The Descent Into Homelessness Begins in Earnest

Shortly after writing my last blog entry, I got another rejection notice from another job.

This one was noteworthy as it came from the very college who awarded me my degree.

It was for a marketing position that had, I thought, listed every single qualification I had in its requirements list. Until the notice, I had been subdued but hopeful.

The notice was devastating. Crushing. And tonight, again, I find myself struggling to sleep.

On Monday, we must make the painful move of turning in our apartment. We plan to move out as quickly as possible. Our savings are spent. Job prospects are just that, prospects and nothing else.

In order to keep our son in his school, I plan to ask fellow PTO members if I can use their mailing address. I know these people. They are good people and they will likely agree. My husband will return to another county where he will try and find a way to return our family to stability, leaving my son and I to, well ... live in my car.

Our belongings will be given away, donated or trashed.

This is not the worse thing to happen in life. Or at least it's not the worse thing that has ever happened in my life. I've lived through homelessness before. My parents were immigrants, unskilled laborers and our family lived hand-to-mouth most of the time.

My mother placed a great importance on making it to the next day. So while she placed a high value on education, the greater importance was to survive to the next day. And so earning money by any means necessary was the most important. She would have me work with her. All through school, I mopped floors, vacuumed carpets, scrubbed toilets.

I worked through high school and into college, often well into 1 or 2 a.m. depending on how dirty things were at the business we were cleaning. We cleaned one of the Cerritos Auto Square dealerships which often did not close their doors until past 11 p.m. When the economy suffered, the maintenance crews were among the first to go. That spelled homelessness for us many times.

As a result - while I respected what my mom did - I did not want to do the same for a living. I went to college often leaving my mother to work alone while I spent all day at school. I spent much of that time in the campus newspaper office. I felt like journalism was my calling. It was my way to contribute to society.

Yet here I am again, preparing for homelessness.

But this time, I am dragging my son into it. In my ears, I hear the echo of people who tell me, "Don't worry. Things will get better. You're son is strong. He'll be fine. You'll see."

It's hard to hear those things. He's already detected the problems. He asked today why we can't buy a Christmas tree and decorate it. He's started hinting about Disneyland. He's never been but his friends have and they have no qualms about bragging they have been there. He's confused why he can't have a dog or why we can't get a Wii or even why we can't go get a doggon pizza from the local pizza place.

Lucky, as we call him, has no concept he's poor. I don't want him to feel poor. The saying is you're as poor as you feel. But he's learning that something is wrong. He's already walked in on fights between his parents. He's caught me crying in the bathroom. He's poked a few holes in some of the stretched truth's we've told him. A parent under stress can't always remember what explanation they give for any one reason.

These days, I look upon people who have jobs with such envy. I ask myself how they did it. How did they get that job?

All I want to do is use my skills to support my family. I am a good worker; A loyal employee. I work hard. I've followed so many of the directions provided me by friends, experts on how to get work, how to present my resume.

Sometimes I have fantasies that my husband lands a dream job with the Los Angeles Kings. And that he is such a great success, as I know he would be, that his bosses come to him and say, "Where had you been all this time man!" In my fantasy, I finally stop fearing the first of the month.

I could dream of luxuries, but all I dream of is of a peaceful night's rest, one that does not involve crying until 4 a.m. But every morning nothing but more deafening silence greets us. And now, the timer is up. We're done. We must move.

I just want to work. I just want to work. Lord help me. I just want to work.

It's Hard to Keep Your Head Up When Unemployment is Holding You Down

I probably should not be writing this. That’s what I keep telling myself. But alas here it is.

I should have at least written this months ago, when hope was fresher and the weight of unemployment hadn’t yet broken my spirit. This narrative can, and likely will, take on a depressive tone, too heavy for most to want to endure.

It is after 3 a.m. and I am doing the same thing I’ve done for the last 9 months, crying, praying, stressing and not sleeping.

I’ve obsessing over being unemployed and have been thinking: Thinking, thinking, thinking about the handful of essays and blogs from other former journalists, like me, who have been struggling to find work.

I am fortunate that I do not have the kind of story that former New York Times staffer Dobrah Copaken had. Her challenge included facing cancer and the end of her marriage.

My struggle started in February when my employer AOL finally unloaded its Patch.com sites. They were news websites that promised all local news. But they became a financial burden. We became a financial burden. And AOL sold Patch to a company who did some major restructuring. And I became one of hundreds of digital journalists out of a job.

When I joined Patch, I knew it was a startup and knew there was a chance that it could all end quickly. What I did not count on was that my husband would still be working to rebuild his own career at the same time. Just before my lay off, he had been laid off from his web editor job at a local publication. That publication, by the way, has since cut several more positions. And the ownership is struggling.

Struggling to secure himself a new position outside of journalism, he accepted a job with a minor league sports team that pays humbly. The work is seasonal. He loves his job and had hoped it would lead to bigger and better things. But he is still rebuilding.

Then I lost my job.

At the start I launched myself into efforts to get another. I aimed at jobs that I knew I could do outside of journalism. I looked for web management and social media positions that I now had experience in thanks to AOL.

At first I sent out a few at a time so I would not lose track of them. When those got zero answers I sent out dozens. Then dozens upon dozens:

To a local police department

To a Catholic school in Orange County

To Spanish Market in the Inland Empire

To the three counties in Southern California

To Army Reserve office in Los Alamitos, CA

To several hospitals

To a marketing firm in Riverside

To shopping malls

To professional sports teams

The list goes on. But I did not want to limit myself. I returned immediately to school. Maybe, I thought to myself, I should find a job with a little more structure that would allow me time either in the day or night to attend more classes.

I applied:

To Starbuck’s. No response.

To Macy’s. No response.

To Target. No response.

To Walmart. No Response

To a recycling company. No response.

To the Lifestream Blood Bank. No response.

Toys R Us sent me an email letting me know they had more than enough applicants now and had nothing for me. This is the short list.

In a fit of despair I wrote a pleading email to Starbuck’s chairman and chief executive Howard D. Schultz that I never heard anything from. I visited two of Starbuck’s locations only to be sent right back to the website and was reminded something to the effect of “don’t call us, we’ll call you.” It’s been months and I’ve heard nothing.

In a desperate attempt to save my home and stay in our small apartment, I wrote a letter to the CEO of a national grocery store in the Inland Empire, Jack Brown, begging for work. I grasped at the hope he would be sympathetic. While I appreciate that I did get a letter of response, my heart sank that it came from the human resources associated who informed me my letter was forwarded to her and she could do nothing for me. The best she could do was offer advice. “We’re not recruiting right now,” she wrote. Keep checking out the various stores they’ll post signs looking for work, she added.

I wasn’t sure how many stores she wanted me to check on, but the three I shop at never posted anything. And I cannot afford gas to keep checking on others daily. More recently, on trips that I have taken my EBT card to shop, I’ve noticed new faces there. I’m not sure if I indeed missed a posted “recruiting now” sign.

Even several temp agencies have sent me back to their sites and left to wait for word for them to get back to them.

Meantime, I have become creative in finding ways to tell my 7-year-old that we can no longer do certain things. He still participates in some soccer camps that are run by my husband’s employers – when possible and if there’s space. But the hockey he loved so much is done.

Hockey is not cheap but not as expensive as you might think. And it’s better for a child with ADHD than baseball. My son loves Dustin Brown. So we struggled to buy him equipment, one bit at a time while I was still working. The Los Angeles Kings’ Lil Kings program stepped in to be our savior and outfitted our son head to toe in gear. But it is sitting by now. The overstuffed hockey bags are slightly dusty.

I would have been too ashamed to admit months earlier that my husband and I cried when our son finished his last class. Now I don’t care what I say. I am beaten down. We don’t know if we caused was a scene. It’s hard to tell when you walk out with your head down.

So what does this all mean? Why can’t I find a job? Well I suppose its because I only have a two year degree. On my way to a four-year, I was held back by a medical condition too painful to talk about.

My husband, who comes from a modest, middle class home, did not complete his degree in part because, while his family was far from riches, they earned enough that he would have been forced to take on a large amount of debt. We worked our way through college. Already in the journalism business, we found ourselves in the position of having to move out and away to continue advancing our careers.

I was never in a position where living at home with my parents was an option.

And so it goes.

And now it’s after 4 a.m. and sleep is wishful thinking though I am feeling loopy. Tomorrow is another day.