trinityofone

This morning, on the phone, my mother asked how I was doing with all the Weinstein stuff.

( discussion of sexual assault under the cut )

I'm setting up a side hustle.

I don't make enough money. I have no credit and no savings, and so when things happen (like needing two new tires before winter, as I do) I am shit out of luck. 1/3 of my money each month goes to the bankruptcy settlement, and that's as it should be. But I am woefully underpaid for my profession, and there was no raise this year. Getting another job in my profession would mean moving out of town at the very least, away from my support network, and would probably mean moving out of state. Given my mental health, it's not doable.

So I need a side hustle. And I'm mad about it.

My particular profession requires a lot of post-graduate training - in my case, eleven years of it. I didn't go into my profession for the money (that would be laughable), but I did imagine I'd make a living commensurate with my skills. And yet, no. Not even. I've been in my job for twelve years and a good friend who's in her second year in the same profession is making just $5000 less than I am. (She should be earning every penny of what she is, and more. We're both underpaid.) I asked my boss today if I could submit my materials for a promotion. He said I needed to wait a year. (And nothing will materially change in a year. It's simply an arcane rule of where I work.)

Aie.

I'm cognizant of my privilege. I'm not working two minimum wage jobs to try and feed my kids, and I really truly know how lucky that makes me. That person should be being paid a hell of a lot more money for their labor.

But still. I'm going to be setting up a side hustle to work in my not-very-much-free-time. It's necessary. I'm grateful that I have the ability to do it. But I am mad about it.

In school I was taught the names
Columbus, Cortez, and Pizzarro and
A dozen other filthy murderers.
A bloodline all the way to General Miles,
Daniel Boone and General Eisenhower.

No one mentioned the names
Of even a few of the victims.
But don't you remember Chaske, whose spine
Was crushed so quickly by Mr. Pizzaro's boot?
What words did he cry into the dust?

What was the familiar name
Of that young girl who danced so gracefully
That everyone in the village sang with her--
Before Cortez' sword hacked off her arms
As she protested the burning of her sweetheart?

That young man's name was Many Deeds,
And he had been a leader of a band of fighters
Called the Redstick Hummingbirds, who slowed
The march of Cortez' army with only a few
Spears and stones which now lay still
In the mountains and remember.

Greenrock Woman was the name
Of that old lady who walked right up
And spat in Columbus' face. We
must remember that, and remember
Laughing Otter the Taino who tried to stop
Columbus and who was taken away as a slave.
We never saw him again.

In school I learned of heroic discoveries
Made by liars and crooks. The courage
Of millions of sweet and true people
Was not commemorated.

Let us then declare a holiday
For ourselves, and make a parade that begins
With Columbus' victims and continues
Even to our grandchildren who will be named
in their honor.

Because isn't it true that even the summer
Grass here in this land whispers those names,
And every creek has accepted the responsibility
Of singing those names? And nothing can stop
The wind from howling those names around
The corners of the school.

Why else would the birds sing
So much sweeter here than in other lands?

-- Columbus Day, by Jimmie Durham (Cherokee) (West End Press, 1983)