IT'S WHAT I'VE STEPPED INTO

I suppose I’m like most working stiffs, happy to be employed, doing a job that I never in a million years dreamt about doing. On occasion I’ll hear people say, “I love my work. I love my job.” These are the people I love to hate. Call it envy.

When is the so-called awakening? When does one realize their special calling or talent? Without getting all religious on anyone, I’ve found times where I think I’ve stepped into my element, found my niche; then I have those days when reality sinks in, where self-discovery comes in the form of shit caked onto the waffle-bottom of my shoe.

I’ve often defined myself as a convict teacher, much to the chagrin of The Walking Man and others. In fact, TWM thinks I shouldn’t limit my self-identity; we are, after all, multi-dimensional, not cardboard cut-out characters. I know he’s right. The way I see it: I spend the majority of my waking hours inside a correctional facility supervising prisoners. It’s what I’d like to think I’m good at. It’s also what I write about most of the time. It’s what I’ve stepped into.

Twenty-some years ago, I met a fellow college student in an Early American Literature Course. We became friends, if only for a short time. She went her way. I went mine. She had an undying passion for Victorian literature and continued her studies in Illinois, earning a master degree and PhD. She also wrote a book in her area of expertise. I haven’t spoken to her in decades. I sometimes wonder if she had any missteps along the way; I seriously doubt it; I’d have a hard time believing it. Check out her YouTube video.

As for me, I’ll continue my journey, not knowing whether I’m headed in the right direction but knowing that it’s the people I meet along the way, it’s what keeps me plodding along.