Beggars Can’t Be Choosers

Posted on 07/19/2011 by Jane Devin

Love until it hurts, give until there’s nothing left, break until all the sharp edges are gone. And when it’s time to stop hurting-giving-dulling, believe until you do again.

My extended stay at the Motel 6 just outside of Seattle, with its 24-hour Bigfoot Java Hut & convenience store next door, was one of my favorites.

When I wasn’t downtown tripping over my infatuation with fate and other new possibilities, I was in my room with the door wide open. I had asked for something quiet, preferably in the back, and the clerk didn’t disappoint. Past a short expanse of parking lot, there was a thicket of rain-soaked pine trees. Lying on the bed, journal in my lap, I could pretend I was in a forest, near an ocean. Wrapped in a thin, scratchy blanket, I wrote notes to myself and scribbled dreams to the Unknown. On occasion, I’d surprise myself by laughing out loud just for the joy of having everything I wanted within reach.

The girls from the Java Hut got used to seeing me after just a day and would sometimes have my coffee ready by the time I reached the window. They all looked like aspiring models, even in the black of morning. Sixteen to nineteen years old, they shared spiky salon cuts, thin bodies, thick makeup and perfect smiles. I didn’t know any girls who looked like that when I was sixteen. Even the pretty girls always looked like they were holding something in reserve. They were the Marcia Brady’s and Laurie Partridge’s of my generation. I was more like one of the cautionary-tale girls in an ABC Movie of the Week: A juvenile delinquent, a runaway, a girl who had her face broken with a baseball bat. I wasn’t pretty, especially after the assault, and I didn’t know how to be. I wore faded jeans, flannel shirts, and a naked face. I plaited my unruly hair into a single braid so it would fit neatly under my factory-issued hair net. Back then, even plain and gritty, I was considered exotic—perhaps not as much for my small brown eyes and yellow skin as for my fiercely independent minimum wage existence. I had my own little rundown apartment and an old pink car. When I closed my eyes at night, I imagined that I was in a log cabin in Santa Cruz and the sound of traffic was really the waves of the Pacific. Outside of sleep, I starved a lot, worried almost non-stop and shamelessly borrowed promises from the future. One day…someday…when I’m grown up things will be different. Some things don’t change very much. In Seattle, I had to wonder if the girls at Java Hut made the same kind of promises. I suspected they did, but probably for different reasons.

At the convenience store, mostly empty at night, Irma was always busy cleaning or tending to something. She had an animated way of chatting with the occasional customer as she mopped the floor with vigor or wiped down the counters. One foggy morning she was taking a break outside, furiously smoking a cigarette and talking on her cell phone. “Can you believe that asshole?” I overheard her say in a shaky voice. “He tells me because I’m already poor that I shouldn’t mind working for less than he pays anybody else—that I should be grateful for the opportunity he’s given me to work longer hours for less pay because I was unemployed for so long. Tell me how that’s right! God, tell me that’s not like kicking a person just because they’re already down…”

No, it’s just like that, I thought as I entered the store, you’re not wrong. The rule in fighting is to never, ever go down because once you’re on the ground you’ve lost. The only way to get back up again is to wait for the kicking to subside. Then you dust yourself off, put on a stronger, more confident face—one that doesn’t look like you need anything at all—and find a place where no one knows how desperate you’ve been in the past.

The next morning I found the manager—sitting on a stool behind the counter and looking bored—and told him how lucky I thought he was to have a worker like Irma. I told him that his store was one of the cleanest I’d seen on my road trip and about how welcome she made me feel as a customer. He feigned a smile. “Just doing our jobs,” he said.

“That may be,” I replied, “but some people seem to go above and beyond.” We stared at each other for a moment until my point was clear. Then he averted his eyes, rang up my purchase, and made his own point by not saying thank you or wishing me a nice day.

This morning, on a sun-soaked balcony in Albuquerque, I remembered Irma as I lifted my eyes upward and spoke my present-day worries into a silent sky. Of course, there was no answer—another reminder that good faith isn’t always an even proposition—and that sometimes there’s more almighty God to be found in the guy behind the counter than in the woman with a mop.

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Nine Months Later…

Posted on 08/10/2010 by Jane Devin

I just posted my last entry on findingmyamerica.com, which I’m sharing here. I’m also sitting in a friend’s backyard sanctuary, getting ready to write the story of my journey. My head is clear and I feel determined. I think the story I have to tell will surprise some people and outrage others, but then again I don’t know how many people will read it, or if it will get published at all. Writing a book is a gamble — much like getting rid of almost everything you own and heading out on a road trip with almost no funds, but knowing that it was something you were meant to do.

I may be posting occasional updates here while the book is in progress, and maybe even an excerpt or two, but only infrequently. Until then, what if. . .?

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As American as Motherhood, Chevrolet, and Blazing New Trails

Posted on 10/08/2009 by Jane Devin

My daughter came over today to help me pack up my apartment, and I couldn’t stop staring at her. There’s a huge part of my life in her bright green eyes and long, slender hands, neither of which I passed down to her. Those eyes watched mine when I held her during infancy – they filled with tears on the first day of kindergarten – they sparkled with pride during open houses and math contests. My hands were the first she ever held. How many times did I watch her hands as she learned to hold a pencil, throw a softball, or put on mascara?

lisjournal Today, I gave Elisabeth back her very first journal, in which she wrote loving tributes to unicorns, hamsters, and me. Well, except for the time we went to Circus-Circus. Apparently, I was a lot of fun that day — until I wasn’t. “When we got home, mom was a GROUCH! So I went to my room because she was very unpleasent.” Twenty years have passed, and I don’t remember that day at all, and she probably doesn’t either, but somehow I wish I could take it back. I prefer the time she was asked to write about her favorite hero in fourth grade and she wrote about me. What does your hero do, the teacher’s handout asked. “She takes bubbles baths and makes spaghetti,” my daughter answered.

At the time, I was managing the advertising of a major hotel-casino. One of the perks was free entertainment and dining, and I often took Elisabeth to see acts like David Copperfield, or to tennis matches, or to five-star restaurants. She wasn’t impressed with any of that as much as she was with bubbles and homemade meatballs.

Now she’s a woman, and sometimes it’s hard for me to grasp that. Sometimes it just hits me that — oh my God — I helped make a grown-up human being! I look at Elisabeth, and she looks so beautiful and complete, and so full of young energy, that it aches.

“You’re not going to cry, are you,” she asks whenever she sees that my heart has become overfull and my eyes have gotten misty.

“Of course not,” I always reply. But then, of course, I do.

I met Connie Burke on Twitter. She’s a social media manager for GM, and she’s as passionate about her job as I am about writing. She’s also the proud mother of two grown people. I approached GM because I knew from the blogosphere that they had done a lot to assist various networking events for women. Remarkably, when I explained my idea about embarking on a journey to gather stories about life in America today, Connie not only immediately understood its purpose, and how GM could play an important part in it, she understood me. She also understood women like Veronica, who said, “Joining you on this trip is a chance for all of us to wake up, to dream, to find our America, and to know that yes, we are strong enough, smart enough, brave enough to change.” Or Deb, who said, “I’m following you, step by step. As a 40-something with a sophomore in high school, I know well those feelings, and a hunger for a journey.” Or Laura: “You give me hope that my life as both middle-aged woman and mom can continue to grow and change and inspire.”

2009 Yukon Denali Hybrid Having read my work, Connie also knew that I had been a loyal Ford driver for most of my adult life. “I want to change that,” she said bluntly. “I want you to experience our products, because I think once you do, you’re going to be very impressed.” From that statement, an idea was born – my journey will include test-driving as many makes and models of GMC/Chevy cars, trucks, and SUV’s as possible in the course of my year on the road. You all know how much I love to drive and how attached I get to my vehicles, so this will be very exciting for me. Will I become a GMC/Chevy convert? I don’t know. Connie made it clear that GM wants only my honest opinions about the vehicles I drive, and I wouldn’t be comfortable offering anything less, so this will an adventure within an adventure. A Storied Journey as well as A Test Drive Across the USA.

My adventure starts Monday with a GMC Yukon Denali Hybrid. I’ve never driven a hybrid before, and am curious how it will perform during the first leg of my journey, which includes a brief stop in Iowa, before heading to New Mexico, then Arizona. I have some wonderful people lined up to interview, and can hardly wait to begin!

siteshot My new website, Finding My America, is also launching on Monday. This site will automatically redirect to the new space, but I will have links available for those who’d like to read the archives here. I don’t think you’ll want to, though: the best stories are yet to come, and I don’t mean that in a clichéd, slogan-y kind of way. I plan on writing stories that matter – that have meaning to others – and that, when they’re put together as a whole, will really tell the story of life in America in a fresh way.

Bubbles and meatballs, my daughter once said. Today, for me, it’s not about a job, either. It’s much more personal. It’s about taking my passion for writing to the road, meeting people whose stories have not yet been told, and creating new ones of my own. It’s about connecting, evolving, changing, and blazing new trails.

All starting Monday! My bags are packed, my apartment is nearly empty, and that mist in my eyes? It’s not from sentiment, but pure happiness.

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And One Day You Just Wake Up

Posted on 09/29/2009 by Jane Devin

I hesitated to leave my house today. I had hit my stride in cleaning and organizing, and every newly packed box was getting me more excited about my upcoming writing trip. I already have a list of thirty people to meet in 11 states, and more story tips, ideas, and offers are coming in daily. Still — and this will come as no surprise to my regular readers — I was out of AA batteries (again), I needed light bulbs (again), and I really really needed a latte (what’s new?).

So I headed out the door, wearing my baggy USC sweats and I Love Lucy housecleaning scarf, and still singing along to Beth Hart’s Soul Shine. I looked, I’m sure, like a slightly deranged but deliriously happy house frau.

Of course, I stopped for coffee first, because a nice, creamy espresso makes shopping the cold, humongous aisles at Home Depot a much more pleasant experience. And there, sitting in a corner chair at Caribou Coffee, with one hand on an unopened book and the other holding a paper cup of coffee, was a neighbor of mine from thirteen years ago. Not just any neighbor, but one I had been fairly close to while we were both in the trenches of single motherhood, school, and trying to carve out careers for ourselves.

Her short yellow hair was uncombed and even from a few feet away I could see the smudges on her eyeglasses. It seems we both left the house in a state of disarray, and I laughed to myself, wondering what happened to the days neither of us would even go to the grocery store without makeup on. Obviously, that was a phase we’d both outgrown.

She jumped up when she saw me, we squealed and hugged, and the first fifteen minutes of our conversation was filled with wide smiles and child-pride stories. Then it was time to talk about us — what we had done, where we had been, and where we were headed. Suddenly, the laughter faded, replaced by an intensity that was all at once anxious, hopeful, and wanting. It was as if a thousand “I Need” vines had sprung up around us, each of them thirsty and reaching for the sun — but they weren’t cloying at all — instead, they were just there, aching a little bit, and desiring relief, or something more.

We had both spent 20+ years raising children as single parents, and neither of us regretted that, but when our kids left home we both found ourselves feeling displaced and somewhat at a loss. My neighbor imagined that she’d have something like a second youth — the freedom to do what she wanted, when she wanted. Perhaps she’d even fall in love and marry again. I imagined that I’d travel the world and write stories along the way.

“For years, you’re just consumed with creating this life for your children,” she told me, “and that just doesn’t turn off when they’re gone. So you keep doing what you’ve always done. . .even if it’s empty. You have a routine. It’s dull, but it’s familiar. A few years pass, and you realize you’re not even awake anymore. You’re just existing. You’re numb.”

“Yes,” I replied, “That’s exactly how it was for me, too. It’s the waking up part that’s painful. You look around and wonder what opportunities there are at this age. You worry about time you’ve wasted and things you should have done differently. You know you need to do something different, but so many things seem out of reach or impractical — ”

“And I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’ve gotten scared. Like maybe I’m not as strong as I once was, or as energetic. I worry that other people won’t value me as much at this age, and the opportunities won’t be there.”

She told me that, despite her fear, she was enrolling in a Masters program for teaching. I told her about my upcoming cross-country journey. We then laughed at ourselves and pumped each other full of warm encouragement. Two forty-something, empty-nest women who were waking up to changed lives and new possibilities. Both of us simultaneously understanding that we needed so much more than memories of motherhood and faded, underpaid careers to get us to the next level of our lives. Both of us a little afraid, but still willing to take risks and dream big.

We hugged each other goodbye like two sister-soldiers heading off to different battles. I ordered another latte and left to finish my errands. I wasn’t even out of the parking lot when my brakes failed. As in, they were almost completely gone. One week after a full inspection, two new tires, a flush & fill, and an oil change. Six months after new brake pads. I very carefully turned around and drove the mile home. Tomorrow, the tow truck will come and I’m pretty sure the mechanic will tell me I need a new master cylinder. It don’t come easy. . .you know it don’t come easy.

I’m still holding out hope that an automobile company, like GMC/Chevy, will sponsor my trip. Yes, I have been a Ford fan for thirty years, but I can change. I can envision replacing the old Bronco, Hank, with a sturdy Yukon Hybrid or a Sierra I’d name Ed. Ed would be a much better travel companion — certainly a much more handsome one – but if it ends up being Hank and me, that will be okay, too. My wing-and-prayer trip will lose a few feathers, but it’s still on by October 12 even if (God forbid) I have to give up my coffee habit and live on crackers for awhile. Dream big, yes, but prepare to live simply — one of my professors told me that when she learned I wanted to be a writer, and over the years I’ve come to understand exactly what she meant. There are rarely any overnight or immediate successes, but you have to keep pushing, hoping, and challenging yourself even if the only reward for all your efforts is the work itself.

I will be putting together a short book of stories as a fundraiser very soon. Everyone who has already donated to this trip will receive one, regardless of the amount donated. I truly appreciate the support and am excited (and relieved!) that so many people have offered accommodations and other assistance along the way. This trip would not be possible without the internet, and the interest shown here and on Twitter and Facebook.

Okay, it’s back to packing, cleaning, singing, and counting down the days. You gotta pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues, and you know it don’t come easy. . . But it will come, I know it will, because I’m just that determined that nothing will stop me.

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