Transitions and Career Changes

As I prepare to start graduate school, I have found myself wondering if teaching is the right career path for me.

We all want to answer some grand calling, to be happy with our work.

Here's the reality: It doesn't matter what you do.

Yes, that's right. Toss out all the dreams of grandeur and the pressure to decide what to do in life. You decide a little. Life decides the rest. Even the best-laid plans don't work out sometimes. And that's OK.

In my life, I have had many careers. many jobs. Many roles.

Journalist. Disc jockey. Broadcast director. Salesperson. Product demonstrator. Brand ambassador. Promotional model. Recruiter. Hiring manager. Trainer. Full-time mom. Full-time student.

In about a month, I will take a test in speech communication to again be a full-time student and then begin a new role and career teaching public speaking to high school students.

I don't worry whether I will like it or not. I don't get nervous or wonder if I will be good at it. I can always just try something else.

Rarely in life, if ever, does anyone find one single calling and live an entire life dedicated to it. Life is a series of changes; it never quite plateaus. 

Yesterday, I took my 4-year-old to pre-kindergarten for the first time. WWE backpack full with a blanket for nap time and a change of clothes in case of an accident, he was ready and raring to go.

His teacher reported an outstanding first day; so did he.

By this morning, he was ready to throw in the towel and be a preschool dropout. He hesitated as a teacher on duty tried to coax him out of the car. He scooted all the way to the opposite door.

What had changed in just the course of a day? Why had he suddenly decided he would rather spend all day with Mommy? Yesterday afternoon, he was talking about all his friends and being at "big school" with his brother, a second-grader.

What changed?

Nothing.

And everything.

In the eyes of a 4-year-old, the world is both new and old all in the same day.

The writing he struggled with this morning is "baby stuff" this afternoon.

The Hershey Co. alleges that change is bad. Then it touts that Hershey's chocolate is unchanged since 1939.

Change isn't bad.

It isn't good.

It is just change.

Get used to it.

But not for long.

Billy the "Bum"

I met Billy in the heart of downtown Nashville.

Windows down, music blaring, I was singing my heart out, driving 10 mph in a rental minivan along Broadway.

I had left my debit card at BB King's the night before.

Billy let out a belly laugh and shook his head.

In that moment, the large black garbage bag he carried on his back seemed to lighten. The weight of the world lifted for a moment.

"Where are you headed?" I asked.

"Just down the road," he replied through a scruffy beard and mustache.

"Hop in. Let me give you a ride."

I spotted golden arches up ahead.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

He nodded but hung his head down, looking toward the floor mat.

I pulled into the drive-thru.

"What do you want?"

"Just a double cheeseburger is fine."

"Can I get a double quarter-pounder meal, please?"

I looked at Billy: "What do you want to drink?"

" A coke."

"Here you go." I handed the bag over and put the drink in the cup holder.

"Thank you."

Though he asked for a double cheeseburger, Billy devoured the double quarter-pounder in silence and polished off the large fry.

"Thank you."

"Where am I going?"

"You can just let me out here."

"Oh. Where are you going?"

I looked out of the window wondering if I was missing a house or an apartment complex nearby.

"My stuff is over here."

"Here where?"

"Just stashed nearby."

"Outside?"

"Yes."

"Where are you sleeping tonight?"

"I usually find a bench or somewhere safe to sleep."

"I live about 20-30 miles from here in Murfreesboro. You can stay there tonight, get a shower, if you want."

Five minutes later, Billy was loading another garbage bag into the minivan.

During the 20-minute drive, I learned that a homeless shelter isn't the safest place to hang your hat, especially if you have anything of value, sentimental or monetary.

I also learned that just a few months ago, Billy wasn't homeless. He lived in an apartment with his wife and a teenage son. A lost job and separation later, he was left with just his clothes and a few personal effects.

He didn't even have identification.

Nor did he have the few dollars it takes to replace those things. Nor did he have transportation to get them.

I let him use my spare bedroom; it had a private bathroom.

An hour later, I almost forgot he was there. He emerged from the bedroom with a freshly shaved face and bald head.

Billy cleaned up nice.

Making Sense of the World Through Poetry

This is a recycled piece originally published in The Commercial Dispatch newspaper in Columbus, Miss. in 2010. I hope it gives you some insight on me as more of my story unfolds from week to week. This is before I discovered there was a world that runs parallel to the one I lived in. Full of what they call "unsavory characters."

As it turns out, those "unsavory characters" are just people. And people are not innately good or bad. They just are. If the book "Wicked" has taught me anything, it is that perspective is everything. And things look a little different from the other side. Without further adieu:

A coworker challenged me once, to write a poem every day of the year. 

Though I tried mightily, I didn't quite make it. But it was a lesson in self-discovery. For every day -- for every emotion I felt and days when I felt what seemed like nothing at all -- the tone and color of the poems would change. The topics were usually random, but the tone reflected my day and, sometimes, the time of day I was writing. 

Just after meeting the man who would become my husband -- riding that initial roller-coaster high and planning to move to Murfreesboro, Tenn., 260 miles away from my new-found friend -- this is what came out: 

I have to say. .... 

And I don't know if it''s right or wrong, 

Don't care if it's right or wrong really 

But I just have to say... 

And I don't know if it'll stop you from leaving, 

and you'll unpack your bags; 

Instead, pack away all those Pipe Dreams 

And be content here with me ... 

Or if you'll resent me for it later 

and say I'm pulling you down by the wings 

But I Have to say .... 

And I don't know if you'll smile 

and kiss my cheek before you board that plane -- 

(I'd never wash that cheek again) 

and live some glorious life fit for the angels, 

Sipping cocktails with the Bourgeois 

and never think of me 

But I Just Have to say ... 

And I don't know if I'll have the nerve 

and I'll stop dead in my tracks 

and be resigned to a simple "Goodbye." 

Or if I'll be content here in my parlor 

Imagining you there 

and Whispering to the shadows: 

I have to say ... 

And I don't know if it's right or wrong 

Don't care if it's right or wrong really. ... 

But I Just Have to Say ... 

I love you. 

I never did tell him I loved him -- at least not before I moved away. (He later would bring me back home as his wife.) 

One day, I felt like being someone else, like becoming all the things everyone else wanted me to be. Even in childhood, I seemed to have one of those love-me-or-hate-me personalities. This day, I suppose I was dwelling on all those who felt the latter: 

"Don't spit. It's not lady-like, you know" 

He told me to smile more. 

"What man could approach such a sour face? 

I had other things in mind --  

Work to do, places to be. 

And who can help it if they need to spit? 

I'd wear a dress once in a while. 

"A man-catching dress, that one is." 

His eyes would light up. 

A dimple appeared on his left cheek; 

His lip curled. 

And the mole beneath his right eye 

Disappeared into smile creases. 

I rolled my eyes, 

Smiling on the inside. 

Crazy old man. 

Who knew he'd die one day? 

If anything was left of him, 

I would smile more 

And curse less 

And would't spit; 

It''s not lady-like, you know. 

But I had other things in mind -- 

Work to do and places to be. 

And who can help it if they need to spit? 

Sometimes I sit and remember him. 

Dimples. A mole, somewhere. 

He did some funny thing with his lip. 

And he would sit in his recliner, 

Staring off into space, 

Babbling to himself. 

Crazy old man. 

I knew he''d die one day. 

I don't curse or spit, and I don't know any crazy old men. But my mom often has told me to pretty it up a bit more. And the world, to me, can feel like a raging old man -- either he's going crazy or you are -- trying to force you into his idea of who you should be. What would we look like if we let everyone else dictate who we are? Would we be the better for it or the worse? 

Once I moved back to Columbus and reality set in, I wondered why things seemed to be so hard for two people who loved one another so much. Sure, we had only met months before we jumped the broom, but we loved each other. There had to be something more -- some force that just couldn't stand to see people in love: 

What is it that doesn't love love, 

That wears down on its bearings, 

That challenges it at every turn 

And dances on its nerves? 

Every piece we pick up, 

It breaks apart 

And tries for all the rest. 

Every hurt we mend 

It tears open 

And aims to make some more. 

That something that doesn't love love 

Works harder than lovers can love, 

And it threads the screws that bind, 

Letting it fall apart. 

And even for all its trying 

Lovers hold fast 

In love with their love 

Fighting. 

Crying and screaming 

And raging 

And humbled 

For that something that doesn't love love. 

Every day I wrote, my mind, subconsciously, would try to capture my day, my thoughts, my feelings and put them into something that made sense. When I realized this, I thought it was fitting, especially in a world that doesn't make much sense at all.

Introduction to Garthia's "Life Interrupted"

Today is the first in a series of weekly entries that might never be read by anyone anywhere.

These are the stories of a life interrupted.

By depression. By elation. By tragedy. And triumph. By human nature.

And by the ever-evolving questions of the human condition: Who am I? Where do I belong? Who really loves me? What is my purpose? Is there a God?

Disclaimer: This is not about religion or spirituality or finding God or the lack thereof. It is just about life and what you discover when the stability you think you've created comes crashing down.

Over the course of the past four years, I have learned a lot about people, myself included. I have met people I never would have otherwise. Some, I am glad I met. Some, not so much.

I have seen friends, family and would-be strangers and even myself at our best, at our worst and in that place somewhere in between where we tend to idle.

When your world comes crashing down around you, it is not long before you discover who your real friends are. You realize that family is just a label for some allegiances based on your blood origin, people you grew up with, marriage or other legal papers and a slurry of life occurrences that tie some people into your life for the long run and others for a moment.

I will say that, in four years, I have "lost" more friends than most people make. Some of those losses were for the better. And some would have been nice to keep. Others were just passersby in a long winding road.

Stories won't be chronological. But they will be true and accurate to the best of my abilities.

A cub journalist once told me that a professor mocked him when he said he wanted to write stories about people.

"All stories are about people," the professor said.

And indeed, they are.

I have met such a varied group of people over the past four years, many I never anticipated being able to tell a personal story about. But I think they are stories worth telling.

These people come from a vast array of socioeconomic and other backgrounds -- from working professionals to homeless and mentally ill. I have crossed paths with lawyers, counselors, drug addicts and dealers, prostitutes, alcoholics, devout Christians and pretentious ones and people just muddling along.

I will do my best to post new blogs at least once a month.



~As always, choose to be kind, To yourself. And one another.