Like a lot of teenagers, I started out my work-life flipping burgers. I worked at Burger King, Burger Chef, and Jack in the Box. Thanks to my father’s example, I developed a reliable work ethic early on. He got a lot of things wrong when it came to his kids, but when it came to work, he was a dedicated, hard-working man. “There's a lot to be said for a man who shows up to work every day, and shows up on time,” he often proclaimed. Throughout my lifetime of work experience, I’ve learned time and again that he was right.
Going to work was not something I thought about when I was a young teenager. I dreamed of going to college, but college was for people with money. I couldn’t imagine that dream for myself. I remember talking to a college counselor when I was around 20 years old. She explained that I could rely on loans to get an education. That was the end of the conversation as far as I was concerned. Paying back a loan, or even qualifying for one, was something I could not imagine. I walked out of that counselor's office with a heart full of gloom.
Around the 8th or 9th grade, my mother asked me if I thought about going to college. She asked me in a peculiar, coercive way. It seemed like she wanted me to say “no,” but I searched her face for any sign of sincerity. Seeing none, I looked down at the ground. “No.”
“Are you sure, I mean, we’d have to find the money but….”
“No, that’s okay,” I said quietly. That was the same answer I gave when she asked me if I wanted braces for my teeth.
She went on to tell me that I could find a good husband like she did. “He'll work and take care of you,” she’d say. “You’ll have to cook and clean and give him sex but you'll have a good life.” My face must have betrayed a woeful resignation as she tried to reassure me. “Jesus could come any time now so it probably won’t matter anyway.” That was the extent of my mother preparing me for a bright future.
In an aberrant, turbulent chapter between 15 and 18 years old, I lived with two different guys at two separate times. One of them I married. The painful realization that that life was not for me left me with a grim outlook. I was not normal, Jesus was coming, and I was going to be left behind.
After an early divorce before I even turned 18, I set out into a world I was not prepared for. I was carrying a heavy burden that the Church and her people strapped to my back. They told me I had a special calling on my life, that the Lord had given me a unique gift and that if I did anything other than serve Him, I would always be miserable. To some extent, they were right. I was miserable, but it was because of the fear they drilled into me. I was taught that all people are born as worthless, hellbound sinners. The only way out was to confess my sins and accept that God let his only son be killed in order to—once and for all—satisfy his insatiable appetite for a sacrificial lamb. With my salvation secured, it was then my responsibility to witness to every person who crossed my path in order to save them too.
Throughout the course of my life, if I failed to do God’s bidding, or backslid into a godless world, Judgement Day would bring a living terror upon me. I would see every person I had ever encountered. And those who had been cast into hell would be gnashing their teeth, screaming at me for not telling them how to escape such horror, for not saving them. I would burn alongside them for all eternity, a nightmarish image that never strayed far from my mind.
Given that cold, echoing, god-forsaken narrative, it’s a wonder I didn’t end my own life right then. But I was driven, the way my father was driven. I would work hard and play hard to try to drive away the demons. When real life became unbearable, I’d run home to Jesus—home to my parents. The story of the prodigal son became my periodic story. It was set on a carousel that played Amazing Grace in an eerie perpetual loop.
Work became strictly about survival. Since I didn’t have a college degree or a real career path, I never knew from one job to the next what my life was going to look like. I had no idea what type of people I would meet, or what kind of behavior to expect. Surviving by my wits is the best way to explain it. I learned to pay close attention to everything going on around me, to listen and observe carefully. I also had to learn how to take a few punches and remain on my feet. There were a number of jobs for which I had few, if any, qualifications. At times, when that fact was discovered, I’d find myself standing face to face with my boss and taking quite the potent ass chewing. I learned that the most valuable skills are the ability to read people, and the ability to make decisions, even when the right one isn’t clear.
Some jobs were short-lived. Some were ordinary, some were gross. Others were quite impressive. If I had gone to college or started a career, I most likely wouldn’t have crossed paths with such an interesting mix of people. I’ve come to appreciate how especially valuable it is to possess a mishmash of ways to make a living and a wide range of understanding about everyday things and how the world works. Of course, it wasn’t always easy for me to see things this way while it was all happening. But I kept showing up, every day, on time.
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