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.
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