From Teaching to Temping

I shielded my eyes from the brightness of the welders' sparks as I walked through the factory at break. They had given me factory glasses to place over mine, and I took heed. I'd remembered seeing a sign in a shop class that said, "Better to look funny than not to look at all...Wear your goggles."
Although working for a temporary job that once I'd figured out the routine, bored me silly, I resorted to my own fantasy world of denial. "I am not an engineer's secretary. I could say I'm a teacher, but more than that...I'm a writer, simply disguising myself as these roles, particularly the former. The former is definitely not what I truly am."
There was something about walking through the factory section that made me feel I was in a different dimension, like Walter Mitty, whose daydreams were introduced by the onomatopoetic sounds, and, lo and behold, he in his mind, was a pilot of a World War II airplane, fighting the enemy, much like Snoopy on his doghouse, playing the role of the Red Baron.
Ah, little did they know, these employees, that a bona fide writer was walking through. What a sense of importance! I had the power to take their grueling activities and transform them to a new height. Perhaps, I would write a screen play about them similar to the movie with Sally Fields, fighting for the rights of the workers.
What adventure!
Yet another time, I'd been called by another temporary agency to do a "clerical" job, so they claimed. But alas, the clerical job included walking around the factory floor weighing papers for boxing. Up and down the aisles, walking, walking, walking...like a restless panther in his confined cage, repeating to myself, "The mind in its own place, can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."* This was truly hell. I would not let anyone know I was a teacher. They would make my life miserable, as miserable as they did my husband, when the cigar and tobacco factory workers knew he was a radio broadcaster and were all shocked that he could keep up with them. One worker even tried to drop a bail of tobacco on his head, until he proved he could keep pace.
But then, the moment of truth for me. A former student recognised me. "Hey, you were my sub at school"
"A teacher?"
Word spread.
Endless ribbing, smiles, laughs, jokes....
Couldn't take it much more, "The mind in its own place can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."* Time to get out of hell, stop walking like a caged panther, stop weighing and considering.
Teaching is not the caliber of writing or acting, but better than this faux role, remedied at the end of the day with feet soaking.
There was a short time I was answering the phone at yet another factory where the bosses' son wrote letters in cursive I could not decipher, and I had to somehow, type.
I had to check with the boss to figure out what the sloppy writing, bad spelling, grammar and punctuation actually said.
And what's worse is the picture of their house made me realize they lived in a mansion... Paris Hilton in the form of a son.
Answering the phone, I said, "Screw Factory." But what I truly wanted to say was, "Screw Factory...Screw you!"
Ah, I want to go back to refereeing hoodlums, intolerable disciplinary problems, shouting above the crowd, enduring the condescension of "real" teachers, who didn't fully comprehend that you are one, in community and theater education, especially drama, having skills in drama teaching they didn't have. One day, I saw a sign on a teacher's desk that said, "There's no Substitute for a good teacher". Well, that certainly got my day off to a good start!
"For the mind in it's own place can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven,"*
and "It's better to look funny than not to look at all."

(*Milton's "Paradise Lost".)

A Matter of Choice

I held my palms out to the heat of the fireplace as I noticed something on the hearth… ten little creatures looking up at me.
“We’re your helpers,” announced one of them from the right row of five.
“Or your hinderers,” announced the other line leader of a scraggly crew on the left.
“It’s your choice,” said a second one from the statelier group.
Hmmm…I thought. This is like those 50’s TV Programs with the angel on one shoulder and the demon on the other. This is really tough!
“What do you intend to help me with?” I asked the helpers.
The third elemental said, “We’ll see to it you get your housework done and the meals on time and that you keep your appointments and exercise.”
That doesn’t sound like much fun, I thought.
“What about you?” I asked the more motley crew.
“We’ll see to it that you procrastinate,” said the second troll, “and that you go around carrying grudges, that you neglect your creative work, are so late that you fall down running to your appointments, or that you become a workaholic, putting people last, that you get into conflicts with others, and unconsciously become inconsiderate to the most important people in your life.”
That sounds even worse, I thought. The price I’d pay would be terrible, lining up with these guys.
“Okay,” I replied, “I choose you five on the right to be my helpers.”
“Yes, but…” said the fourth helper.
“But what?”
“It’s not as if we come free. This will cost you, too.”
“In what way?”
The fourth helper piped up, “You have to be willing and have a ‘yes, let’s’ attitude, a cooperative spirit. We can only help you if you do your part.”
“But,” the fifth helper said, “the consequences from the pirates on the left are severe if you don’t!”
“But,” I replied, “I didn’t ask to be born, to do all this work!”
“Neither did anybody else,” said the first elf.
The third demon said, “Just because you’re born doesn’t mean you’re required to do all this stuff. Take it easy, get up, forget breakfast, and turn on the TV, watch soaps, pour yourself a beer…”
“Yeah,” said the fourth demon, “all you have to do is lie there, drinking beer, eating potato chips, and getting fat. Who cares if you ever amount to anything? Who cares if you write a poem and touch somebody’s heart?”
“Wouldn’t it be fun?” said the fifth demon, “to just sit around playing solitaire and ordering a pizza night after night? Aaah…the Good Life!”
My mouth watered, thinking about that pizza and savoring the hops in the beer, going brain dead in front of the TV, watching my bones deteriorate, due to lack of exercise.
The last two thoughts jarred me out of my daydream coma.
“Okay, guys, you win,” I told the five helpful servants. “You’re the ones I choose.”
All five became a chorus. “We don’t work well as last resort… You’ll do this with enthusiasm?”
“Willingly and enthusiastically,” I said, “and even when I’m not, I’ll go your route anyway, and that will create the excitement and the fun.”
The trolls marched off dejectedly; their intentions were to spoil the food in the refrigerator, to make the table butter rancid, and to jump into the sugar bowl in order to create little squirming bugs.
“Go ahead,” I avowed, addressing the departing trolls, “I’ll just clean up the mess. You won’t like that I even lift a finger, do you, because you’re not my friends.”
The good fairies giggled together and flew with gossamer wings to the windowsill.
“We’re here when you need us,” they waved.
“Thanks, guys,” I responded, “I’ll be calling on you soon.”