Little Hands Make Fun Work

Do you remember how old you were when you first physically felt the effects of real work?  I couldn't wait to get my working papers when I turned fourteen.  I woke up that morning, excited to open my presents from Mom and Dad.  I blew my candles.  Later that day, I was on a train to Brooklyn to fill out an application from the Department of Labor.  I was finally old enough to earn my own income.  Even if I knew that part time hours at minimum wage would only amount to enough money for the movies, I felt enormous pride that day.

I was following in the footsteps of my older brother, who had at that point already worked as a restaurant busboy, pizza delivery boy and McDonald's cashier.  Money was tight for our immigrant family, so it was important for us to develop our own streams of pocket money.

I also remember talking at length with my father about the value of having strong typewriting skills.  This is how he paved a career for himself in government accounting in the Philippines.  He typed and entered data at tremendous speed, with pinpoint accuracy.  He inspired me to start learning how to type on my own at nine-years-old.  I set a newspaper article beside my typewriter and typed what I read, fumbling around the keyboard.  As a result, my semester in junior high school typing class went very smoothly.  I was quickly placed on many short-term clerical assignments during my college summers.  And that helped me to fill in my resume and gather recommendations.

My oldest is now twelve years old; my youngest is eight.  I worry about their generation not having the same kind of impetus and appreciation for work.  It is important to me that they understand where all their stuff comes from; that everything is paid for through hard work, whether the work is done through a complex corporate job or through the physical and emotional labor required in running a household and nurturing a family.

One day, I found myself asking my kids a rhetorical question.

"Everyone in this family has a job," I said.  "Do you know what your job is?"

"Going to school and doing my homework?" said my oldest.

"Putting away my toys?" said my youngest.

I was very happy to see that they were able to discern on their own that they had responsibilities as members of our household.  Over time, they understood the important role they played in the family each time they set or cleared a table or took the dog out for a little play in the yard.  But they could contribute more.

On New Year's Day, we made it a family mission to organize the garage.  It seems that every six months we need to purge family clutter as our busy lives sometimes prevent us from putting things where they belong.  Enough was enough.  We wanted to start the new year with clear minds and unblocked paths.  It worked wonders for all of us.  Every time we opened the garage door, it was so satisfying to see everything in its place.  What I found even more moving about this simple family activity was that we were together all day, evaluating whether or not we still needed something, whether it could be recycled or donated and more importantly, that their little hands made a difference.

Today my youngest accompanied me to work a pancake fundraiser at her school.  Weeks ago, when I read on a school flyer that they were still in need of volunteers, I thought this might be a good opportunity for me to teach her about volunteer work.  When I reminded her last night that we needed to be up early to report at 7:30 a.m., she responded with groans and moans.

"But remember, you committed to this.  Your school is counting on our help," I said.  "There's a lot to do to run a pancake fundraiser and if you don't go, they'll be short one person."

"But I didn't know it was going to be so early!" she whined.

She was dressed and on time, ready to work, but not thrilled about it.  In the car we had a chat.

"Do you know what the word volunteer means?" I said to her.

"Yeah, it means you work for free."

"You're right.  But it also means other things.  You are giving your time and energy."

"To help people!" She finished my sentenced, beginning to perk up.

"Yes, today's pancake fundraiser will raise money to pay for after-school programs and enrichment activities at your school."

"Like basketball, Spanish club and Spirit Days?"

"Yes.  Exactly!"

When we arrived at the school, she was pleasantly surprised to see one of her classmates and recognized other fellow students and their siblings who were also there to work.  These were children of parents who were regular volunteers at school functions.  It was a natural extension of what they do as involved families.  While I poured batter and flipped pancakes and chatted with other volunteer parents, I caught a glimpse of her having fun while she worked.  I heard her busily shuffling around the cafeteria and hallways with her young co-workers, wiping down tables as families finished their pancake breakfasts to prep for new families.  I watched her laugh and smile as she inspected the little red buckets of candies that served as treat bowls and table centerpieces, ready to refill them.  At the end, she helped put away decorations that were hanging on the wall and on the tables.

"Mom, when are we going home?" she finally said to me, dragging her feet and looking utterly exhausted.  Her smiles and energy had been depleted.  Her body now understood the true meaning of work.

"Welcome to volunteer work!" I said to her, embracing her as a matriculated member of our volunteer team.

This brought back some warmth to her face.  As other parents helping with clean-up also commended her on a job well done, her spark came back.  She, too, beamed with pride in the spirit of hard work.

Soul Matters

Soul matters.  What is burning deep inside us as a want, is important.  We are all born with an imprint of what makes us special.  Like flower buds, we each have the potential to bloom with the right nurturing.  It just takes a long time for some of us to recognize who we are and what it takes to make us sing from within.  Hopefully once we honor our souls, our flower petals can open wide in the full sun.
    I have always known since I was a little girl that I wanted to write.  I took every opportunity to write outside of school.  Sometimes it would be a journal entry.  Sometimes it was a letter to the electric company on behalf of my immigrant parents.  Sometimes it was an attempt to write a story.  Other times it was just to share with the world what was going on in my head and in my heart, knowing that the world was never actually going to read it.  I always wrote the truth.  The pen and paper were my best friends.  I usually felt a lot better after writing.
    I was somewhat still on track for a future in writing during high school, even if I was attending a science and math magnet high school.  It was an honor to be accepted into this selective program.  I had taken an entrance examination and my parents and I had prayed for the opportunity to go there.  And it worked.  I got in.  I happily attended Experimental Physics, Mechanical Drawing and Calculus classes along with Literature and Creative Writing classes.  The problem was not during high school when I was aiming to be accepted into a good university liberal arts program.  After freshman year I realized in time that I was following the wrong path toward an unwanted future in engineering.  The following year I declared my major in Literature and Rhetoric but it still all became rather confusing for the next 2 decades.
    After graduation, my absolute, positive certainty about being a writer someday instead became a dream with many questions.  During the early 1990s there was a recession.  People were lucky to have a job offer at all.  Maybe I could write a book on the side, someday, but in what practical profession could I apply my degree?  Would I teach?  Would that be enough to pay rent?  How about law or business instead?
    So I took a fork in the road that led to the business side of advertising, the media department, where my job was to buy print or outdoor space and radio or television broadcast air time.  It's ironic that I did that professionally for 8 years on behalf of my high visibility million dollar advertising clients, and yet every day now that I am free to write, I am battling to carve the right space and time to do what I was always meant to do: write!
    The problem is that what we do for a living is directly attached to our ego and our exterior fashion.  People judge us when we say what we do for a living.  Does it fit us?  Are we providing for ourselves and our families adequately?  Are we making our folks proud?  At some point we all submit to these very revealing questions.  The true question is, are we listening to our inner voice?  What's it saying because that knows more about us than everyone we think knows us inside and out. 
    The old adage is that we don't mind working when we are doing something we genuinely want to do.  There is no question that if I was already a writer when my children were born that I would have found a way to balance my all my loves in my life correctly.  Instead, I found myself writing media plans, press releases, copy for websites and brochures, introductory sales letters, pitch letters, leader speeches, feature articles, news articles, newsletter blurbs...the list goes on. 
    I kept thinking, this isn't me.  My family comes first.  I need to get back on track with my original goal to write.  Books.  Children's books.  Books for women.  Books that inform about something I've learned.  Books that absorb women, make them care and laugh or cry.  So I walked away from promising tracks in advertising, market research, journalism, communications.  I kept getting promoted because I was a hard worker.  I had good business sense.  I learned fast and I was efficient.  They never would have guessed that I was so unhappy.  They figured me for a "lifer."  Well I fooled them all, especially myself. 
    But I do not regret anything I've ever written.  Because I realize that I would not have this perspective or steadfastness now had I not experienced other kinds of writing.  Perhaps that is why I am now able to be direct in my writing and softer when the occasion calls for it.  Perhaps every single person I have met, likeable and grossly unappreciated, will somehow work their way into my books as characters.
    I certainly have met my fare share of pleasant and repulsive types.  Some led hateful, pushy, lazy, smarmy, manipulative and whiney lives while others were sincere, saintly, cheerful, hard-working, earnest and truly inspiring against the odds.  I have worked in such crazy environments that it's a miracle I ever survived them.  I have worked with stoic and robotic workhorses who must also have a soul somewhere in their bodies, screaming to be noticed or to express their true selves. 
    Yes, there are many stories to tell.