Work
“Striving for success without hard work is like trying to harvest where you haven’t planted.” —David Bly
Work does not set you free, but it does teach you stuff. I graduated from college with a history major into a terrible economy and my first job was taking care of the children of battered women. While their mothers who came to the shelter were being checked by doctors or were in the hospital, put on welfare, signed up for food stamps and legal aid, I shepherded their kids, babies, toddlers, little kids, and furious teens. My father used to drink and hit my mother. I was born to have that job until it nearly killed me as I drank away the images of women with black eyes and slings, kids traumatized, and so deeply hurt as witnesses to violence they might never forget. I knew. I loved them. They were like vampires and after eight months I walked away.
My next job was an affirmative action hire into the management line of New Jersey Bell. I was sent to pole climbing, wiring, and customer service school. I climbed frozen poles and endured the anger and contempt of the men who felt I had been given an unfair advantage despite the historic discrimination that gave women jobs as secretaries, clerks, and operators at terrible pay while men were hired to very generous salaries, trained to be linemen, installers, etc. I lasted two years until I was given a positive evaluation and then I quit.
I drove to San Francisco and on the guise of pursuing an acting career I cocktail waitressed, took way too may drugs, and drank. It was pre-Aids in Sodom and Gomorrah, and no one seemed to believe the amount of cocaine they snorted or sex they had or tequila sunrises they consumed could kill them. I drove away without looking back so instead of a pillar of salt I found myself in New York City looking for work, attending auditions, terrified by my desire to disappear.
I acted, I wrote, I got sober, got jobs in no particular order, semi-nude model, fake patient, waitress, nanny, barista, and then publishing. Publishing kept me on the poverty line, but I was in bliss with books and authors and agents and mad behavior. I edited, I had expense account lunches, attended massive book launches in places like the Metropolitan Museum of Arts Temple of Dendur, and the MOMA sculpture garden. Then, I wrote a book and got a deal, went back to graduate school, and received an MFA. My second novel was published, and I kept teaching.
Then there was marriage, London where I had my son who changed everything forever, Dallas where I called myself a ‘fat Texas Housekeeper’ and finally Chicago where I divorced, continued to take adjunct college gigs until it became clear they were a fabulous bridge to nowhere, and went back to school and got a teaching certificate to teach high school English.
I taught. I taught gangbangers, rich kids, sad kids, kids who had crossed the Rio Grande to come to America, survivors of wars, professor’s kids and any number of incredible human beings who called me Ms. M. and told me things they shouldn’t have but then again it was creative writing.
After twelve years, I quit, started my own business and have freelanced since 2009. Math is not my strongpoint but after ten plus years of freelancing I’m returning to a 40-hour work week which is called a teaching position, but without grades, no real curriculum, supporting and, hopefully, connecting with teens committed to a mental health facility. Lots of suicidal ideation. Several things inspired this decision. My wonderful husband was deeply affected by the delivery delays and lack of construction that has resulted. I’m looking forward to a paycheck but most of all, it’s the black boxes I witnessed as my friend taught her English class on Zoom with every child blocking their video. Teenagers need their friends, they need to escape from their parents, they need to feel someone cares and a teacher or a counselor or a friend seen through a screen is a poor substitute. As soon as I agreed to take this job, my missing freelance clients descended with all sorts of demands to work with them again. I believe at some point my head will explode but for now I will simply do my best.
—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach