Like most people I think I work harder then I actually do.
I’m a single mom; a PhD student; a writer; a tutor and an Assistant Professor. I am trying to build a community of writers and to bridge relationships between the campus on which I live and study and the community that surrounds it. I am also, in my spare time, hosting a radio segment featuring writers reading their works and interviews of published writers.
At times I feel that all I do entitles me to well, to feel entitled. Not entitled to the things I don’t deserve like special parking, green-light passes, or advanced Black Friday deal information; but to rewards, perks, a sleek, shiny black coffee machine that looks good making a cup of coffee: a sexy coffee machine.
I ordered a sexy one but got a plastic, clumpy one; one that says: “you don’t work nearly as hard as you think you do.”
There are people who deserve respect, health care, free education, peace, serenity, thank yous, free homes, job security and everything else they worked, served and died for other people to have.
I don’t fight crime, save lives, put out fires; I don’t keep the streets safe, combat drugs, protect.
I raise artistic, intelligent, loving children who will one day run companies, organizations, businesses; who will be loving, caring, sincere; who will build communities and shatter stereotypes. And I teach. I teach college students the skills to write and communicate on and off the page; I endeavor to instill confidence in information, in research, in individuals; I encourage people to think critically, to question logically, to explore illogically.
I write words that explore characters, that lay them naked and exposed and whole and present them to people who will never know them off the page and to people who have known them in life and to people who are them—or think they are.
I deserve a sexy coffee machine.