October 30, 2021

What do you do?

“What do you do?”

Read. Mostly.

“But, what do you do for a living?”

For money, you mean?

“Yes, for a living.”

Well, not to be obtuse, but I don’t consider “living” and “money” to be synonymous.

This is where their involuntary facial contortions begin; lips tighten a bit, edging toward a sneer, which they wrestle into an indulgent semi-smile, the eyebrows start to arch, and they try again, having now determined I am difficult, unreasonable, perhaps a bit haughty — at least two of which are probably the case at any given time, but, in particular, when I’m being measured and judged by the norms of a society that has subjugated and devalued me my entire life — but still, they ask with condescending emphasis.

“Well, then, what is it you do for money. As a career.”

The word career always sets me off, which is that unreasonable-ness I just copped to in the paragraph above; and unreasonable-ness triggers haughtiness, which, prompts making references they’ll probably not get which will allow me to feel superior. And so, I sing:

“Well, I’ve careered through career; I’m almost through my memoirs, and I’m here.”

Sondheim.1 And 9.5 times out of 10, they don’t get it. And, thus buoyed by having established (in my mind, anyway) my intellectual and cultural superiority, I hit them with my truth. Career-wise, my occupation and interest is reading. And a few of Bravo’s REAL HOUSEWIVES franchises. But for money, I house and pet-sit and clean houses.

Their reaction is something along the lines of a shocked, mumbled, uncomfortable sort of, “Oh.” Or, after the jolt of having met someone whose life (not lifestyle, mind you, but LIFE) is incomprehensible to them, which ofttimes strikes them as sad, pitiable, their assumption being some tragedy, trauma, or misdeed sentenced me to what they consider domestic chores, they stumble toward recovery and say, with a forced smile and eyes looking for the quickest escape route from someone with whom they are sure they have nothing in common, before that someone’s “common” rubs off on and sullies them, “How fascinating.”

And it’s a countdown to the hasty retreat.

I have long known that to answer honestly the questions people in polite society ask when meeting one another is to be given the heave ho. For a very long time I was embarrassed that I could not seem to accomplish what appeared to come so easily to (what seemed like) most everyone else in the world.

I am one of six children, the other five of whom got married at least once, three of them had a child or children, all of them graduated from high school and went on to some after-high-school training, three completing college degrees, and all of them qualify as either wealthy to well-off to comfortable with adequate retirement income.

I never married. Since I am gay, for most of my life I couldn’t marry. I had no children. I dropped out of high school (Well, I was chased out of high school) at age 16. Never got an advanced degree. And I have no retirement, and almost no income.

During my six decades there were periods when I worked real jobs; I made feather hat bands during the URBAN COWBOY/DALLAS craze, there was a gig working for a firm that conducted and reported government surveys, and a stint in the health insurance industry as claims processor, claims auditor, and finally, systems director, and then, the longest of my occupations, in the arts, acting, singing, teaching others to act, being part of a dance and theatre studio that catered primarily to children.

When that ended, and ended ugly, I moved in with my sister, and more or less fell into house and pet-sitting, which I could do while being available for my mom, who was in assisted living when my “working life” ended, and who needed me more and more as the years passed, until, three years ago, one week after Mother’s Day, she died in my arms.2

And it was then that I asked myself, What do you do?

And the brainwashing jumped in to answer for me: You’re a failure. You have made nothing of your life. You have done nothing with your gifts. You gave people permission to treat you like shit and convinced yourself you weren’t deserving of more. And if anyone does love you, it is only because you have deceived them into doing so.

Now, I have tried — and sometimes succeeded — to convince myself that I am measuring myself by the standards of a patriarchy, the construct of which has again and again thwarted and rejected me, and that such measuring is surrender to oppression.

Pretty words. But lots of people who were subjugated and beaten down in far more forceful ways than was I have managed to thrive, to carve a niche for themselves where they can maneuver within the framework of the patriarchy without relinquishing their principles.

And here’s the thing; what started the gears of my restless and frightened mind to grind again trying to process this conundrum, this question, was my razor is dying and Norelcos don’t come cheap, my car insurance came due, gas went over $3.50 a gallon, another of the men I have loved along the way turned out to have had the same substance addiction as my father — which means 100% of the men I thought I was in love with from 8th grade to the present either suffered from addiction, died of AIDS, or killed themselves — or some combination thereof, I’ve had a headache almost every day for two months, my A1C is steadily climbing along with my weight (DUH), it looks as if the gopzis might take the house and senate again — and no one is stopping them from the nefarious shenanigans for which they’ve been laying the groundwork for fifty years that they might turn this country into a pseudo-fascist state, thanks to that bullshit we’ve a scotus which is likely to overturn ROE v WADE, undo marriage equality, allow further restriction of voting rights, and …

The thing is … does it even matter what I do? What any of us do? What do I need to do to have a few years in this life where I’m not worried about having enough money to survive, and not worrying about the fact that it seems about half the country is okay with hate, discrimination, and dishonesty in the service of their bigotries.

What do YOU do?

Because whatever it is I am doing (or not doing) is right now, not working. In every sense of that phrase.

And here I am, (not?) going.