The calling to my desk, to my laptop, to my pen, is to bring unsullied optimism, to soothe my mind and heart.
I sat yesterday afternoon in the car recovering from gases that stank and endless traffic and jostling around the street boxes, pattering feet, and gloved hands (of the police) blurring by. I was with my mother, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt that was meant to be un-ruffled, but as it were that wasnt the case. What was also not the case was that my hair was completely down and at my feet littered three sets of shoes: the first, my sandals, the second my black heels, the third my flats. My feet, encased in stocking, stretched over the tops of my sandals, lying flat and squashing them. Crowding the shoes was a black shoulder bag of generous proportion, large enough to make my position in my seat uncomfortable.
But, besides all this, despite my obvious exhaustion I felt satisfaction for the day, having went to an interview and then a Manhattan job fair.
Then I got the call. "Marjean, despite your enthusiasm and for community, we have decided...to keep on looking, ok? But we'll definitely keep your resume on file, if anything comes up, ok?"
Of course, I barely hid the crack in my voice and I mechanically said, "OK, thank you. Bye" Well, at least they called back right away..
All my life, I have struggled with having problems being great, that situation up there being exemplary. The disappointment of failure has done serious blows to my self-esteem. Yet I always remembered people expressing that I wrote well. All my life, I wanted to be good at something. For unsullied optimism, for reminders that I am bigger than the failures of the day, for a salvation of an identity whenever it takes a pummel from a punching bag, I write.