Posts Tagged ‘america’
Does being in some minority pressure people out their profession? In an office of whites, would lone Hispanic gentlemen feel out of place? Popular opinion would affirm that he would. Given my work environment, however, I feel as if I should have the similar reaction, even though I don’t.
Nearly every other active photographer in our office is a little different than I, although to say that is a little backwards — I’m the newcomer, here. To be sure, I’m a little different than most of the active photographers in our office.
Simply put, I’m a dude. Most everyone else isn’t.
Though my company is an equal opportunity employer, and ignoring for a moment that the office staff is pretty evenly split, the bulk of our field photogs are female. Of about 25 photographers, there were six guys when I started. Four of us were hired just this year, and one of us had the initiative to get himself fired before training ended.
Although there was nothing improper about his firing — he didn’t think twice about calling in sick whenever he didn’t feel like showing up, and this during training — I liked him well enough, chronic absence and all. Had he showed up, he might have been an ideal employee. Probably not, though.
Among the photographers, now, there are five guys. On one of our so-far rare reprieves, I asked why there were so many more gals driving to schools every day. Basically, she said:
Guys just don’t tend to last that long. Maybe they just say, “I have enough girl problems, already.”
After a pause and a bit of a chuckle, she noted:
Those guys who do stick usually don’t have girl problems.
Even as an adult heterosexual white male, I’m perfectly comfortable with the mostly female staff I see every day — my year or two in a sorority steels my nerves in that regard — and I can’t help but be amused.
In America, adult heterosexual white males are supposed to crowd out everyone else in from the adult heterosexual while male professions in construction, politics, journalism, high finance and the military. After a year in education and the beginning of what may be many years in school photography, I’ve managed to choose two fields where adult heterosexual white males are in the minority.
I’m either open minded or I really want to seem that way.
I’ve decided that my room isn’t big enough for a bed.
At about 8 feet by 10 feet, I can just barely fit my two desks, a couch and some random computer chair, but I can’t comfortably squeeze in a mattress, box spring and bed frame. Therefore, I’ve decided to live without one.
Thanks, Japan, for making this decision possible. I figured that because your largest metropolitan area has an average of almost 5,800 residents crammed in every square kilometer, you know a little something about space management. For readers who need a more allegorical comparison, that’s like cramming the population of the city of Los Angeles into the city limits of San Francisco. Tight fit.
So instead of taking that extra-long twin my parents want out of their house and stashing it somewhere in my room, I pull out a cheap, blue, child-sized futon at night. I sleep on that, in the style of all those really crowded countries across the Pacific.
It’s mighty comfortable, even ignoring that it lays right on the floor and all. I like my mattresses firm. The floor is pretty firm.
I have no reason to switch back in the near future, especially considering the health benefits of a firm mattress for my sort of sleeper.
I’m thinking that this is a pretty smart move, at the very least because not having to worry about a permanent fixture in the middle of my room really opens up my place.
When I think about it, though, this isn’t a decision between mattress and futon. The last guy with this room had no problem with his bed the way it was, and he had a mighty fine bed. No, this was a decision between one mattress and two or three large, wooden bookcases.
Even after recognizing that this is the real reason I’m going without a West-style bed, I’d choose bookcases any day of the week. Nothing makes me feel more at home than multiple full bookshelves. I’d like to get back to that.
Of course, it’s a good thing I’m only sleeping Japanese and not living it. If I were living Japanese, I wouldn’t be able to afford an apartment large enough to fit either my mattress or the behemoth-sized oak shelving coming my way.
In other words, God bless America.
He came on Friday, reminding us all how true it is that, as one of America’s founding codgers noted, fish and visitors stink after three days. He called one of my close female friends in a moment of crisis.
Newly graduated in December 2007, he had made the unfortunate choice of leaving CalPoly with a plain, ol’ business finance degree. That’s the degree linemen choose — in the business department, the prerequisite bar is usually set so low that Mike Tyson would earn his summa cum laude, even without threatening to bite off his professors’ ears.
As a finance graduate might understand, because there is such a great supply of business majors, there is very little demand. He’s been living out of his car since he left school, and hasn’t had a job since he boneheadedly quit his internship. He’s made a lot of mistakes.
Of course, he swears he’s made up this time, that he has a few good job opportunities on the horizon. Press a little harder, and you’ll find that these opportunities are no opportunities at all. They entail selling insurance, providing your own leads and working solely on commission. I’d rather work for Alec Baldwin.
Moreover, our friend is eternally awkward, and has no idea how transparent was his sucking up. Nicole would ask him: Want to do a puzzle, friend?
Sure. I love puzzles, dude.
His unenthusiasm was palpable. Or, a different friend would ask another: How’d you like hiking up in Yosemite?
It was sweet. Once we got to the top of our mountain, there were all of these hot chicks, especially Nicole.
I’m told he laughed his way out of the shock and horror the within-earshot Nicole gave him. He was the definition of pathetic, and almost the second definition of sympathetic. Early on his last day in Nicole’s apartment, he broke the shower head. Not because he intended to, but because he forced it in a direction it was not at all inclined to swivel. He was pathetically sympathetic.
Until, of course, he in confidence he tried to make what he’d play off as another misfired joke.
I didn’t want to take advantage of my mom or my sister, so I’ve been taking advantage of my friend Danny and my friend Nicole. Heh-eh.
My facial expression told him that I was not the kindred spirit he imagined me to be. He stuttered a bit, and clumsily tried to cover up his tracks with a few more of his one-and-a-half laughs.
Someone is in a dire need of a reset button, so it’s too bad God hasn’t seen fit to make ‘em. Part of me believes it’d just be a waste, anyway: A guy like that would just bone up and make the same mistakes the second time around.
He left on Sunday, proving once and for all that fish and visitors can stink within three days, as well as after.
