It started out as his way to get me to ingest milk, supposedly good for all children (spoiler: it wasn't and isn't), and ended up a gloriously failed experiment. As days and years passed, that sugary, weak, white coffee "grew a set." It also jumpstarted my day. Without it, I was and am a nonstarter.
One fine day late in my teen years, fresh out of high school, a tomboy-wife newlywed looking for something useful to be a part of, I got hopped up on morning coffee and applied for a job. The local weekly newspaper was in need of a part-time reporter with some photography skills. The office there set up an interview. I was crisp, clean, ready and a little early. All good. Surely my involvement in high school journalism, newspaper and yearbook both, could get me at least a swing position.
The interview felt off. Not negative, not positive. More like a decision was made rendering it useless and it was all rote smoke and mirrors. Nonetheless, I wasn't prepared for what she said at the end.
"Well. Actually..." Much throat clearing. "We were, umm, looking for someone more... literate."
Stunned, I repeated her words. "More literate?" It was a part time job at a rag published once a week in a small readership. It was known for having typos, informational errors, incorrect names, and more.
Reluctantly, she nodded. "More literate."
At first, it stung. Within a moment, I was chuckling, grinning ear to ear. It confused the newspaper owner-editor. I waved off any concerns, still laughing, and left. With my sanity, without a shred of worry for having failed the interview.
What happened was obvious. My big mistake was walking in there speaking the naturally evolved language I had grown up hearing all around me, a blended, archaic version of English. Meeting a local person for consideration as part-time local fact gatherer and unobtrusive photographer, speaking formal "TV news" language seemed overly formal, even snobbish.
I laughed because we were both right. Professional pretentiousness versus unapologetic cultural comfort. She was ambitious; I wasn't.
Many years later, the lady didn't remember turning me down for the job, much less the grounds she based that decision on. What she did do was read something I had written online, gushing a bit about it. I, on the other hand, had long since stopped reading the local weekly newspaper.
Years and a number of other long stories have passed. I missed the college years—happily, I don't miss the need to repay loans, since I was and am a bad bet—had an "interesting" life, and generally do whatever it takes to survive, even if it stinks. Of ambition, please knoweth the garden in which I once upon a time greweth a plethora of classic old timey fvcks is quite barren ground. I developed a callousing of hands, feet, sympathy for a kind of poverty only the well-off can experience, and turned from snooty pursuity "education" to focusing on getting the job done. And I do mean any job within my abilities.
My sister was a fine artist. I won't speak of a brother at all. Our parents are dead. My partner and I produced no children or grandchildren, a fact we're satisfied with on the grounds of health. The expectations of society are moot. Irrelevant.
I've taken unexpected joy in fine art, folk art, craft of various kinds, hunting, fishing, gardening, food preservation and cooking, writing, photography, farm work, veterinary assisting, reading, and a lot more. Never could I endure a factory job for long. Of these things, only those not involving physical activity are still within reasonable capability parameters. These less physical items are the exact same list experience says are unrealistic and useless. In fact, I've gotten metaphorical hard slaps from all sides, active discouragement, in their regard.
Mulling this over, I've come to an amusing conclusion. That newspaper owner-editor was more right than either of us knew back then.
The people who are socially literate have money, or at least appear to have plenty of it. People who are financially literate, ditto.
People who are culturally literate don't care. These are the ones with original art and opinions, the ones who fuel the arts industry overall, and the ones who do guerilla street art are royalty among us.
Vast disrespect of the arts is a daily struggle. AI is set to seal the deal. Copyright law (and to be honest, most other laws) is in the proverbial toilet.
Oh, for simple times yet to come. Or just maybe enough coffee to float us through it. May the funds to obtain liquid fortitude hold out for a few thousand mornings yet to come.
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