This morning, I got a reminder from Facebook to check my memories. It’s honestly one of the few reasons I still even have a Facebook account anymore. I pulled it up, and the first thing I saw was this picture.
Two years ago, before my family moved cross country to California, I worked as a concierge at an Independent Living Facility in Florida (which shall go unnamed). I worked there for six and a half years, leaving the day before my 28th birthday (we started our drive two days later).
Ever October (except one, where everything got cancelled due to an exploded pipe and both of our activity directors having emergencies back to back) the staff would put on a talent show for the residents. It was always on a Thursday, which meant that I never saw it or took part in it. (My schedule over the years had me working Friday-Tuesday or Saturday-Wednesday.)
My family had been talking about moving to California for over a year by this point. In fact, my mom had submitted her transfer paperwork almost 10 months prior. We had finally received word that she might get her transfer soon, so we started prepping and packing and whatnot.
I decided that I wanted to read some of my poetry at the talent show. A few of my residents had seen me writing it, and all of them had been demanding copies. Heck, two of them had been kind enough to look over one of my short stories right before I graduated with my Creative Writing degree a few years prior.
I’d done poetry reading before. While at community college, I helped organize three poetry slams, participating in all of them. I also did one at university, which was more terrifying because my poetry professor was in the audience, and I didn’t see him until I stepped up to the mic.
I’d also like to point out that I have a bit of a fear of public speaking. If the lights blind me, I can act on a stage, but just standing there is a nightmare. I knew the lights at my job would be bright, but not enough to hide my fear. But I put up with it because I wanted to do something for me, and for my amazing residents.
So, I signed up. It was the first time I was going to do it, and the last. I picked three poems that I’d written. And I just sucked it up and prepped.
Only a few of my coworkers actually knew I was going to do it. I of course told my boss (who screamed “Yes!” when she heard), and my supervisor, and one of the leads. But I really just kept my mouth shut, and made sure to say no to anyone asking to switch on that day. (It was a common day to ask off for, because the residents’ families liked to come and watch as well, and it made our lives more difficult sometimes.)
The night before, I’m working the night shift, and I get a “call me” text from my mom right after my break. We were pretty lax about taking quick phone calls, as long as it was quiet and out of sight.
My mom got the transfer. She had to report the Monday before Thanksgiving. That meant we had less than a month to pack up the rest of the house, get it on the market, and drive across the United States to California.
I mean, I was ecstatic. I was bored in my home town, but massive student loans kept me from moving out (I had to take out as much as I could so that mom and I could live, on top of going to school. It cost a pretty penny. The 2008 stock market crash damn near killed us, and we were careful.)
I kept it to myself. Just said that it was a quick question that needed to be answered, what was the wifi password, uncle locked himself out again. Something common. I decided to not say anything. Not yet.
The next night, I got to work about a half hour early. I knew my boss was sticking around for it (she normally left at five, but if one of her people was doing something, she made a point to be supportive). No one on shift was expecting me, which made me laugh because the program for the talent show was right in front of them, my name clearly printed about half way down. I had my poems in one hand, a copy of mom’s transfer orders in the other (she works for the federal government, she’s one of the good guys, I swear.)
Boss gave me a quick hug, I handed her the orders. She shrieked again. She was a military brat, like mom, like me. She knew what I had. She asked me to stop by the next day, we’d get all the paperwork filled out, end day, the whole nine. She also told me to drop the bomb right at the end of my reading, which I agreed.
Finally, it was time. I’d picked three poems that I had written at three stages of my life. “Woman in the Window” was the first poem I wrote in college, and one of my all-time favorites. “Panic” was from my first semester at university, when I had a panic attack trigged by my roommate’s absolute blasé attitude to my bleach allergy, causing me to spiral (I was getting sick, she didn’t fucking care, she cleaned her bathroom twice DAILY with straight bleach, how was she even alive). And finally, pictured above, was “Survivors.” It’s a villanelle, which is a rhyming style that I still love to mess around with. I’d written it about six months prior, and one of my resident was trying to get it into a magazine for me. Didn’t happen, but I appreciated the thought.
All three went over perfectly. And as I said thank you, I asked for their attention for one final moment. I just thanked everyone for all their support over the past six years, and I would take all the strength and lessons they had given me to California when I moved on November 14th. I got hugs and old lady kisses, well wishes for nearly an hour after the final performance.
So, that’s how I preformed three poems… and also announced I was leaving my job. It went over much better than what happened in April. I wasn’t really expecting to go down memory lane today, but I guess I needed it (especially since the Dodgers just blew Game 4 so damn badly, what the hell?!).
Anyway, I’ll post all three poems tomorrow as an extra post, so it should go up in the morning.
Until next time!