You Are Not Your Job

I know it’s cliche, but I can’t resist a good lonely tree. / Fuji Provia 100, 35mm on Minolta XGM / Santa Ynez, CA

Recently, Tomi Lahren attempted to belittle Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez by creating her own AOC “costume” for Halloween. Her reasoning: “I decided to dress up as the person who scares me most. The Democratic Dimwit Darling, socialist-loving, freedom-hating, former bartender herself @AOC.”

Aside from the many problematic issues someone as disrespectful and ignorant as Lahren can’t see, two words hung me up more than anything. “Former bartender.” They are meant with an infuriating amount of disdain. They are said as though bartenders don’t work hard, don’t have dreams or aspirations, or don’t deserve to be treated with respect. Or that the working class is less important. Or that people who take a job they don’t necessarily want in order to survive aren’t allowed to climb the ladder. Some bartenders are also teachers or firefighters trying to make extra cash. Some are students trying to pay their way through school. Some are just people trying to get by. Representative Ocasio-Cortez has not responded directly to Lahren, as well she shouldn’t. Taking the high road in petty situations is smart; makes the other person look the fool.

While scrolling the comments on the thread, I began to selfishly think about my own story. It’s easy to forget where you’re from or how far you’ve come. Almost ten years ago, I graduated college early and entered a job market in the middle of a recession. I couldn’t find a job in my field, so I tried to find a job doing anything: retail associate, barista, waiter, etc. I had no takers, so I took the little freelance work I could find.

After almost a year of scraping by, I had a maxed out credit card, student loans I couldn’t pay, rent I couldn’t afford, five dollars in my bank account, and a box of pasta to last me a week. I would buy expired food at the dollar store on the corner because it was half price, but even that had become too expensive. I sat on the floor of my bedroom, tracing the steps of every decision I’d made and wondered if I would be homeless in a week. I’d dug myself a financial grave. It was time to decide if I wanted to die in it or swallow my pride and ask for help.

I asked for help.

My father, who lived in a one-bedroom apartment and had his own issues to deal with, took me in. I remember cramming what little stuff I did have into his Jeep and nearly breaking down in tears because I had a home. On the way home, we drove through a crazy storm. We stopped along the Belt Parkway to watch the waves. I stood there, the rain and the ocean spray soaking my face, and promised I would never find myself here again.

There was a small area of my father’s apartment he used as a den. That became my bedroom. It was underneath a slanted part of the roof and every time I went to bed I felt like Harry Potter living under the stairs. I didn’t have a bedroom or a door or even four walls, but I had a roof over my head and food in my stomach. For the next few weeks I was hard at work finding a job of any kind. I applied to 50 jobs in a month. One got back to me: a Borders bookstore a few miles away. I didn’t care what it paid, I knew I would say yes if they offered it to me.

During the year I worked for Borders, I began to climb out of the hole I’d dug. I was able to pay my bills on time again and took everything as a learning opportunity. Borders had an amazing policy which allowed employees to rent out books. The rule was you could take any book over night as long as it came back in the same condition it went out. I used the store as my personal library and read everything I could. At the same time, I took every freelance gig I could find and built up my contacts, even if it was for no-pay. When Borders ultimately went out of business, I was able to find enough freelance work to keep me afloat for a while. Those gigs lead to another, and another, and another, until I found a more regular freelance gig at a local news station.

From there, I kept the same attitude. I learned everything I could. I said yes to every shift I was offered. I learned from my mistakes (or at least I tried to). Eventually, I got to a point where I had to say no to work because my schedule was too full. I was working seven days a week and sometimes working double or triple shifts. I was back on my feet and able to move out of my father’s little nook. While I no longer have to live like Harry Potter, I will never not be grateful for that tiny little space.

This long road back led me to the company I work for now. I’ve been lucky to have a boss who believes in me and has allowed me to grow. I am by no means a rich person, but I pay my bills, I keep a roof over my head, I can save enough, and have a little leftover for traveling, entertainment, dinner, or whatever adventure I come across. My fiancé and I recently moved into our own one-bedroom apartment and I finally feel like an adult who is not just in survival mode.

My point is, you are not your job. A job is a job is a job. That’s it. You can like what you do (I do), or even love what you do. And if you don’t, that’s okay; it won’t last forever. What matters is who you are and the attitude you keep. There are good days and bad days. Some days I want to bang my head against a wall and others I’ve entirely lost my temper. There have been plenty of days I wanted to give up, but I didn’t. And most importantly, ask for help when you need it; pride is your worst enemy.

So, mock all the bartenders or coffee baristas or retail associates you want, but one day they might work for a leading media company or even be elected to Congress.

NOTE: My fiancé just yelled at me about the photo. It’s not a lonely tree, it’s two trees dancing.