The Root of the Matter
The day I graduated from Saint Edward's University was dolorous: I wanted to wear jeans, but was hastily zipped into a modest black dress and matching heels, half-size too big. I wanted to go to my favorite diner on the East Side, but took three steps inside before I was reproached for not making reservations somewhere expensive. The missing tiled bar and barefoot children stopped them at the door. I slumped back into the passenger seat, their cheap cologne competing for dominance in the small space of my SUV. The diploma case I was given was empty and wrapped in my graduation gown in the back. I heard it slide back and forth against my mother’s purse and rain jacket as we made sharp turns, both of them irritably pressing me for directions. They were appeased, but I found myself staring at a steak I didn’t want. That moment was the culmination of seven years of sacrifice, costly indecision and overcoming my working class upbringing. My education didn’t save me.
The years I lived in Austin, Texas were bittersweet: my taste in music became eclectic, I lived modestly and earned my degree from a little known, but up-and-coming Holy Cross university. I had over 300 paperbacks,a hybrid road bike and was a budget vegetarian. It's hard looking back knowing it was the most formative near decade of my life that ended when I reached for the sweaty palm of the dean of Humanities. After that day, the world was supposed to open itself to me. I thought I would have a loft apartment and a comfortable part-time job, but woke up in a dingy one bedroom hidden in San Marcos with an Iraq vet and his dog. The diploma was shipped to my mother’s house in Washington state and I followed soon after.
It's hard to say what came first: hours of dull anticipation in a recruiting office, boot camp or the six months of broadcast training I patiently endured. Nevertheless, I was once again chasing thin promises of self-actualization. I was lead to believe I stood for something more than myself. I dutifully kept track of minor daily achievements for evaluations. I echoed sentiments of service before self and put in unusual hours I used to reserve only for my writing and photography. Time passed and I put on rank. I now have less than 30 books and my cameras and light kit are across the Pacific ocean in a spare room. My hybrid bike is rusted from snow and hardly used.
I wake up each morning several hours before work to have coffee and reflect. There’s something about waking up at three in the morning. It’s the most honest part of my day. Light gradually fills my barracks room and for a moment I remember what I was fighting for before I became overly concerned with advancement exams and shop politics. So much in life is ephemeral and lacks substance. What makes that reality even worse is the abuse of time and personal resources. Each morning I promise myself something better will happen if I remember where I came from and focus on what’s ahead of me.
