This morning I saw something ugly. I was standing in front of the Walgreens on North Michigan Avenue waiting for it to open when this homeless man (equipped with dirty white t-shirt, rumpled pants, unlaced shoes, and packed plastic bags) walked up to the garbage can a few feet away. At that moment, I and the man who was waiting with me both turned our heads so quickly like we were two puppets on the same string. At that moment, we were both a part of the harsh reality of this man’s life—a life of walking down streets digging in garbage cans for food.
Minutes before Mr. Homeless entered our worlds, I watched the man [waiting with me] impatiently check his watch because it was 6:59 a.m. and the store opened at 7:00 a.m. Minutes after Mr. Homeless entered our worlds, I remembered how—as the man was impatiently checking the time, I was thinking about shopping for shoes after work. We were both caught up in our own worlds of important things that mattered to us, but why did we look away? Why couldn’t we face this ugly thing that was in front of us so clearly?
I guess in some way Mr. Homeless could sense our uneasiness because instead of digging for food in the garbage, he dug in one of the bags for a skinny white women’s belt to put on. Even as a stranger to our worlds, Mr. Homeless was sensitive to our inability to experience a moment in his shoes without second-guessing the trivial things that made us impatient and/or happy a few minutes earlier. He wanted us to enjoy our happy-wednesday without having to reflect on the goodness of God’s tender mercies of not being so low that we needed the dirty leftovers of others to live. Sometimes I say we, but I’m also guilty of turning my head to ugly things in life like homelessness. In a way, I know it exists but I don’t want it to touch my world because I can’t change it. When I walk to work some mornings and see others like Mr. Homeless tucked in the hidden corners of a city that’s still asleep, I wish whatever situation that got them to slumbering in Grant Park could be reversed. I wish these things wouldn’t be, but I can’t change their lives. The only thing I see to do is just be a little more grateful than I was yesterday about what and who I have in my life.
At 7:03 a.m. the doors of Walgreens were opened. The small crowd that had gathered during our time of wait filed in the doors like shuffling schoolchildren on a bus. This made us happy and able to get on with the day. This made us push the ugly thing to the miscellaneous part of our brain. As I entered the doors I looked back for Mr. Homeless, but he had moved along to the next garbage can down the street where he dug for something good to eat. Something that was left there for him by somebody like me who doesn’t think twice about where the next meal will come.
Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil. Cling to what is good. Rom. 12:9
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Dreaming of Words to Say If You Were Here
The other night something happened to me. The other night I lied awake in my bed thinking about my father. Ever since his birthday, which was September 4th, I’ve been dreaming, thinking, and wanting to talk to him. And when I hear friends talk about their dads or go to weddings and see friends being walked down aisles by their dads, it makes me wonder what kind of relationship I would have with my father if he were still alive.
Sometimes I consider my ways and seldom moods swings and wonder would he even like me? Would we talk on the phone everyday? Would we still go clothing shopping in his rushed-kind-of-way? Would we be the way I sometimes pictures us being in hazy dreams running down some unknown street to Long John Silver’s, running so we’re out of breath but laughing so hard because we’re happy. Would we hug the way we did in this dream just before entering the restaurant through glass doors? Even as I write these questions it seems like a piece of me is missing because I will never know these answers. The other night I wondered did my father know how much I loved him, even though sometimes I didn’t know how to show it—could he feel it? Those twelve years ago in April when he closed his eyes in death did he get a glimpse of my face and think to himself, I know she loves me?
The other night I cried when I couldn’t remember the last thing my father said to me or what he looked like the last time I saw him and he said goodbye. These things may seem so insignificant to some people, but the other night I needed to know these things. I said I would only keep these feelings between Jesus and me, but since I’m still dealing the guilt of not being there for my father, for not spending more weekends at his apartment, for not saying “I love you” loud enough so he can hear it—I’ll share this because it might help someone else (just maybe).
It’s silly to say that sometimes I pray to dream of you so I can do and say the things I should of when you were hear. Things like: I’m sorry for being embarrassed by you—I was young and dumb and didn’t know the clock on your life was ticking away. I was happy that day you showed up to my pre-school with a pair of blue, red, and yellow 1,2,3 skates. I was sad that day on report card pick up and you had a seizure (I was six and didn’t want you to die). I was scared the day you sat me on the lap of a white Santa Claus at the mall. I was happy every time you said ‘yes’ to my Air Jordan sneakers requests. I was scared that night you were drunk and I ran down the street and away from you. I was foolish the Sunday I skipped church because I knew you would be there, and I was lost the day I sat on the pew hearing you be eulogized.
Sometimes I consider my ways and seldom moods swings and wonder would he even like me? Would we talk on the phone everyday? Would we still go clothing shopping in his rushed-kind-of-way? Would we be the way I sometimes pictures us being in hazy dreams running down some unknown street to Long John Silver’s, running so we’re out of breath but laughing so hard because we’re happy. Would we hug the way we did in this dream just before entering the restaurant through glass doors? Even as I write these questions it seems like a piece of me is missing because I will never know these answers. The other night I wondered did my father know how much I loved him, even though sometimes I didn’t know how to show it—could he feel it? Those twelve years ago in April when he closed his eyes in death did he get a glimpse of my face and think to himself, I know she loves me?
The other night I cried when I couldn’t remember the last thing my father said to me or what he looked like the last time I saw him and he said goodbye. These things may seem so insignificant to some people, but the other night I needed to know these things. I said I would only keep these feelings between Jesus and me, but since I’m still dealing the guilt of not being there for my father, for not spending more weekends at his apartment, for not saying “I love you” loud enough so he can hear it—I’ll share this because it might help someone else (just maybe).
It’s silly to say that sometimes I pray to dream of you so I can do and say the things I should of when you were hear. Things like: I’m sorry for being embarrassed by you—I was young and dumb and didn’t know the clock on your life was ticking away. I was happy that day you showed up to my pre-school with a pair of blue, red, and yellow 1,2,3 skates. I was sad that day on report card pick up and you had a seizure (I was six and didn’t want you to die). I was scared the day you sat me on the lap of a white Santa Claus at the mall. I was happy every time you said ‘yes’ to my Air Jordan sneakers requests. I was scared that night you were drunk and I ran down the street and away from you. I was foolish the Sunday I skipped church because I knew you would be there, and I was lost the day I sat on the pew hearing you be eulogized.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Love Be Making Me Blue
This is me trying to be a girl in love. This is me wanting some attention from a man who’s not afraid to give it to me. When I say it—I mean all of it without one drop left in the bottom of his heart’s cup. In a way I think I deserve it. In a way, I think love has done me wrong for so long and for why? I’ve done nothing wrong to cupid or his rosy cheeks. I’m not the one who cursed the day the color red was made, and to be honest I practically worship this color and all it stands for.
This is me being too flaky and perhaps too picky. Is it my fault that I haven’t met a guy yet that can hold my attention longer than two blinks? (Well, there is this guy who I sometimes spy with my brown little eyes from time to time. And grant it, he may look better going than coming but there’s still something there that keeps me watching). Anyway, is it my fault that I want men to worship me? Is it my fault that men are sometimes intimidated by me? Is it my fault that these men don’t have the balls to approach me?
This is me trying to figure something out. Why is it that homeless-lower Wacker drive type guys be trying to woo me? (“Seriously,” I want to sometimes say, “you live on the street.” Is it something written on my face that says, “Ooh you dirty, dirty man, I want your love?” Is it the way I switch my hips that makes men old enough to be my dead grand papa want me? I guess I’ll never understand why these men are offended when I walk away. I guess I’ll never understand why love be making me blue. I guess I won’t figure it out until my next lunch break when I’m eating pasta and needing something to do.
This is me being too flaky and perhaps too picky. Is it my fault that I haven’t met a guy yet that can hold my attention longer than two blinks? (Well, there is this guy who I sometimes spy with my brown little eyes from time to time. And grant it, he may look better going than coming but there’s still something there that keeps me watching). Anyway, is it my fault that I want men to worship me? Is it my fault that men are sometimes intimidated by me? Is it my fault that these men don’t have the balls to approach me?
This is me trying to figure something out. Why is it that homeless-lower Wacker drive type guys be trying to woo me? (“Seriously,” I want to sometimes say, “you live on the street.” Is it something written on my face that says, “Ooh you dirty, dirty man, I want your love?” Is it the way I switch my hips that makes men old enough to be my dead grand papa want me? I guess I’ll never understand why these men are offended when I walk away. I guess I’ll never understand why love be making me blue. I guess I won’t figure it out until my next lunch break when I’m eating pasta and needing something to do.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Okay, Exhale Now
After the interview I was really excited and satisfied. It actually went better than I expected, and the managers genuinely seemed as though they liked me and working for HIMSS (the company). And Ande, yes I did ask questions. At first I was a bit intimidated when I arrived at the conference room and saw the setup of the table and chairs. Basically, it was like they were going to tag team me, but it turned out to be the complete opposite. I arrived early so I was able to breathe and center myself (giggle), but seriously I did do some breathing exercises I picked up in Tai Chi to relax myself and it worked. When the managers were seated around me everything seemed very natural and I wasn't tense. After the interview, one of the managers took me upstairs to her desk to show me the software I would be using. During this demonstration, the Senior Director came by and gave me her card before offering me a cookie, which I took. So yeah, this was a good experience and I can't really compliant.
Here are some questions from the interview:
1. How are with keeping deadlines?
2. What type of decisions are most difficult for you?
3. In what type of environment will you be most successful?
4. Where do you see yourself in 10 years?
5.What three things do you think makes for a successful call center? (When I answered this I actually gave four things).
6. What was the best/least thing I like about school?
7. Why shift from film to fiction?
8. What is your greatest strength?
This is what I wrote on the bus after leaving the company. Overall, I felt very confident and assured of myself. Thank you, Jehovah. I believe I made a lasting impression on the managers. Despite the outcome I'm glad I had this experience. Favorite part: asking managers questions. Least favorite part: looking up at the ceiling twice during the interview.
So now I wait. The director told me that they were going to do a background check and let me know within two weeks.
Listening to: House Music
Monday, August 18, 2008
"Ms. Cole, The Managers Will See You Now"
Is there any right way to prepare for a job interview? Should I read all I can about the company on their .org website? Should I practice facial expressions/the proper handshake/my posture in the mirror? Should I get a voice recorder and say "My name is Antoinette Cole, and I am ready to work!" over and over until I'm sure it's the right blend of honesty and professionalism? Should I put on my World Flutes CD and center myself and meditate on getting the job? Should I agonize on what to wear buying going back and forth on the lively color of salmon or New York black? Or should I ...
Okay, tomorrow I'm going on a job interview at a company that contracts IT work for health care facilities, and I'm trying to creatively visualize what will be the outcome. On Saturday at about 1:30p, I was feeling very confident about going and wowing the three managers I have to meet with out of their seats until I spoke with my godfather at 1:31p and he basically laid out the facts for me very bluntly. (Sidebar, this is a guy who always gives it to anybody (and especially me) straight). At 1:33p on Saturday, he told me how I had to live up to the high recommendations that his wife gave to her boss on my behalf, he told me that I have to impress these managers with my charm so they'll like me, he told me that I have to go the extra mile because I don't have any experience in the field I'm applying for so it's important for them to like me enough to want to hire me, he told me that I have to concentrate on being concise and answering the question, that I should bring a writing pad and pen so I can jot down names, that I should not be weird, that I should REALLY sell myself, that I should walk in the door confident, and finally that I should just be me.
After speaking with my GF on Saturday I started thinking differently about the interview and a little worry begin to set in. Yes, I know that I have to sell myself and make these people understand that even though this is a marketing position I can do the job. Sometimes ... well, a lot of times my godfather tells me that I'm not as confident in myself as others are in me. There was a time when I would say that he was on to something with this statement, but now I'm different and know that I have potential and abilities that I haven't even tapped into yet. In a way, I'm glad my GF pointed out some of the things he did on Saturday because in a way I know that I needed to hear (maybe two) of those things.
So in closing, please pray for me. Those of you who know me can attest to the fact that I can go off on tangents when answering a question. Tonight when you all lay down to sleep say, "God, please let Antoinette not fumble and mumble, and Savior please let her just be concise."
Listening to: The hum of library lights
Friday, August 15, 2008
After Four Rejections a Final Yea!
Dear Antoinette K. Cole,
I wanted to let you know your entry "Water Mommies" made it to the final three entries in consideration for this year's Jack Dyer Fiction Prize competition (out of three hundred and eighty-nine entries). Since you were one of our finalists, we would like to offer to publish your entry (if the work is still available for first publication) in CRAB ORCHARD REVIEW, Volume 14, Number 1, which is scheduled to appear in Winter/Spring 2009.
--Hey all, I still can't believe I'm going to be published in this magazine. When I received the call from Mr. Tribble the other day I was very surprised because I had forgotten all about the Jack Dyer submission. Anyway, he made my day when he told me how much Carolyn Alessio (the fiction judge and prose editor for COR) loved the story. This one acceptance makes all the rejections that much sweeter.
I wanted to let you know your entry "Water Mommies" made it to the final three entries in consideration for this year's Jack Dyer Fiction Prize competition (out of three hundred and eighty-nine entries). Since you were one of our finalists, we would like to offer to publish your entry (if the work is still available for first publication) in CRAB ORCHARD REVIEW, Volume 14, Number 1, which is scheduled to appear in Winter/Spring 2009.
--Hey all, I still can't believe I'm going to be published in this magazine. When I received the call from Mr. Tribble the other day I was very surprised because I had forgotten all about the Jack Dyer submission. Anyway, he made my day when he told me how much Carolyn Alessio (the fiction judge and prose editor for COR) loved the story. This one acceptance makes all the rejections that much sweeter.
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