Communal Living Defined

29 01 2024

What does communal living mean to you?

Seems like a simple enough question. Everyone pitches in, does their part and gets a long. Right? Well, it doesn’t always work out like that. We are humans after all.

To be fair, it was an interview question during the hiring process: Have you lived and worked in a community environment before and are you comfortable with this lifestyle?

Of course, I had worked in these settings before in the national parks and understood very well that you would be seeing the same people every day for months. Best make friends real quick and learn to cooperate with those who may have a different world view.

But that was 10 years ago and a lot has changed in American society since then, thanks largely to the coronavirus pandemic. Here in Alaska, I was working for a very progressive company that promoted values of diversity, equity and inclusion. The company had also been in existence for many years, developing trust throughout the Anchorage area and establishing itself as a leading lodging and touring operator.

There were a lot of different personalities in our camp and I was one of the elders of the group. Looking back, this was an adjustment that I was not quite ready to handle. Seeing younger generations take charge and make decisions was a change and there were times where I felt ignored or invisible.

In previous gigs in Portland, I was able to neutralize the age gap with my work ethic. Out hustling the so-called smartest folks in the room. That wasn’t so much the case here. There were more people than opportunities, which created a competitive nature, particularly when it came to driving assignments.

The first few weeks we practiced backing up the rafting trailer with the van. It would be my job to drive the trailer to a pickup spot downstream, back the trailer into the river, hop out and pull a raft full of people to shore. When I was first informed of this duty, I thought they were kidding.

Wading In

“What size waders do you wear, John?” the base camp supervisor asked.

Nope, they weren’t kidding.

Thankfully, a nice young man from Arkansas rode along with me to make sure it all went off without a hitch. Patrick had a full head of long light brown hair that grew down well past his shoulders and a voice as deep as Johnny Cash. He was one of the caretakers of the lodge, staying up here year-round and braving the harsh winter conditions with his loyal husky Chaga.

“You got this, John,” he said as we meandered the gravel road to the boat launch site.

Sure enough, I backed up the trailer, pulled the raft to shore and drove a van full of tired tourists back to the lodge. Not something I ever envisioned myself to be doing at the age of 49, but here I was. I don’t think I could have done it without Patrick’s encouragement and confidence. He was definitely one of my favorites from the camp. A true Southern gentleman.

On my days off, I looked for hiking trails and nearby points of interest to explore. I closely studied the trees, plants, flowers and wildlife. Moose were plentiful here and unfortunately routine roadkill on the Sterling Hwy. On the ride back from picking up rafters we usually saw bears and I would slow the van to a crawl so the tourists could snap some pictures. Bald eagles were abundant, perched on tree branches overlooking the river.

In was late May and the salmon had yet to make their run upstream. They would be here soon and so would every high flying sports angler from near and far. Guests, especially those who came year-after-year, were a big part of this communal living. They paid big bucks to live amongst us. Our staff carried their luggage, cleaned their cabins and took them on guided excursions from Denail to Kenai.

The crew you worked closely with would become a big part of your experience and typically activitites were planned around your RDOs (regular days off) and whoever shared those days. Only two people in camp had Wednesdays and Thursdays as RDOs — me and DL, a young Black dude, fresh out of the Navy.

Neither of us had a car or very much money, but together, we would put this communal living to the test.


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Categories : Alaska, Work

A Hands Off Approach

25 06 2023

Going through all the hurdles of a security clearance is not easy. Nor should it be.

But I stayed the course and went through every step and finally secured a report for duty status at the airport. It was sort of surreal to be working for an agency most journalists outright despise. What I would come to learn is the TSA — a response to the 9/11 attacks — was the lowest paid government agency and morale was poor.

Granted COVID still had a stranglehold on the travel industry with the omicron variant just coming out. Like the warehouse and the grocery store, we were required to be masked at all times, but since this was a federal government job, only vaccinated employees were allowed to return to workplace.

I sailed through classroom training, feeling like a nerd in history class again as we studied the different terrorist attacks over the years. We watched a video on 9/11 with interviews and footage I had never seen before and it was so powerful tears welled up in my eyes. That was when I knew this job meant more than a paycheck.

“John, you are the smartest one in the class, you’ll do fine,” said Garrett, our stout, barrel-chested trainer with a ponytail and one of those Oregon accents of unremarkable note.

And while, I scored great in the classroom and navigated all the computers, websites and passwords with ease, I would struggle on checkpoint, realizing too late that the cards were stacked against me. Without revealing secrets, let’s just say it was a blessing in disguise that I was unable to get my officer certification before the training hours ran out.

I was relieved of duty after two months. It was crushing.

There was a moment of clarity during the certification process, when it hit me that if I progressed any further I would be required to perform pat-downs on passengers. This was not something I was looking forward to. Just getting them to empty their pockets, take off their shoes and xray luggage was invasive enough. For some reason it never occured to me during this entire process that pat-downs were a big part of a TSA officer’s functions.

Talk about the dog focused on catching the car. The chase was over. The fun part done. Now what?

My refusal to quit eventually forced the agency’s hand. I knew something was up one day when Garrett, normally friendly to me, would not make eye contact and avoided me in the back office. A young female supervisor, clearly sympathetic to what had become my awkward role in all of this, had me take online tactical courses for most of the day, while upper management figured out a way to get rid of me.

I knew the die had been cast, when Garrett walked behind my desk one morning as I was clicking through online tests and muttered underneath his breath, “game over.”

Thankfully, when I was relieved of duty, the agency arranged for me to go on unemployment, which for a decade or more had been unattainble for various reasons. This time the benefits came in quick and without probing questions. A small consolation prize that I would gladly take and I needed the rest.

The train ride home from the airport after getting the axe was one of the lowest feelings of my life. When your country rejects you, it’s hard to accept. And yet at my most vulnerable, a familiar face was there to lift me up. My champion came through again.

“Let’s take a drive to the coast,” David said.


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Categories : Airport, Security, Work

Back At It

11 06 2023

Maybe it was the cold that brought me in. Could it be that sleeping outside in 34 degree weather actually awakened my senses. What was I doing in this cabin — deep in the Alaskan wilderness — with no car, barely making above minimum wage and surrounded by Gen Zers who just wanted to party all the time.

Well, to answer that question we need to rewind to where we last left off…the warehouse.

Life in the tote trenches was exhausting and I had lost my will to keep up the daily drudgery of fighting the system. Don’t get me wrong, my skirmishes with management were enjoyable as I used every last COVID-19 rule and mechianical irregularity to my advantage. Still, you can only slow walk to the bathroom so many times during an 11-hour shift before you realize they just don’t give a damn anymore.

I’d won, but was still in need of an exit strategy and if the smile center had taught me anything, it was how to measure time and savor every second. The off ramp would come from an unlikely source — the TSA. Yep, the Transportation Security Administration was hiring and like most places mired in the pandemic, desperate for able-bodied Americans willing to put themselves in harm’s way for the love of their country.

So I embarked on a new journey of going through the rigorous process of applying for employment with the federal government. Tests, physicals, drug screenings, background checks and interviews. It gave me a goal that the warehouse didn’t. A purpose to pursue, if you will.

Come fly with me.


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Categories : Alaska, Security, Work

Warehouse Woes

25 11 2021

It’s late summer and my back is on the verge of giving out.

Ten months into the warehouse job and the pain is plenty. It was bound to happen.

“I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long,” my buddy Zac said over our weekly brew pub outing. Zac arrived in Portland shortly after I took the warehouse job. We worked together at Glacier. The older I get the more I recognize how great those park gigs were.

Pain began pulsing up and through my shoulders last week. Maybe I should be warming up and stretching more before engaging in the heavy push, pull, reach, bend and climbing that is this warehouse job. But who has time for stretches when you gotta make rate and stay on task?

After studying some cloud computing — on my own time mind you — I’ve come to the conclusion this site is a design to fail situation. On top of the chaos with COVID, during which management was still pushing pre-COVID lofty rates as bodies continued to drop, a construction project was launched inside the warehouse which appeared to counter the current operational methods.

Project Tornado

And then vaccine wars started. The company took a laissez-faire approach at first, so we had to go off-site in search of the vaccine. Testing continued on-site where the number of positive cases topped the state for private commercial employers.

Before COVID, this warehouse was one of the company’s leaders in injury rates.

I tried to bring dangerous situations to the attention of management but soon learned retaliation was a consequence of whistle blowing: A flat tire in the parking lot. Pallets deliberately dropped on the floor creating loud, gun shot like bangs while your back is turned. That sort of thing.

“It’s the culture here,” a process assistant told me. Likely a reflection of Portland’s failed leadership.

A culture of anarchary in the streets with strict virus protocols from the state is a deadly mix.

Those of us who got the vaccine were allowed to work unmasked, which in the swealtering summer heat was a relief, while those who refused the vaccine were required to keep masking. This policy produced division, resentment and gang-like behavior.

While waiting for station assignments one day, I turned to ask a young co-worker if he had considered getting vaccinated and his reaction was an emotional detonation.

“Don’t talk to me!,” he said. “I don’t like you!”

When I brought this up to human resources, their response was, “John, nobody is required to speak to you and you cannot ask anyone their vaccination status.” For the record, I asked if he had “considered” getting vaccinated.

People not talking to each other in this warehouse was one of the first things that struck me as odd. Workers walk around like their dog just got run over. No eye contact. The robots have more personality. Sadness permeates throughout the miles long facility, which measures the length of four football fields. Some sit on the toilet for long periods of time to escape having to go back on to the noisy and treacherous floor.

Conditions are so bad now I shudder to think what it was like before the virus hit. It’s obvious there is not enough suckers desperate enough to risk their health to keep the company’s speed driven model on a sustainable path. The average warehouse worker lasts three days on the job, I’m told. Enforce the rules too much and they quit and then no one gets their Christmas gifts. Oh vey.

When I first started I imagined that someone — David, T or even Pete Buttigieg — would walk in, sweep me up and take me outta there a la An Officer and a Gentleman. That fantasy quickly turned into the harsh reality that no writer should ever romantize this kind of work.

This has been a hard, demoralizing job. I have never watched a clock or schemed how long I could take refilling a water bottle or walking to the bathroom. We’re all back to wearing masks again and yet somehow the anti-vaxxers have managed to keep their roles as training and learning ambassadors. This is ridiculous on so many levels. A global company where vaccinations are required to travel employs people who deny science to train new hires? What is wrong with this picture?

I could reveal so much more, but I think I have found the 21st century version of Upton Sinclair’s Jungle. Now the challenge is to accept what I cannot change and muster the courage — and smile — to change the things I can.


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Categories : Oregon, Work

Taking Out The Trash

11 03 2021

Gonna go ahead and started writing again. I had hopes of hiring a literary agent and signing a book deal but no such luck. Probably have to put it all together myself and package it through Amazon. The ol’ boot strap way.

I’m still at the warehouse job. My body aches after every shift and I sleep mostly on my down time. The goal was to work backwards and starting on overnight shifts certainly fulfilled this mission. I could elaborate but why spoil the sequel. Next week I move to days having earned trust from management. This transfer, the hope is, will raise energy levels and improve mental health.

Still no communication from T but the hole in my heart remains.

In January, I took some PTO time from work and flew down to see my friend Alan in Los Angeles. A wise Chinese man, highly educated and well traveled, Alan sought to encourage me.

“Your life is filled with garbage,” he told me. “You need to take it out.”

He was right. In my slow and turtle way, I am doing this cleaning while trying to be fair and realistic. What can be recycled and donated for others to use and learn from? There are truths buried beneath the garbage. I’ll likely need a professional to explain why they are there and how to set them free.

Alan provided a nudge needed to begin the process.

He came to America on a mission with the church but has since left those antiquated institutions behind. He flows through the Holy Spirit now more than looking to God for answers. Religion, Alan says, is about following rules. Being a spiritual person is about believing in the heart.

“Pastors were the biggest hypocrites,” Alan told me, his tone direct and tinged with anger. “I got tired of the lies, cheating and fake bullshit.”

Alan said he left the church behind so he could be himself — happy and free.

My journey to see Alan came as a new President was inaugurated and southern California was under another coronavirus lockdown. The touristy places we visited — Santa Monica Pier, Griffith Observatory, Hollywood Blvd. — were nearly empty. A unique experience to remember for sure.

Alan instructed me to bring only one outfit. He gave me a bunch of clothes. It was his gift to me. They were nice clothes, reflecting a distinguished sense of style and fashion. If anything needed reviving from my time in the Oregon rainforest it was my fashion. The pandemic and overnight shift work had me surrendered to sweat pants most of the time.

In a guru like way, Alan pushed me to break out of my depression.

“You’re a winner,” he kept telling me. “Stand Up!, Speak Out!, Act Up!”

Although I have come back from the cliff of ruin — on more than one occasion — I cannot deem this latest turnaround a success just yet. I am still searching for my forever home. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to live in a place where more than one person can use the kitchen at a time and the bed is not in the living room. Solace, at its basic level, can be taken in the fact I am not on the streets in a tent as that population seems to be multiplying here in West Coast cities.

I strive to be altruistic with my new resources. I look for ways to help by increasing donations to charitable causes, lifting up friends in tangible ways and staying in closer contact with family. David and I continue to support each other in a manner partnerships were designed. We are lucky to have escaped the deadly virus.

Romantic love, meanwhile, is on hold. There needs to be time for healing.

T showed up in a dream the other day. Wearing a light colored sun dress, arms full of books and walking briskly out of a house where my brother and I were standing, talking in the front yard. I followed and tried to catch up but my movement was like slow motion and she disappeared in a crowd of people on a busy sidewalk. I came to a row of shops and looked in the windows to see if I spotted her but she was gone. Then a tiny sail boat full of happy people sailed away. Then I woke up. I wrote down all the details immediately.

I’m hoping to see a therapist soon. I want to feel that kind of love again. The next time I’m not gonna let it get away so easy.


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Categories : California, Healing, Work

Prologue

26 12 2020

In Ulysses, the great Irish writer James Joyce wrote “Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”

And so it is, I stood on the street corner that cold, rainy October day. Emotionally naked, I watched her drive away for the last time. Little did I know, though there were hints, but T would go on to ghost me. Not a word from her since. She was irritated with my stagnant life choices. My decision to take an entry level warehouse job had particularly annoyed her.

“Have you thought about starting your own company?” she asked at our last breakfast together.

Weeks later, I would find myself inside that warehouse working amid a coronavirus outbreak. Masked, gloved and trying to learn at a distance as noisy conveyor belts, alarms and honking forklifts sounded throughout the long, hard overnight shift. My world had changed drastically.

I was severely depressed and paralyzed by fear. All I did was work and sleep. My marriage was over, but unraveling its entanglements so that we could both exit without too much financial hardship was the challenge. An old bus driving buddy from Glacier moved into the area and reached out which got me out of bed on my off days.

The virus had taken its toll on the country and in the Democratically-run Pacific Northwest, restrictions were harsh. The election, thank God, is over, but a bitter divide remains. At the warehouse outside the city limits to the east, I find more diverse opinions expressed than at the hipster grocery store in the city’s affluent northwestern hills. The lack of enthusiasm here is striking and I sense a backlash brewing among some of the workers.

T — ever beautiful — still shows up in my dreams and the more I ponder our affair the more it seemed as if I had been looking in the mirror. She complained about her back hurting right before she dropped me off on that street corner. A couple months later, just days before Christmas I sat in the warehouse breakroom — its tables and chairs separated by plastic partitions with masked workers lumbering exhaustingly in and out. On the walls were words from the corporation’s list of leadership principles. This one hit home for me:

Have Backbone. Disagree and Commit.


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Categories : Marriage, Oregon, Work

Gratefully Injured

11 11 2018

I injured myself. It was bound to happen.

“You’re lifting too much,” Ani said. Smart kid, that Ani.

Yes, my housekeeping duties require extensive lifting and reaching. It’s a physical job and I’m grateful to have it. Aside from cleaning chores, the interactions with co-workers like Ani are important. After years of indepedent contractor work, it is refreshing to be a part of a company again.

Great cities are built by great companies, mind you.

Life in Portland is going just swell. I have been invited on two press tours since my arrival here — Long Beach, California and Puerto Rico. Long Beach was a solo adventure and Puerto Rico a group effort. Both destinations interesting in their own way. Long Beach, in the shadow of Los Angeles, is run by a young mayor. A gay man determined to improve living conditions by implementing new concepts in this coastal southern California port city.

Puerto Rico, still suffering from a barrage of hurricanes, offers beautiful nature and lots of rum. Bacardi is the major player there. I learned how to make a simple refreshing cocktail. Pronounced Die Q Re. It’s basically sugar, superior Bacardi rum and ice. It’s hot in the tropics and ice is a key ingredient.

My tour group in Puerto Rico was a lot of fun. It included seasoned travelers and newcomers. It was designed for the LGBTQ community. There were journalists from Los Angeles, New York and San Francisco there. I managed to connect on a personal level with some of them.

Our group sets sail.

Long Beach seemed to be this vision of what we can accomplish. Puerto Rico offered a chance to relax from the heavy work load, over-reaching and contenious mid-term elections. I knew I was hurt when the luggage became hard to handle at the airport. Perhaps I could have packed lighter. I did not use the laptop, but the sports coat was put to good use.

David gave his blessing on both trips. He stayed in Portland continuing to piece together our studio. We both received influenza vaccinations before I departed to San Juan. When I returned the doc diagnosed me with lateral epicondylitis, aka tennis elbow.

So I’m slowed down. Just in time for the holidays.

Time to reflect on the incredible year we have had. A cross country move. New friends and new challenges. A rennaissance of the soul.

I believe this injury is divine intervention to force my conscience into absorbing the events of the past year. To still be standing and breathing — much less working — is something to be eternally grateful for. I am in a good place in life. Time to cherish that and offer a rum filled toast to even better times ahead.

Long Beach stairs

 


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Categories : California, Journalism, Portland, Puerto Rico, Travel, Work

Finishing Strong

21 09 2014

A long, hard and arduous summer has come to an end.

There were times when I felt that I had bitten off more than I could chew. The entire experience at Lake McDonald Lodge reminded me of the summer of 2010 and my ill-fated campaign for public office. Too many people were watching and depending on me and no matter how hard the going was, I simply could not quit.

I quit an important position before and vowed never to do that again.

So this summer was indeed a journey of perseverance, but I leave Montana with a new skill set and a hardened exterior.

St. Mary Lake

St. Mary Lake

Much like that race for the Florida House, I began this Glacier project cautiously, scared, intimidated at times and trying to please all while maintaining that “nice guy” image.

But some people take advantage of kindness. Others do not know the meaning of the word. This I have learned the hard way.

Saying “No” is hard. Getting people to accept “No” as your final answer is harder. And perhaps the hardest of all is understanding why we — as human beings — cannot do certain things.

There is no doubt I have changed because of my five months in Glacier National Park — enforcing federal regulations, interpreting nature’s wonders and, above all, keeping my cool during day-to-day operations at the lodge. As much as I would have enjoyed going out with guys and gals and drinking the night away, responsibility prevented that. Someone had to rise at 6 a.m. to get this show on the road.

And, make no mistake, this show was a profitable one.

The park experienced record numbers in visitation, prompting our superintendent to remark how “intense” a summer season it was. At the lodge, revenue exceeded projections and as I type tourists are still streaming in to see the changing colors of autumn.

The change in me is obvious. My first foray into project management has led to a great deal of personal growth. In September, I commanded our bus fleet with an authority that was no where to be found when I stepped off the plane last May in Missoula. I came here in search of answers to my station in life. What I found was a mountain’s worth of confidence.

“What happened to that cheerful guy?,” one of our drivers commented after he observed me forcefully explaining, once again, the Going-To-The-Sun Road was closed due to a snow and ice storm.

“He adapted,” I replied.

I certainly realize what I am capable of after this summer. I am on another level career-wise and, perhaps, future employers will recognize such as I return to my home state in hopes of putting these new skills to good use. We’ll see what offers come my way, but already I am feeling nostaglic for what I went through.

All of the drivers and their quirks, demanding and often dehumanizing tourists, the isolation, the shitty food — it all makes me laugh now even though, privately, in July, I would drive across the park and suddenly burst into tears of stress for what the day had brought.

Above all, it is important to remember the majestic beauty of our national parks. It is, first and foremost, why I am here. And to that end, I think I did a damn good job of preserving and protecting Glacier National Park.

Check that … I know I did.

 

 

 

 

 


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Categories : Confidence, Glacier, Montana, Work

Closing one door, opening another

23 06 2014

Greetings from the far reaches of North America. I am corresponding from Glacier National Park in northwest Montana. The rivers are flowing fast and hard here as the snow continues to melt atop these spectacular mountains.

Together with Waterton Park in Canada, this area of wilderness was declared in 1932 to be the world’s first International Peace Park. At this point in my life it is the perfect place for me.

I have recently made peace with Panama City. The sale of our house is final and a decade long culture war has come to an end. I fought authority and challenged convention in one of the most conservative sections of the country and while I no doubt have battle scars to prove it, closure is vitally important.

And now we move on.

I find myself in Glacier hoping for nature’s healing hand to guide me again. The job is, quite frankly, the most responsibility ever bestowed upon me and I eagerly look forward to the challenge. I am managing a fleet of 27 vehicles and more than 50 drivers — each with their own unique personality.

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From my concierge desk inside historic Lake McDonald Lodge, I also oversee a staff of four concierges whose job it is to see that our guests and visitors not only enjoy their stay to the fullest, but also find their way onto one of the red buses, Glacier’s iconic touring cars. This is the centennial season for Lake McDonald Lodge and events are planned for throughout the summer.

No pressure for the guy named John McDonald.

Admittedly, the first month here was challenging. With a new company taking over the park’s lead concessionnaire contract, there was some confusion as we prepared to open our summer season. This was expected. There are obviously skeptical locals and those loyal to the former company whose grumbling I have experienced first hand.

For me, the transition from a labor activist to a middle manager is conflicting to say the least. I am beginning to see things from the other side. I am doing quite a lot of pausing and reflecting.

My father built a 30-year career in management — with one company, no less. I am hoping some of those skills are hereditary.

Lake McDonald is a nine-mile long glacial lake over a mile wide and 472 feet deep. When calm its royal blue waters reflect the neighboring mountain range in an amazing  mirror-like display that draws thousands to this remote location every year. It was named after Duncan McDonald, a fur trapper, trader and important negotiator with the natives. Duncan McDonald is described by one former red bus driver as a “Métis.”

“He was a half breed,” said Robert Lucke, a longtime employee at the lodge. “You can’t say that now because it is politically incorrect, but that’s what he was. He was half Scots-Irish and half Indian. He traveled this area in the 1870s and carved his name on a lakeside tree.”

Lucke, who at the age of 71 is retired from the Glacier Park lifestyle and now resides in Havre, Montana, has been a wealth of information for me as I continue my on-the-job training. He is a colorful character in his own right, who writes for several local papers around Havre and the lounge in the lodge bears his name.

At last week’s centennial celebration, Lucke entertained a large audience that had gathered inside the lodge’s auditorium on a wet and cold day with stories from his time driving those red buses. The stories clearly eased much tension associated with the new company in town, but could not overcome the question on everyone’s mind.

The Going-to-the-Sun Road and when will it open?

That, my friends, is the million dollar question here.


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Categories : Glacier, Montana, Panama City, Tourism, Work

Getting ready for Glacier

14 05 2014

Hi Ho Hi Ho it’s back to the wilderness I go.

Soon I embark on another summer of duty in America’s National Parks. This year I am headed to Glacier National Park in northwest Montana on the border with Canada. This was a late decision as I had planned to return to Yellowstone and negotiated, what I thought, was a better contract. And then in early April, out of the blue, I got the call from the human resources director for Xanterra Parks & Resorts, the new concessionaire at Glacier.

“We would like to steal you away from Yellowstone, John,” the nice lady on the other end of the phone said.

I was flattered. For the first time in a long time I was a hot commodity in the workplace.

I explained to Glacier’s recruiter that I was committed to Yellowstone and had just signed a new contract. I was excited to be moving to a new location — Lake Hotel — the park’s oldest hotel and by far the swankiest facility in hundreds of miles. The Glacier recruiter, however, was relentless.

“John, Lake McDonald Lodge is celebrating its 100th anniversary this year and we sure would like you to be a part of that,” she said.

Wow. A Lodge with my family name. How could I not listen to the offer.

I agreed to hear her out and she then proceded to ask me a few general management questions. She was interested in how I would handle certain situations of dispute and what not. They were also aware of my certification by the National Association for Interpretation and all those years of studying French seemed to be finally paying off.

Satisfied with my answers the recruiter said she would call back later with an offer. I returned to writing my gay stories, still planning to return to Yellowstone, yet intrigued by this new development.

I kept David apprised of the situation. The move to South Florida had certainly been a struggle and finding a steady paycheck that offered a fair wage was the goal. We were both still dealing with closing the door up in Panama City, trying to sell a house that was draining us of the proper resources required to make the transition to South Florida a success.

I tried to remain chipper, but my freelancing barely kept gas in the tank and food on the table. I began to lose weight from the stress of it all. Living in poverty is truly awful no matter how hard you try to look to the bright side. I could write a book just on my demoralizing experiences at the food pantry.

So when the recruiter from Glacier called back with her offer I was stunned. They wanted me in management at a salary I had not received in what seemed like forever. I accepted immediately and called Yellowstone with the news. They understood.

If there is one thing I have learned — and learned well — through the last six years of my walk through poverty, it is grace. I know, deeply, what it is like to have nothing and to be invisible to society. I know the hurt of shame, the yearning of hope and the compassion of community. While soul crushing as this journey has been at times, I believe it has made me a better person. Stronger and much wiser.

I now leave for a summer to work in my fortress of solitude. Eager to see what life throws at me next.

 


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Categories : Glacier, South Florida, Work

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