when they went out of town, or helped file medical documents into file-folders with my mother at her job at the local doctor's office.
Now picture this: a confident, fashion-savvy young woman, perhaps between the age of twenty-five and twenty-eight, walking with the crowd during morning rush-hour commuters downtown, coffee in one hand, other clutching a tote bag. She wears a white blazer, a colored blouse beneath with a scarf draped artfully around her neck, and office-appropriate dark-wash jeans. She hides her always-roving eyes behind a pair of Steve Madden aviators, and is secretly dreading the idea she has to change from her comfortable flats into platform heels once she reaches her office building. She's a journalist, living in the city, constantly traveling, interviewing, and writing for hours on a laptop from some cozy little apartment that is probably too expensive when it comes to rent, but she pays it anyway and continues to complain about it every once in awhile. She's independent, free, living in the world of magazine journalism, writing for ELLE, and enjoying every minute of the constant flow of news and work. She's a restless soul, and has been since she was a child, always needing something to do or something to write about. She calls her mother every other night and talks for an hour or so, calls her grandmother a once or twice a week to keep her updated, and continues her social life through both her job and a separate circle of old friends.
Sounds like a fantasy life, the fantasy life of a job I want to have. Perhaps it's a little too high for grasping right now, but eventually, that girl will get there. And that girl will -- hopefully -- be me. Who says you can't have a job you absolutely love?
When I was young, my mother always told me that anything was achievable if one worked hard enough towards it. So I took on the extra work if it meant it would lead to the roads I needed to get where I wanted in life. No one gives you a map at birth and says, "Okay, here you go, have fun finding your way." There is no guidance given to us; my mother says most of us -- including herself -- pretty much made it up as she went along, choosing what was best for herself when a decision was placed before her. Like my mother, I also like to take things as they come, but I'm... even more so competitive, ambitious and willing to get that fantasy life. I know it can be a reality. I've seen it just by speaking to a few women in the magazine industry. Their lives are exactly what I want, with my own twist, of course.
Even though I get frustrated with homework loads -- that's what you get for being an honor student in middle school and high school and taking eighteen credit hours each semester in college -- I still know it will pay off. My happy ending may not be what reality thinks it is; but if it can happen, then I guess I will be one of the few who can stand up and say I have my fantasy dream job before I'm through.
I've worked as a personal assistant for a business-owner, a check-in desk clerk at a deer-hunting check station -- tagging dead Bambi over and over again was very depressing -- and I've worked as a payroll assistant, logging employers' work time. Not exactly dream jobs, but it was money to get me through for a certain period of time. I always tried to stay on the positive side -- "It's PAY DAY!" -- to get me through those grueling hours, flipping through the pages of magazines every free moment I had.
My mother influenced me so much to be a positive person, giving me the tools to be a survivor and a fighter. And I could never thank her enough for that, from the days where she was my sword and shield to today where I hold my own and have her behind me to cheer me on. It makes me sad to think some of my peers and colleagues don't have that; especially the ones who develop a negative outlook on the world: "Work is annoying and a dead end, everything falls apart in the end, so why even try succeeding?"
It is my mother's work and nurturing that has made me into who I am, along with my own life experiences. My father taught me how to survive a gunfight and slip out of handcuffs -- he's a cop, and teaching me such skills were his idea of "father-daughter bonding" time -- and my mother gave me the opportunity to develop the psychological reasoning I have that allows me to be logical, optimistic, and objective.
So when I think of "work," I immediately picture happiness because of the skills my family gave me. I picture that woman who travels, writes, and is independent. She is the older reflection of myself I want to see in the mirror every morning in the next five to eight years. I understand that no one gets their dream job right out of college, but I am prepared to work my way up. If that means racing around downtown of a big city to get coffee, flip-flops, surfboards, Hermes scarves and Calvin Klein skirts like Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada, or arguing with news anchors and producers like Rachel McAdams in Morning Glory, then so be it. I'll do whatever it takes. I guess -- actually, I know -- I am an optimist, even on my bad days. My glass will almost always be half-full. If it's empty, then I guess that means I've gone on to a new game plan for my life. But I won't be abandoning my love for writing and magazine journalism until I have exhausted all roads to reach that place I picture.
All roads lead to Rome? All roads (hopefully) lead to ELLE, and more importantly, to happiness, wherever it may be.
Sure, people from different areas of the world and from different cultures see work differently than I do, but I can't speak for them, only for myself. Go ahead and call me crazy, insane, and out of my mind with my optimism, but I doubt that will ever change. I will always have a thirst for travel and knowledge, and I will never give up my writing. It became my skill because it started as a hobby and as personal therapy. Now it is my life... Along with other important things, of course.
So here's to the optimists, the journalists, and the parents who gave us the skills to succeed.
- Meredith Haas
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