In search of the finer things in life (unemployed)
Thoughts I've had between work
Unemployment is a status unnatural to the balance of modern-day society. Being unemployed is akin to having the plague, something poisonous and transmittable that could turn us all into zombies, tipping the scales of the universe, and burning everything we hold near and dear to the ground. If the world of capitalism were a movie, unemployment would be Voldemort, and we would all be accustomed to using its euphemism in fear of uttering such a blasted word. But life is not a movie. I’m still waiting on a letter that was supposed to come like 13 years ago, and the evil men in our world only get 24/7 news coverage, not silly euphemisms.
I’ve been voluntarily unemployed for the past eight months, now. Yes, I’m among the privileged people on the planet who are fortunate—or crazy—enough to have chosen unemployment. This is attributed to a number of conditions of which include, but not limited to: no debt, no kids, no mortgage, no chronic illnesses, no more school, no car, no crazy ambition, no cat, no dog, no apartment, no property, nobody to take care of, no pending court dates, no fear of loneliness, no fear of heights, no fear of planes, no food allergies, and no brains.
For the first seven months of unemployment, I went abroad to work full-time, where I would be paid in food and housing. Typically, though, the parameters of employment require an exchange of time and money between both parties, so I was still, technically, unemployed. Now that I’m back in the states, where the rope is tightening, and the hands of employment are starting to tickle my tail, meaning it’s time to hunker down and find myself a job. Naturally, I’ve been getting to that by complaining about unemployment and reeking of existentialism.
I used to view unemployment as a free fall, but now that it’s become a choice, it feels more like a scavenger hunt. Like an opportunity, I feel, to question the finer things in life. It is a moment to sit back on park benches and go for long bike rides, wondering what makes you tick. A bit foo foo it might sound, contemplating all the finer things in life, but when you’re looking to fill forty hours of your time a week, I find it quite worthwhile
I’ve been thinking about the finer things in life a lot, because, hopefully, I’ll soon fill this free time in the back of a restaurant and a pottery studio. Defining the finer things in either of these fields is a trivial, contentious question that I’ve struggled with as well. How far down this path of ‘fine art’ or ‘fine dining’ do I have to go? How far to find that sweet spot in employment that nourishes the soul and keeps the lights on? To find something that feels just right?
I try to push back against wanting to work in anything I could never afford myself, but it’s only human to be attracted by shiny things.
As a child of immigrants, it feels absurd to just sit around and contemplate the finer things in life, especially now. I often think of when my parents immigrated to the United States and what their lives looked like at the time, and guilt washes over me. I’m getting close to the age they were when they first set foot on this soil.
When my dad was a little older than I am now, he was enrolled in community college in Indiana, studying a computer programming language that’s maybe obsolete now. He was learning a language comprised of numbers, translated to a language comprised of Roman letters, which he translated in his brain to a language comprised of Chinese characters. He would sit in class, learning these two foreign languages in tandem before leaving to work in a restaurant 30 hours a week.
Years later, he moved to Hayward, California, with my mother and sister to see if this programming language was something they could use to create a better life, but he could not find a job, and then I was born. Back then, I was only a baby, and unemployment was something I was born into. Back then, unemployment to him was something that could kill me.
My mother was my age when she came to the US to learn more about art. She met my dad at the same community college in Indiana, where she worked with ceramics and metal and all kinds of shit. When they moved to California and then to Wisconsin, she dreamed of having her own studio to continue working with art.
They settled down in a small town, where rows of corn stretch to the sky and chain restaurants smother out any trace of creativity. In this place where looking different and being different felt like a crime, she buried her seeds of longing into the dirt because it was one of the few things we had in abundance. When my parents closed their restaurant after 30 years, those seeds had blossomed in our garden. Unemployment to her meant she could finally continue finally go back to making art.
I’m a product of immigrants, and I’ve grown up around immigrants everywhere. In my parents’ restaurant, located in a town that’s ninety percent white, there were immigrants from Taiwan, China, and Mexico in one kitchen. Immigrants have been in every kitchen I’ve stepped foot in, folding dumplings in a noodle shop, and washing dishes in a Michelin kitchen. Whatever you consider to be the finer things in life, they’ve passed through the hands of an immigrant.
When I think of my parents’ lives, I feel guilty for all the hardship they’ve been through. All the work they’ve done to find their footing in this country, to teach my sister and me kindness and respect and responsibility, so that we can have a better future. When I think of all the times they’ve kept their head down in a nation that is spitting on immigrants now, I genuinely think I might start tweaking.
I feel guilt for my parents, yes, but not pity. No, not pity because there’s too much pride in being an immigrant. It’s too badass to step into a place that doesn’t feel like home and make it work anyway. It’s a shame courage isn’t currency, because then we could all be a little more unemployed, and then I would have some more company on these park benches. I take pride in being the son of immigrants and championing their stories. I get to learn the art of rolling with punches and making more out of less, that, in itself, is a form of sorcery. Thanks to them, I don’t have to reach very far for the finest things in life.
