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Archives for December 2017

What Is “Real Work,” Anyway

December 11, 2017 by Andrea Thompson Leave a Comment

 What Is “Real Work,” Anyway

Before I pursued a career in writing, I was employed in the healthcare industry for 5 years. I worked long, hard hours, mostly on my feet. I pulled 12-15 hour shifts, often times overnight. I busted my bass 5-7 days a week. Healthcare work isn’t easy. I was cleaning up things most people don’t want to think about. I was running down hallways with crash carts, because someone had stopped breathing or their heart had stopped beating. I rarely got the chance to sit down, even for meals.

My days were long, strenuous, and sometimes utterly heartbreaking. I lost patients. I watched people die. I had to help break the news to distraught families. I had to push through CPR, sometimes for hours, on a person I knew wasn’t going to pull through. I missed out on a lot of gatherings with my family, working holidays and weekends, because, well, someone’s gotta do it.

It was exhausting, and it made me extremely unhappy. I carried my heartbreak home with me more often than not. I was stressed, sleep-deprived, and extremely over-worked. I suffered, my family suffered, and my home suffered. I had to choose between chores, a shower, or sleep. Usually sleep won out, whether I liked it or not.

I kept this up for a long while, even after my daughter was born. I only became more and more miserable. I was stuck in this shift for 12 hours, while my daughter was with someone else. I was missing everything: her first words, her first steps. I felt as though someone else was raising my child, and I hated it. She got to where she didn’t even cry when I left anymore. She was used to being with someone else. That broke my heart worse than when she would scream her head off as I walked out the door.

I started writing in high school and pursued that for the first few semesters of college, until I got pregnant. How was I going to support a family as a writer? I was afraid it would be too difficult to break into, it wouldn’t pay enough, and it was far too unstable. So, I opted for healthcare instead. There were always readily available jobs and they paid well. Plus, I already had experience in the field, given I’d been working in nursing homes and doctor’s offices already. It was more sensible and I was overwhelmed with that feeling that it wasn’t about what I wanted anymore. It was about taking care of this child: which I did.

“Almost every piece would have at least a comment or two referring to me as a lazy millennial, a “libtard,” someone who needed to get a real job. To those, I say a big, fat, fuck you.”

I landed a local job at a clinic when she was 2. I thought I’d find more happiness there. It was close, the hours were a lot better. There were no nights or weekends, and although the pay was a little less, it was worth it due to the location and schedule.

I didn’t necessarily “like” the job, but I thought I could at least deal with it. Until one morning I got up, started getting my daughter dressed and ready for the babysitter, when she looked at me with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. She didn’t cry, or scream, or fuss. She looked at me with all the earnest sincerity in the world and said, “Momma, can you please stay home today and play with me? Just this one time?”

I did my best to explain to her why mom had to go to work— to make sure she had nice things, and all that bullshit. But it didn’t make either one of us feel any better. She didn’t cry at the sitter’s that day, but I cried myself stupid in the bathroom at work. I had this child, I brought her into this world and gave her life, and she feels like I don’t have time for her.

I resolved to fix this situation, and fast. I was already having trouble with co-workers. I fucking hated this job and all the others like it before. I wanted to write. I wanted to see my kid. I didn’t want to miss things with her anymore. I wanted to show her that your dreams and your happiness are important—they have value and they matter.

I was working this job because I felt like it was the right thing to do. But was it? How could it be the right thing when everyone was miserable? When my child was telling me that she wouldn’t buy anymore toys, and she didn’t need anything for her birthday just so I didn’t have to leave again, I was done. So, when shit hit the fan at work, I told every single one of them what I thought and bailed the hell out of there. No warning, no explanation, no two weeks, and no letter of resignation. It was entirely unprofessional and the most liberating thing I’d ever done in my life.

I’d been saving money for months in case I decided to do just that. I used that money as a cushion to start on, and I looked for writing jobs. It took time. I got desperate and discouraged more than once. I stayed up late as hell, night after night, trying to figure this shit out. But I made it work in the end. People started hiring me. I was making money. More than I’d even expected, and all while I was at home with my daughter. I could take her to the park. If she needed me, I was there.

But I didn’t do so without catching shit from virtually everyone around me. “This isn’t a real job. How do you think you’re going to support your family with something like that. You can’t make a living off a hobby. If you really wanted to do well by your child, you’d have a real job; something to support her.” Then, if it wasn’t coming from family, it was coming from trolls online. Almost every piece would have at least a comment or two referring to me as a lazy millennial, a “libtard,” someone who needed to get a real job. To those, I say a big, fat, fuck you.

I have worked that “real” job. I’ve been stuck in that grind. It wasn’t for me. I was miserable and unhappy, and so was my kid. Instead of staying stuck there, because that’s what society says I’m supposed to do, I grabbed myself by the boot straps and carved a new path. One that I was happy with, and that made me feel accomplished. Something I was proud to tell my daughter about. Her mother didn’t settle and she didn’t conform. I trudged through the bullshit and made my own way.

I struggle to understand why people think that it’s any of their business what I do for work. I’m taking care of my child. I’m supporting my family. We have plenty of money, and now we have plenty of time as well. I’m doing right by her and I’m finally doing right by myself. I had the opportunity to make a living off of what I love. Why is that a bad thing?

You don’t have the right to tell me what I’m “supposed” to do. The definition of work is, “mental or physical activity as a means of earning income.” Why does it suddenly not count as work if I’m not pulling 12’s? What gave people the right to define what “real work” is and what isn’t? And what in the hell made them think that their opinion mattered to me anyway?

I’m here to tell you that what I do is real work. I’ve spent many nights up until 3 or 4 in the morning, researching, making sure that what I turn in is the very best. I’ve worked weekends and even holidays. I work my ass off. Just like everyone else. Just like all the photographers, the artists, and the writers. And believe it or not, I work just like the factory workers and the laborers. There is no one certain job or trade or schedule that defines a real job. Real work is a passion. You don’t get to be angry or bitter or call me names just because my work is different than yours. Honestly, most of the trolls are just shitty because I get to work from my couch in my jammies and they don’t.

 

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Andrea is a freelance writer based out of Kentucky. She is the mother to a 3 year old little girl and step-mother to a 6 year old boy. She’s been married to her husband and best friend for 5 years. She enjoys fishing, camping, hiking and the occasional glass of wine by a bonfire.

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Why I Jumped Into The Black Market For The Underemployed

December 4, 2017 by Riley 1 Comment

Why I Jumped Into The Black Market For The Underemployed

A black market, underground economy, or shadow economy

is a clandestine market or transaction that has some aspect of

illegality or is characterized by some form of noncompliant

behavior with an institutional set of rules.

 Whenever the black market is mentioned, most people have different ideas about what it’s actually like; especially those who have never contributed to the sales or consumption of illegal goods or services. As a kid, I imagined the black market was an open-air market-type setting with lots of vendors in ski masks, selling military grade weaponry and explosives from fruit stands inside an enormous warehouse crawling with armed guards – perhaps in the middle of an otherwise empty desert in a foreign country.

I also saw Jim and Nancy (a middle-aged Caucasian couple from the suburbs I’d made up for imaginary scenarios such as this) walking down the aisles, loading their shopping cart with sniper rifles and landmines, chatting about the great deal Fred and Amy (their imaginary suburban neighbors) got on their rocket launchers last week. I was a kid, okay? I had a very active imagination. I had to draw my own conclusion of what this “place” was like since no one actually knew, and it was rarely discussed.

Naturally, most adults would be uncomfortable explaining human trafficking and organ sales to an 8 year old, and they likely have no idea how or where to begin. One might be inclined to tell a child that the black market is a bad place where bad people go to buy bad things, and that explanation may or may not be far from the truth. I’d never put a lot of thought into it, assuming that nothing like this could possibly exist in the happy and wholesome USA , so I’d never even have to worry about it.

As I got older and began observing how the world actually worked, I realized two things about the black market: it was not just a place, but many small places, and these places were everywhere, including all over my benevolent and utopian country.

“The only difference between what I do, and what black market crime lords do, is my business model and methodology.”

The black market was at my friends houses, at the neighborhood bar, and in my sophomore math class. Eventually, it made its way into my own home. It became apparent that the black market wasn’t necessarily bad, it was just illegal. I believe that one of the main reasons it’s perceived as such a horrible thing is because of the illegality. Human trafficking and all of the other blatantly terrible fuckery aside, you can actually buy the same shit you can get at Walmart. I’m not kidding. Among the items that are most frequently purchased on the black market: baby formula, human hair, and of course near the top of the list – drugs, all kinds.

Most of these things are perfectly legal on their own; even the drugs. Baby formula? Supermarket.  Human hair? Beauty supply retailer. Drugs? Pharmacy. To clarify, some of the drugs available on the black market are actually pharmacological substances that are legal to purchase with a legitimate and valid prescription, some of which are necessary for some individuals to maintain their quality of life, or to simply just not fucking die. Medications for the treatment of diabetes, arthritis, HIV/AIDS, congestive heart failure, cancer, and any other disease, dysfunction, and disorder can be purchased on the black market.

[[It is at this point, I realize how incredibly incriminating my browser history must seem. I risked my IP address getting flagged and my computers getting seized for this research so you don’t have to.  #Sacrifice.]]

So why the hell would someone risk incarceration for buying something illegally if they could buy it legally, and likely, much easier somewhere else? Simply put, this shit is fucking expensive. Those of you with children – without any sort of welfare or financial assistance, will understand that baby formula alone can drain your bank account.

One newborn can run through $50-$200 of formula per week depending on brand, size, and frequency of feedings and special dietary needs. Those who choose to opt for all natural human hair in lieu of animal or synthetic hair for their wigs and extensions can expect to spend a cool $200 and up for just the hair itself. It’s a lot more when you include the salon charges for application and styling they’ll receive later.

Necessary drugs required to sustain life can run thousands and thousands of dollars monthly, if not weekly. I can’t think of a single fucking person that thinks this is okay; I’m sure Bill Gates himself would be astounded with the prices that these drug companies are charging.

What exactly am I getting at here? Well, I suppose it would boil down to this: living life by the books and obtaining necessary goods and services legally – money, food, utilities, clothes, repairs, plus living within a justifiable, barely comfortable means, costs more than an average millennial can afford on their own. My rent, utilities, and other bare necessities are cheap, relative to most people I know, and I still can’t fucking afford it.

I don’t have the time, energy, or patience to get another-other-other job. So I found a simple, practical, illicit money-making solution in what little spare time I have and became a Black Market vendor. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy. I’m a Jack-of-all-trades. I’m your local stylist, mechanic, computer technician, teacher, taxi, and all around favor-doer.

The only difference between what I do, and what black market crime lords do, is my business model and methodology. My “business(es)” is/are illegal because of the laws surrounding certifications and taxes. I try to avoid causing harm to anyone at any point for any reason – I’m trying to help those who can’t afford to go the legal route. The only real reasons what I do is illegal are because I’m unlicensed and uninsured, so if I fuck your shit up, I can decide whether or not I want to fix it or make it your problem, and 2.) I’m not reporting my income for taxation purposes, because everything I do is under the table, and Uncle Sam isn’t reaping his fair share of my work.

I charge what I feel is a fair amount, depending on the person I’m dealing with, and what type of work I’m actually doing. Ladies, try going into your local salon and asking for a wash, cut, color and style, with nourishing conditioning treatment for $100 flat, no tip. Gentlemen, call up the garage across town and tell them you need a fuel pump replaced and an A/C charge, but you absolutely cannot spend more than $250 out the door.

On the grander scale of the black market, people get hurt all the time. Common, legal goods (such as the baby formula and prescription drugs) are typically stolen en masse, or manufactured by a 3rd party, which means they may or may not be the real thing, and then sold for pennies on the dollar. What you’re putting in your body – or your baby’s, for that matter, could be straight off the shelf you buy it from every day: Vendor steals $30 container of formula from Walmart, sells it to Mom for $15 – Vendor makes a clean, clear $15, Mom saves a few bucks, Baby gets fed. On the flip side, Vendor obtains protein powder, or mixes up their own concoction of something passable for formula, raids local recycling center for formula containers, fills the containers and sells them cheap – Baby gets hella buff, but Baby also gets sick.

Also awful about the black market in the big picture: people – living beings – are purchased, sold, and used like any other common object. The buyer can do with them as they so please, because they now own that person. Adults and children are kidnapped and sold to be used as sex slaves or indentured servants; women are attacked and subdued by a group of assailants, while one cuts their hair off at the scalp to sell for big money.

There are no doubt many terrible things about the black market: movies make jokes about people waking up in a bathtub of ice: sick, battered, and missing a kidney, but that’s actually a thing that happens. Exotic animals are another hot commodity. They’re subjected to horrible treatment and living conditions, often starved, abused, and killed in the most inhumane ways imaginable. All for the sake of someone using their parts for decoration, clothing, or medicines. Even those kept alive and purchased as pets will endure hell on earth until they die, or are killed by animal control.

Yes, I risk arrest and incarceration on a regular basis in the name of making ends meet. I don’t have crates of pygmy marmosets in my closet, nor pounds of methamphetamine buried in my yard; I’m not going to sell you a human liver in an Igloo cooler. I will, however, freshen up your ‘do and fix your brakes for much less than you’ll pay mostly anywhere else. While most judges won’t so much as bat an eye at someone working on their buddy’s car, it’s still technically criminal activity. The size of the crime and number of victims doesn’t matter to Johnny Law, or to future employers who can see your criminal records. A crime is a crime, regardless of whether or not you were just trying to feed your family, or can’t afford to have your car repaired. Big Guy or Little Guy, I’m still a Bad Guy.

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Riley is a writer, and an epitome of a paradox- You can read her exclusively at The Underemployed Life.

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