I live in the Midwest. To be specific Evansville, Indiana. That makes me a Hoosier, and like everybody else who lives here, I’m damn proud of it, even though I’m not exactly sure what the word “Hoosier” means. Like all Hoosiers, I pretend as if I’ve never heard that in some parts of the country the term actually means white trash. Maybe that in itself means I am white trash. I say “ya’ll”—a lot. I say “a lot” a lot too. I bowl on a league. I drink cheap beer. And yes, I am friends with more than one person who has a mullet. Who knows? I could be a fried green tomato away from putting my husband’s old recliner out on the front porch.
One fact I’ve learned from living amongst Hoosiers is that they don’t have much tolerance for laziness. Folks here work hard. If you want to live respectfully in this great state you’d better wake up every day with a plan. You’d better grab your lunch and head out the door before 8A.M., and you’d better work your ass off after you clock in.
I am a Hoosier with a plan. For the first time in my life I have a blue collar job that has absolutely nothing to do with my degree in journalism. I am the receiving team leader on the dock at the local Macy’s department store. I put in long hours schlepping heavy boxes. I work like a man. I sweat like a man. At the end of my shift I go home exhausted and collapse on the sofa. Sometimes I stick my hand down the front of my jeans and holler for my husband to bring me a Busch Light (a Bud Light if it’s on sale).
When you are a writer everything you do that isn’t writing is just another job anyway. So it doesn’t matter how I make my money. I could be a doctor, or a ditch digger. It’s all the same to me because what I really want to be doing is writing.
Working on a dock is hard. But there’s something to be said for the repetitive labor—it leaves the mind free to create. Many of my short stories and some ideas for fledgling novels were born while schlepping boxes on the dock. There’s also a deep sense of gratification that comes from putting in a hard day’s work. But the best part is when I clock out I know I’m finished. While my husband, who has a white collar position, carries his seemingly endless job as a controller around with him everywhere he goes. Of course he does make over ten times much more money than I do. Guess it’s a trade off, huh?
I love love LOVE all the banalities of my Midwestern life. But things have not always been so wonderfully ordinary for me. There was a time when I woke up terrified of what the day might bring. At night I often went to bed hungry and to-the-bone sore from being kicked and punched. And more than once, when the face of rage descended upon me hard and fast, I can remember being afraid that I could die at any minute. But I was a crazy optimist as a kid, and I kept thinking things were going to get better. And as it turns out I was right.
Having had an abusive childhood has given me some gritty determination and equipped me cockroach-like survival skills. It’s made me appreciate the simple pleasures in life and to be thankful for every act of kindness bestowed upon me. And still, as an adult, when the going gets rough, in the back of my mind I know things will soon be better, because even now I’m still a crazy optimist.
