Every Skinny Tree

One of our regulars asked about the little black-haired girl who had pink hair sometimes. I explained that her parents want her to get a real job.

Parents are allowed to make all the rude comments they’d like to make. I am only bothered that my fellow Barista/ Booksellers here at Gilroy Crossing Barnes and Noble are beginning to adopt this feeling—as if the unspoken age and wage limits on this position have robbed us of our nobility.

Even my friend at the “real” Starbuck’s, where perks abound, has recently resigned herself to the philosophy that we “don’t know what [we] want to be when [we] grow up and that is why [we] make coffee.” Of course she said this in a moment of camaraderie and the “we” was heavily implied.

I graduated cum laude; my BA in English so I opened my mouth to respond to my comrade’s implications and was not in the least surprised at what fell out: “Hm, yeah that sucks.”

“We,” as it turns out, include Janay, who is studying to devote her life to juvenile justice, meanwhile she is the manager of a staff including the lively criminologist-in-training, the practicing rock star, the cadaver-sniffing nursing student, one interim youth pastor, one Yalee pre-med and last, but not least, the pre-professional educator—but at least I have a certificate of clearance signed by none other than the Governator himself. And, make no mistake; I am on the fast track to a Master’s Degree in Theology. You can’t tell us we don’t know where we’re going!

We Baristas are highly trained in the business of being nice when we feel very mean. But I know that some of you may want to know what is really going on: As previously divulged, the staff here at the cafe happens to know exactly what we want to be and now that I am a grown up I have realized that this is the very reason for what some may assume is the little coffee shop job I took to get myself through college.

So, I’m thinking, why don’t you take your disrespect for my way of effectively thriving in an exorbitantly capitalist society and shove it under the brewer where the mold grows because I have had enough.

I would never say that out loud to anyone who really deserved to hear it because I am trying to be a good person, you know, model a little patience. I am a teacher after all.

Which reminds me, have you hugged a teacher today? Probably not. All harassment lawsuits aside, you could go ahead and embrace public education but we have been a prickly bunch these past few weeks. The annual standardized tests blew in like a hailstorm of tiny grey bubbles. To make matters worse, we have had to brace ourselves against chilly winds of change driven in by high pressure Sactown proposals to put our pensions in Jeopardy.

Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not in it for the pension. I’m in it because I love teaching. And the California Credential Board will be stuck with me until they fire me for telling my students what The Butter Battle Book is really about. (Don’t laugh; under the Governor’s new tenure policy there may be new reason to call him the Terminator.)

All this talk about pensions got me thinking and as a matter of fact I remember my seventh grade history teacher explaining that even social security (our national pension plan) would not— could not—possibly exist when I am old enough to collect. So I have been emotionally prepared-if not fiscally- for some time. I always fancied myself a little too independent to look forward to the so-euphemistically-named retirement plan my husband’s dead grandmother had to rely on. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to trust STRS any farther than I could throw it.

To add to the confusion you must remember, teachers are not allowed to draw from social security no matter how long one worked in “The Private Sector” (the timpani resounds)—reminders like this fly high and fast around the teacher’s lounge.

And there you have it; I have considered the options for myself when I hope to join the fixed income crowd and I am back to square one, waking up three days each week to teach 60 children who do not read as well as they will when I’m done with them. And filling the remaining 50 hours of the come-on-let’s-be-realistic work week knowing full well that even when I am retired I will have to take care of myself: no STRS, no SS (does this bit of wisdom make me smarter than my grandparents?).

In closing I’d like to give a shout out to Title I funding: Hooray, a pay check. Let it be known that I am a Barista because four days a week I have the opportunity to earn a little extra money to support a pretty nasty teaching habit. If you have any questions come on down and I’ll make you a venti _mocha frappucino affogato style… What? You don’t speak Starbucks? That’s okay, I am credentialed to teach second languages and, at the café, I’m paid to chat it up.