I worked under the roof of the legacy of Mistah George (the founder of Publix, who retains a cult-like iron grip PR-wise to this day, post-mortem [too many hyphens]) for a little over a year. I refuse to lament on the worst parts of my experience there, partially because I don’t think anybody needs help filling their whine quota for the day, and partially because I would like future employers to think I’m a good sport. There is something to say, however, on the monotony of it; no one on God’s green Earth could look another in the eye and describe cashiering as stimulating (without twitching). As a result, there was little else to do but think as I would greet, scan, rinse and repeat.
And it was my senior year, so what else is there really to think about except post-graduation plans.
And it was my senior year, so what else is there really to do besides work.
And it was my senior year, so what else is there really for anyone to talk to me about except post-graduation plans.
Three stories.
The first story: It’s void of any rich details, probably because there wasn’t anything particularly remarkable about the day or the encounter. I can’t recall the texture of the customer’s coat, what she bought, or if she had any kids in tow, but I can remember what she said anyways. She shrugged and told me, “I have a biology major and I work at a bank.” As innocuous of a statement as it is, it’s simultaneously horrifying and soothing because it implies two things: one, something you spend four years of your God given life toiling away to earn may or may not be irrelevant, and two, you aren’t limited to just what you decided to be Freshmen, Sophomore, Junior, or even Senior year. I’m generally a “glass-half-empty” person, so it was a bit alarming, but it was overwhelmingly outweighed by the flood relief that washes over me when someone alludes to options. There’s comfort in wiggle room, and that’s what I chose to take away from that interaction: that there’s still wiggle room no matter what your higher education is leaning towards. (And for the record, I personally believe it is relevant/worth it, even if distantly, but that’s for another article.)
The second story*: For the purpose of anonymity (and because I don’t want to resort to descriptors too often), the pen name for the subject of this story is James. James was fairly young, but my manager. He was socially intelligent in a way I’ve never been, never stumbling over words, never pausing for too long, never without something clever to say. Everything about him was charming; he was funny, level, confident, intelligent and a kinder person than I could ever say. He made work infinitely more bearable. One day, I showed him the scar on my arm from when I accidentally burned myself baking, and he showed me the scars on his arms from when he got into violent confrontations when he used to deal drugs. From when he hit a window so hard, so angrily it broke and cut his skin open down to the bone.
The knee-jerk reaction is condescending. Alienating. It's shaming, it's dehumanizing. I didn't think less of him, but I didn't think more of him either. There’s moral ambiguity to everything, including drug dealing, but for the sake of brevity and articulation, it point-blank wasn't something to take pride in.
I know this is frustratingly ambiguous, I know I don't know hardly any of you personally, but please believe me when I say as long as you're breathing you have opportunities, you have promise. That's the takeaway here. You might've done bad things, bad things might've happened to you, things worth throwing yourself to the ground and sobbing hysterically over, but whatever it is it's not your only facet and it's definitely not your best. You're better than the sum of all of the worst things that have ever and will ever happen in your life. You're not beyond redemption. James eventually left the store for a position that paid more, and the last I saw him he was sporting a tailored, navy-blue suit and a look of contentment.
And the third story: A woman with frizzy, short brown hair gets into a short discussion with me at my register. As I’m wiping down the scanner and rambling about graduation plans that I make sound more grandiose and finished than they are, she folds her arms on the divider behind the register, and puts her chin on it. She listens with a look of aching regret and then quietly, sadly tells me, “If I could do it all over again I’d be a teacher.” I don’t really have to sum this up. I could, but I’m afraid anyone who’s reading this already would know where I’m going with it, and it’s exhausting to hear so many times, even if it is true. So I’ll just add a disclaimer: not everyone has the luxury to do something they enjoy. If you work hard you might, but if you don’t it doesn’t mean you have to wallow in misery for 40 hours a week. If nothing else, take pride in where you do end up. There’s happiness in that satisfaction.
Class of 2017, 2018, 2019, and especially 2020: You have time. You have options, you have potential, and you have resources, and contrary to popular belief, none of that is irreversibly fated to shrivel up at any point at your time here or afterwards (maybe narrow, but not die).
Forward ever.
*The author of this article does not condone or encourage the illegal distribution or use of narcotics. i.e. don’t hand out little baggies of cocaine on campus because of me. Do it because it’s your personal passion. Please be responsible.
