Boats and Death

There are three boat pictures in my room, not including my current calendar picture, which is also depicting a boat. You're probably thinking, "Goodness! She's a boat fiend. All of her relationships will play second fiddle to her love of boats. She'll wind up throwing everything away for a chance to sail off into the sunset with the wind at her back. What a whore."
I promise that my whorish ways have nothing to do with my love of boats. You see, a boat is the perfect metaphor for the true, brutal, beautiful nature of freedom and how risky that freedom is. Patrick Henry very likely understood that. After all, he did not say "Give me a reasonable promise of security, or give me death!" Safety and security do not freedom and liberty make. Having a tremendous military devoted to protecting the homeland by occupying strategic points all over the globe and squatting like a great troll on a Statue of Liberty-shaped bridge to make sure all the little brown, not-English speaking people can't get in to Uh-merika (unless they're willing to pick oranges or scrub our toilets for slave wages) does not equate to freedom.

Why do we put such stock in freedom when to most of us it is little more than an idea unpracticed? Most of us, aside from exhilarating moments of adolescent stupidity, never come very close to experiencing genuine freedom. Freedom is wild and dangerous. Freedom doesn't care if you make it home alive or in an oblong box. Freedom is the shirking of any and all responsibilities to anyone or anything. Freedom is leaping into the abyss, eyes wide open, amazed and terrified.

The closest I've come to that, aside from a moment on stage during a high school play, was on a tall ship off the North Island of New Zealand. Before you leap to your feet and storm out of the room in disgust (New Zealand! Harrumph.), I was a tourist on a tour boat with a small group of aging Swedes. No, it wasn't the circumstance so much as the realization, as we swooped out of the bay and into open ocean, that about three inches worth of wood planking was all that stood between us and a deep and watery grave. Tied up in that realization was the sudden head rush of sheer joy of being alive and being on a boat and skating perilously close to oblivion, all at the same time. That three inches of planking is, really, all that ever separates us from death. It is right there, and any decision you make, whether it be to gun it through that yellow light or just to sit down on this particular bus stop bench at this particular moment, could be your last decision. And that right there, that is what freedom is. That individual power of choice, even if it operates within the grim confines of a world that for the most part is beyond our control, is our own little beacon of light in the darkness. We are always three inches from the wrong turn, the wrong hello to the wrong stranger, the wrong dessert, anything.

Being on a boat is freakin' terrifying. To me, anyway. A frantic little part of my brain is shrieking about all the things I have left to do, to be, to see, to rail against, to vote for, to cling to and let go, to love, and on and on and on. But unless you actually make the decision to do away with yourself, getting dead is just another thing you don't have very much control over. You have control over only those decisions made while skating along on that three inch planking, and you could break through anytime whether you want to or not.
Forget about endless preparations and just start skating for the sake of skating. It is the closest you'll ever really be to free.

Job Suckage and the Return to School

I've become very passionate about worker's rights and labor relations, and not just because I was once an enslaved child miner who so impressed my masters with my strength and loyalty that one of them set me free, free to become Arnold Schwarzenegger! No, I have also worked at jobs that sucked.
Many jobs suck. That is the nature of work; you struggle through to get to the end, thereby earning yourself a beer and a restful night of slumber and perhaps some sweet, hot love-makin' and free food.
When I say "These jobs sucked", however, what I'm really saying is "These jobs almost destroyed my will to live. These jobs made me think wistfully back on the days when I was getting bullied in middle school. These jobs made me praise Yahweh every day when it was over, then cringe with the gut-churning realization that it was all going to happen again tomorrow. These jobs made my days as a young, male slave child seem sweet by comparison."
What makes a job suck?

Here's a quick list, for those of you who are perhaps unfamiliar with the world of shitty employment, and for those who suspect they might be employed in a less than desirable post.

1. The management is a) nonexistent, b) verbally or physically abusive, c) prone to micromanagement and spying, d) makes vague threats about "staff changes", then fails to explain exactly what that means, e) doesn't or can't explain policy decisions that directly affect you, or f) willfully breaks any number of labor laws in order to cut costs.
2. The pay sucks and there are no benefits. If you are in a truly shitty job, don't even bother asking for a raise at the three month mark. Or the six month mark. Or a year after hire... And benefits? Bwahahahahahaaaa! Benefits! Ha! HAHAHAhahahahaaa!
Now, if you do sack up and actually ask for a raise, what kind of response can you expect? Try this on for size...
[Scenario: You and your Boss, in the Boss' office.
You: I've been here for six months now and had nothing but glowing reviews. I feel that I have earned the raise that was mentioned during my initial interview.
Your Boss: I thought you were here to complain about something.
You: Well... I said I wanted to bring up a minor issue with you.
Your Boss: And?
You: I'd like a raise.
Your Boss:... We don't feel that you're ready for that.
You: But I've been told repeatedly that I am.
Your Boss: (thinking, which is painful) Hmmm. How do I put this? No.
You: No?
Your Boss: How ya like them apples?]

Your boss probably wouldn't actually say "how ya like them apples", but trust me, your boss is thinking about how much you must be appreciating his apples right now.
3. The job is actually dangerous, and when you bring up the fact that it's dangerous, the response is, "Oh, yeah, we're getting around to fixing that."
True story. My aunt Nancy works for Georgia-Pacific Lumber out near Newport. The lumber elevator (yes, there is such a thing) had failed every one of its safety inspections dating back to 1976. It had been condemned as unsafe for 32 years and was still being operated when it finally went off its rails and fell on my aunt Nancy, squashing her down to four inches thick. Luckily for Nancy, she is so naturally thin that instead of cutting her two and killing her it merely broke a number of bones and caused severe organ trauma and internal bleeding. Promptly after this near-fatal accident, Georgia-Pacific fixed the elevator. Aunt Nancy, after a year of intensive phsyical therapy, went back to work. She does not go within spitting distance of the elevator.
4. You've been miscategorized as a temp or contractor, when in fact you work with and have all the same responsibilities as a regular employee and have been with your place of employment for years.
5. Your paycheck is consistently wrong, delayed, or just not there. This is known as wage theft. It is actually illegal and you can do something about it.
6. You have to ask permission to go to the bathroom, get a drink of water, or talk to one of your coworkers. You are not a first grader and should not be treated like one. If you are a first grader, stay away from the lumber elevator.
7. That's all I can think of right now, except for blatantly illegal things like theft, forced unpaid overtime, unwanted sexual advances, bludgeoning with a stick, etc...

My newfound, long-gestating passion for worker's rights prompted me to flail around the internet in a quest to find the most effective way to pursue, and actually do something about, improving the labor picture in Oregon and elsewhere. It eventually brought me back to school. Once again I am a student, though being a student is a very different experience the second time around. I mean, who are all these little kids? What the hell is that girl wearing? Is this Miami Beach, or what? Honey, please, put on some clothes. This time around I am actually here to get an education, not necessarily to discover "who I am" and what "the Real Me" wants out of life. Thank-fucking-God. I am not here to find a boyfriend. I am not here to fuck lots of strangers and cry about it later, alone, in my dorm, looking at old family photo albums. I am not here to be told that I am a "good girl" by creepy old man professors. I am not here to get soooooo druuunk, maaan.
I am actually here for an education. I'm here to start to figure what, if anything, I can do to make the national labor picture less butt ugly. I'm here to learn advocacy skills and develop my voice and a pro-labor leader. I'm here to start head-butting my way into the federal government's handling of labor issues. I'm here to "do" shit, not "be" shit, and it feels pretty damn good.

But then, classes haven't started yet.