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cfleury315-blog · 6 years

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I Have a Purpose. Just Tell Me What It Is.

I miss the provider role. I know that sounds misogynistic like the next few lines should say with a slight twang to my voice, “I feel less of a man because I don’t bring home the bacon. Instead, my wife brings it home, and I’m expected to fry it up.” No. I miss working. I miss making my own money. I miss the simplicity of going to the nine to five and contributing to the good old Canadian dream. I don’t miss what I did, working with blisters or burnt hands isn’t my kind of fun. Plus, I had to work with powdered lead, and really, nobody should have to take the risk with that stuff. Nevertheless, I guess what I am saying, I miss having a purpose.

The last time I had an economic sense of purpose was, I guess, about four years ago. I worked for a company named Activation Laboratories. They specialize in rock sampling. Basically, survey companies would go out and drill in various spots in the countryside looking for expensive, well, rocks. They would send us their samples, and we would process them. It isn’t as glamorous as I make it out to be. You stood in one spot feeding a machine all day. It crushes the core into pebbles; then another device turns it into dust. From there, it’s bagged, tagged, and sent to me. I take the sample and measure it, stick it in a cup full of lead, and set it on fire. After that, the fire melts everything into tiny sliver lead beads, and I put them into a test tube. I don’t know what happens after that; that kind of information was above my pay grade.

I assume you’re thinking, “Really, you miss being drenched in lead and sticking your hands into a hot molten furnace?” No. I miss the paycheck. Slightly above minimum wage, but, after taxes, all mine. You need to understand, I earned my money like all slavery-wagers do, with good old fashion blood, sweat, and tears. Yes, there were tears. You don’t suffer from second-degree burns and not shed squirts of salty sorrow. I may be masculine, but pain is pain, and second-degree burns are the worst.

The problem with low skill tertiary labour is the lack of job security. The work depended solely on supply and demand, so if there is no demand, employers don’t supply the work. Therefore, lay-off season was roughly every four to six months and lasted anywhere between two to four months. Employment insurance is dependent on the amount you pay into, and if you close out your EI claim from the last time you were laid-off, you must go through the entire process again. A six-week waiting period and all. I was foolish enough to close my claim because the EI benefit website does not tell you to keep your application open just in case you get lay-off again. With that realization, I felt this moment of sudden dread when my boss gave me a pink-slip. My mind kept running through moving pictures of the worst-case scenarios leading to the hardest question I had to answer, “What am I going to do now?” I was the sole provider. The fire that kept the pilot light burning. But without the oxygen compensating my flame, we were in cold water.

At this point, I had been through a fist full of jobs since coming to Thunder Bay, and quite frankly, besides Act. Labs., the only thing I’m significantly qualified to perform is cleaning toilets, scrubbing floors, and wiping tables. I didn’t want to go back to that again. Nevertheless, being the provider, I had no choice but to find something. Anything. So, I laced up my worn-out sneakers and hit the streets with a bag-pack full resume.

Guess what? Businesses don’t accept walk-ins anymore. They kept turning me away with the same explanation: “We can’t take your resume, you need to submit it online,” said the receptionist from the Public School Board. Skeptically my eyes narrowed as I looked passed her thick frames into her formal stare. I shook my head in disbelief and replied, “Really? But your ad says you are looking for someone right now. So here I am, with my resume in hand, and ready to work.” In hindsight, I should have kept my tone a little less snippy, but earlier that day, I had that same conversation with the customer service representative in Walmart. “Sorry sir, you have to submit your resume online,” the receptionist reiterated arrogantly. Her composure was like thick ice, cold and transparent. She was professional, and I was some fool off the street.

After a few anxious weeks with a cell phone stuck to my hand, I came to realize that the job market wasn’t going to give me a break. There was nothing out there for an uneducated labourer. The only interview I had was with the Econo Lodge Hotel. I walked in with ten years of experience cleaning up other people’s messes, so working for a two-bit drive-in Hotel, I’m not too proud to say, I was over-qualified for the housekeeping position. However, the interview lasted five minutes and I left feeling uneasy. There was nothing out of the ordinary, the manager was a pretty nice guy, but I got the impression he was trying to convince me that this position wasn’t for me. His exact words were, “You know this is a cleaning position. The work doesn’t involve any heavy lifting or fixing furniture.” I thought, “Hey, that sounds awesome.” I replied, “I know, that’s why I’m here. I’m a cleaner.” The manager looked at me like I was from Venus. I went on to tell him, “I would be a great asset to your company. I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty, and I’m no stranger to hard work.” (Cliché after cliché after cliché) “As you can see on my resume, I know how to use a carpet shampooer, plus, I’ve done minor floor covering, so I know how to fix wear and tear.” The manager just nodded and smiled without any attempt to feign interest. He finished the interview with a shake of my hand and an assurance I’d be hearing from him in the following week. However, a week later, I found out from an old colleague that she has gotten the job. I asked her how; she chuckled as she said, “I’m a woman. Companies don’t like to hire men to do housekeeping.” You’ve got to be kidding me. She laughed uncontrollably at my naivety, and tried to comfort me by saying, “You should try the school board or the restoration places. They have good wages and they have more labour intensive work for a strong guy like you.”

My mind raced with this old information. Why did the Econo Lodge even bother calling me in for an interview, if he was going to end up conforming to traditional gendered roles? Does having a male name on the interview log sheet give a perception of gender diversity? The difference between my friend and me is not our work ethic.

I had never thought about the differences between the sexes as being anything more than biological. There were the old schoolyard stereotypes, yet, as far as I knew, real life didn’t replicate recess. I was living in the real world. The adult world. The world my teachers explained we are all equal. We lived in a democratic society built upon principles of morality, liberty, and justice for all. I thought about any kinds of inequalities because I was living in the twenty-first century and gender-politics should be an archaic notion. My wife and I have always lived equally. We both worked. We both looked after the house. We both took part in the child-rearing responsibilities. Having been denied work because the job involves a male performing domestic chores is completely backward.

Somberly, I turned to my wife and said, “I give up.” At that moment, I knew what I was implying. She didn’t. She looked at me curiously, her eye rapidly blinking as she spoke, “What do you mean?” I wanted to tell her that I was giving up what society defines as a man. I officially cracked under pressure. I was handing in my provider card, and taking a vacation. Instead, I told her, “I think I’m going to have to try McDonald's.” Those words slide out of my mouth, which tasted like stale, salty french fries, and regression. We sat on the couch in silence for a long time before she finally answered the hard question: “Why don’t I look for a job?”

Shockingly, her statement made a lot of sense, and why didn’t we think about this before? The simple answer: We had, but the retail market has no set hours so we would be working at all hours of the day and had no one to look after our kids. Our two oldest children were in school, but our youngest child was three years old at the time, and he would need daycare. That’s the other problem; daycare costs are astronomical. A licensed daycare cost $40-$70 a day, and the waiting lists are long. However, unlicensed daycares charge $25-35 a day, and well let's say, you get what you pay. Either way, if both of us are working, one of us would be working to pay for the daycare, which doesn’t make economic sense.

Being the product of our generation, we both believed that she should stay home to look after the kids because mothers are naturally nurturing, and they need her more than me. I had to work because I was told it was my responsibility to support my family, and I failed miserably. But, my wife’s idea of going back to work was our only choice. She was more qualified than me. She has a high school degree and is a certified Personal Support Worker.

Within a few weeks of our conversation on the couch, she was working in Respite care and making double what I was making at Activation Laboratories. I settled into a life of domesticity. One thing I’ll have to admit: I love every single minute of it. Cleaning up the house took me an hour on most days, (two to three if I felt constructive) the rest of the time I got to play around with my son. We went on long walks to the park and the library. We chased each other around, or we laid in the sun reading a book. When my other two children came home from school, we would sit at the dinner table and help each other with homework. Then, we all pitched in with some chores. Most of the time, my wife would come home and not have to lift a finger, but there would be days when she would take the kids off my hands while I made dinner. I would be chopping some lettuce and thinking about how beautiful everything turned out. The window in front of me had a perfect view of the strawberries my son, and I had planted together. I smiled at the western sun shining off the vibrant red fruit, and I thought, “Wow, I’m actually managing to keep them alive.”

Suddenly, I felt a sting on my right butt cheek, and I turned to meet my wife’s playful gaze. “Hey dear, your butt feels more jiggly than usual.” As my knife sliced through the cucumber, I turned my head with a jaw-dropping expression, “How could you say something like that to me?” Her comment stung, but not as much as the knife hitting my fingernail. Luckily it didn’t pierce the skin. I took a step back nursing my finger as she laughed hysterically at me. “What? I was only pointing out that your butt feels jiggly. You put on some weight since you stopped working.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; I was quite offended by her comment. Sure, I gained a few extra pounds. Somedays, my son and I sat on the couch munching on goldfish crackers while I folded laundry. Not every day can be beautiful. On rainy days, I like to put my feet up. There is only so much housework I could do before I begin to look around and nitpick at the single piece of cat food that happened to fall out of the bowl as they were eating. In a matter of seconds, I lament all this information to her, and she continued to laugh at me as she replied, “You need a hobby.” I threw up my hands in frustration, “Oh, like I didn’t have enough to do around here.”

She was right; I did need a hobby. The biggest problem was that I was getting bored. I filled my time with chores, maintenance, and children. Once it was done, I sat around and ate. Domesticity was my new purpose, and I was bored. Increasingly, I found myself scanning the want ads and job banks looking for something, anything to find some relief from the monotony of domesticity. There was nothing out in the working world for a high school dropout. The demographics had changed, and the jobs requiring brawn over brain were gone.

One day, I received a text message from a friend of mine. She had gotten wind that the Catholic School Board was hiring custodians, and most importantly, I didn’t have to apply online. I raced at the opportunity and submitted my resume. The hours were causal and in the evening. I could be home during the day with my son and go to work after my wife came home. I could finally get back to some normalcy, reach back into the provider role, and feel a sense of purpose other than a housekeeper and a father.

Nervously, I filled out the application. I squirmed as I tried to remember how to spell the names of the various equipment I had been trained to operate over the years. When they called my name, I met a group of men dressed in expensive suits sitting around a boardroom table. It was quite intimidating. It didn’t feel like an interview. It felt like any second a big man in a red candy apple suit should spin around in his desk chair like a bond villain. Then, unravel a sixteenth-century scroll and tell me to, “please sign here,” in a malicious voice. Realistically, I wanted to ask them if I was applying for the right position. Maybe, I checked off the box that was labeled teacher, not the box marked: the guy who scrubs poop off toilet seats.

Overall, I nailed it. Every question the interviewers asked, I had a great answer. I knew the equipment. I knew the safety procedures. I knew the lockdown policy. I knew how to handle hazardous waste, which also told them I could pass the WHIMIS test (for the millionth time). They said to me, on the spot, that this job was mine, except for one question I couldn’t answer: “Can you provide us with a copy of your high school diploma?” Crap! I tried hard to hold my composure and keep myself sounding as sincere as possible when I said, “Yeah, I mean, I don’t have a copy with me, but I’m sure I could find one you.” They told me if I could get one to them as soon as possible I could start right away. I shook their hands with a fake smile and left feeling like a failure. I had achieved so much in my short time on this earth. I had rubbed up against barriers before, but this one was like fate slammed my face up against a brick wall and using it as a cheese grater. There was no walking around this barrier. I had to go over, what I needed was a ladder.

Lucky for me, I came home, and the house was empty. A friend took my son for the day, so I sat on the couch stewing in my own self-pity. My laptop was open on the coffee table, and I sat there watching Google’s scream at me with its daily graphic of a nineteenth-century schoolmarm lecturing her students. I typed my only option in the search bar: Adult Education. Scrolling through the results, I found myself wondering if it was possible for a guy my age even to tease the idea of going back to school. I mean, at this point, I felt like I had forgotten more than I have ever learned. If I did this, could I succeed? Or was my age another barrier?

Well, I went for it, and I did succeed. I found my ladder. Now that I think of it, it seems so simple. The ladder was in front of me the whole time. Instead of looking forward, I should have looked down. The stupid part was what I couldn’t do in four years of high school; I did in three months. I went once a week to the adult education center for four hours a day. They set me up for the GED exam. I paid my two cents and passed. I hit the average passing grade for every subject, except English, I passed with an eighty-seven percent in the writing category.

I must have stared at the certificate for hours after receiving it in the mail. I was proud of myself, yet there I was, a high school graduate after ten years of being out of high school, with the hard question still on my mind: “What am I going to do?” I could reapply at the Catholic School Board. Run in there screaming, “I have it, here it is, let get started.” Or, I could tempt fate once more, do the unthinkable, and take it one step further.

So, here is where I should say, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. The truth is, I had the idea when I was young, but the idea was usually attached to some adult questioning, “What do you want to be when you grow up young lad.” Yeah, I wanted to be a writer as much as I wanted to be an astronaut or a firefighter. I always thought of it as a childish dream, yet as I stumbled through the university website with my eyes closed pointing at random programs, I felt like I was sitting on the opportunity to do something I’ve always wanted to do. I just needed to pick.

The day I walked onto the Lakehead Administration Office grounds. I had the same adult voice echoing through my head. The sound was so intensely amplified, I thought blood was going to start leaking out my ears, “What are you going to do? What do you want to be?” I figured, if I picked something, eventually, I would figure out what I truly wanted. However, the only way I could make the voice stop was to answer the hard question with certain honesty. So, I closed my eyes, reached deep inside myself, grabbed on my inner child, and let him make the decision, “What do you want to do? What do you want to be?” The child’s voice overtook my own and shouted, “I want to be a writer.” I opened my eyes to find that the entire administration office was staring at me like I was a mental patient. I saw a tall, brawny man with his phone in his hand, in which I assumed was calling security. I took a step back and babbled, “Hi, I was wondering if I could talk to someone about registering for next year’s classes.”

So here I am at the end of my third year as an undergrad. Trying to stuff as much information in my head as possible before it explodes all over the blank page. I know that most of my papers come back to me with the words “awkward” printed all over them, which makes me begin to believe that this is a defining characteristic. However, I’m finally confident enough to break out of my shell. But just because I know what I want to do with my life, I am still longing to get out there. Beyond this desk. Beyond these walls. I still feel like my sense of purpose is unfulfilled. Time is moving too damn slow, and it needs to hurry up. I’m craving my purpose.

Don’t get me wrong, going to university is excellent, I found some purpose in being a student, but it’s not the same. In a way, being a student is artificial. I work just as hard, but I can’t reap the rewards right away. Although I should be finding some sense of self-satisfaction about gaining additional knowledge about the world around me, I can’t take complacency to the bank, cash it in for prestige, and feed my kids on nineteenth-century poetry. They have a hard enough time digesting twentieth-century poetry. (One fish, two fish, no fish, boohoo fish.) I know when I get out of here, I’ll have more walls to climb. The important thing is I’m not afraid of those heights anymore. So, I have to wait a few more years for a piece of paper that tells me I’m good enough to re-enter the workforce. Then, I’ll officially be certified. No more legwork. No more knuckle dragging. No more backbreaking labour for minimum wage. Right?

#my writting #writer #nonfiction #purpose #education #workforce #struggling #elegy #prose #nonfictionprose #genderpolitic #stayathomedad #back to school #university #highschooldropout

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