It's true, I wasn't paying my dues

I confess; I was wrong. All this time, hidden behind the walls of higher education, I wasn't really paying my dues; I was borrowing on credit.

It's so easy to be self righteous, particularly for an overly educated gal like myself, but what it isn't easy to do is to be dedicated, thrifty, self-motivating, courageous and strong, which are qualities one must possess while "paying your dues". And I've been doing a lot of that here in Sonora. For example, paying bills, keeping to a budget, mangaging unexpected expenses for a car that has a mind of it's own. Living out in the real world, outside the constraints of the warm bosom of academia sure is a bitch. And that, my friends, finally, is what paying your dues means. I sure gave myself a pat on the back when I thought I was making good, didn't I? Well, you can't be humble until you've paid.

I'm heading into my one year anniversary as Marketing and Education Director and I think that a little self-reflection is in order, namely because I hardly feel like the same person. And it's only been the last month or so that I actually feel like I'm changing, finally moving towards becoming the person I've been stalling to become (yes, it's easy to rationalize heel dragging for some other less cowardly act).

The fall from the pedastal is a far one, rough landings all around, but it's good to be back on solid ground once again. In fact, there are times when I feel a little below ground, as I'm experiencing an increase in job responsibilties and therefore, expectations--both from myself and my employer. Naturally I put more pressure on me than anyone else does, but it's hard to recognize your own face in the one you're projecting your fear onto. I have a scapegoat in the office, the one I blame for putting so much pressure on me; the one I want to tell: Get out of my office! But I don't, Thank God. I reassess, re-prioritize and shut the hell up and get to work.

And that is a difficult lesson to learn: Put your energies forward, take deep breaths, listen to more Barry White and Pato Bantan, and run, run, run on that treadmill. As Eckhart Tolle once said: "Life will give you whatever experience is most helpful for the evolution of your consciousness. How do you know this is the experience you need? Because this is the experience you are having at this moment."

Finally!

It Continues

It's hard to process the day sometimes, let alone put it into a pithy, witty, rant on the state of affairs in the non-profit arts field. I recall a blog I wrote many moons ago, after an interview where I felt a potential employer wanted me to possess powers of mental telepathy. While my current employers don't ask me to possess mental telepathy, exactly, they do expect me to possess a certain power over the all mighty dollar, namely, that I can create miracles without using any. To them, my master's degree is their miracle.

There is pressure on me, it's unspoken, unwritten, and yet, there it is. We will give you no money, they tell me, but please, fill our houses, get the word out. This also presupposes incredible skill at manipulating the free press. (By the way, it's not free. Apparently, it comes with an advertising contract, which, of course, costs money. Which I don't have.)

Perhaps it's a natural cynicism born of age and education but I'm reluctant to spend all of my time searching out free publicity opportunities when they are labor intensive and promise very little return. It's obvious that the greater the quality sets, costumes, and actors, the greater the production (one hopes anyway) but the same doesn't hold in their marketing philosophy. There is little money put into marketing yet their expectations remain great. It's the something out of nothing philosophy. Yeah. Right.

"The Art" is almost a reverential being and it must be fed. And I'm all for it. I believe in it. I'm living it. However, as I'm accustomed to saying, if only in my head, if you put on quality live theatre to an empty audience, does it even matter?

How to make "The Art" understand: if it costs money to create art, it costs money to tell everyone about it, too. Is that really such a distasteful thought?

Case in Point

If you didn't believe me (and when I'm ranting, who can?) that non-profits don't do enough to attract or make room for the younger generation of non-profit hopefuls, cultural policy wonk Barry Hessenius offers more reason to panic in his new report, Involving Youth in Nonprofit Arts Organizations.

Below is a link to Barry's blog about it.

http://www.westaf.org/blog/archives/2007/04/april_25_2007_b.php

Yes!

To History and To Change

My first week of work is finished. I would like to say that I have a full understanding of the inner workings of this place, but that is not the case. It’s unlikely to be the case for at least another month. While this organization is not overly large, it has been around for a while. So when I ask questions about something like why they’re not working with a playwright who writes original historical plays for schools, why we don’t have a partnership with him, I get, “There’s history there”. My general response, thankfully in my head, is, “yeah, so what?” Obviously, that’s not the right one.

That’s not the only time I’ve gotten that answer. There’s a lot of mystery here, quite a few secrets, too, ones that I’m not going to privy to for quite some time and, I have to admit, not considering myself a gossip monger (overly so, anyway), that I’m not sure I’m going to be able to stand not knowing. On many occasion over the week, the development director has stopped herself from saying something in front of me. Just stopped herself in her tracks, an uncomfortable smile on her face (or a knowing one) and that was the end of that.

Detective work is fun, in its time and place. I hope my search for these answers, which many not mean anything to me or the organization in the long run, doesn’t keep me from finding the answers that do matter. Thankfully, I believe that with enough direct questioning and honest inquiry, I can get the answers I need.

I have a feeling that while they may feel they’re ready for change, they may nevertheless be reluctant to embrace it. I know the feeling.

O Ye Hamlet, Ye Wooded Glen

I imagine Woodsworth might have penned such a line had he been to Sonora. Although it’s likely, too, that I don’t know what a hamlet is, let alone a wooded glen and am totally misrepresenting the place. I can tell you this, though, I feel completely disconnected because I cannot connect through my technology. Isn’t that ridiculous? Yesterday there were two very warm and wonderful people standing in front me, regaling me about the history and the future of Sierra Repertory Theatre and I’m worried about Internet connection and being able to make calls on the spot using my cell phone. Luckily, I’ve begun my experiment in living mindfully and so, with a few deep, counted breaths, I should be able to find focus once again, talk to the people who are here and not worry so much about connecting with people far away (at least in that moment; there will be other moments for them).

One minute I’m there in Oregon and the next, I’m here, somewhere in the central valley, dropped off without so much ceremony. Here you go, Kim, you’re new life. Enjoy. Much like a well-meaning relative might drop off a new puppy on an unsuspecting family that’s never had a dog before. It has been that easy and that, well, shocking. What do I do now? How can I tell what it wants? The answer is, of course, that I’ll figure it out, more than that, I already know what to do, I’ve done it before, right? I had to tell myself a few times on the way to Ceres to drop off the rental truck, this is not a test, Kim, no silly internship, no silly internship. Until I have my own place, it’ll be easy for it feel temporary, never mind if my pictures adorn the office wall or my plants make happy near the windows. This is my life.

This is the place to be, I’m sure. One thing is very clear, the Sierra Repertory Theatre is on the edge of a progress explosion—expansion, development, all in the name of theatre. I took a tour yesterday, squeezing behind drops and the backside of flats (that’s how much scenery they wedge onto the stage), wandered through the newly expanded shop and the costume stores. I love the smell; they all seem to smell the same, so very familiar.

To enter the theatre you walk through an ivy trellis, down a winding path down to an opening, a patio, with heat lamps and a canopy and then the doors open into the large lobby, adorned with photos of past productions. The doors into the theatre take you through a wide hallway, again adorned with eclectic photos through the years. It feels full of ceremony and purpose, as if each step into the theatre is full of intention.

Listen to me, I’ve already romanticized the hell out of it. That says something, though.

Heart of Darkness

I do go on, don't I? Wow. When the chips are down, the fangs come out, no? Maybe it's the yoga or maybe it's the new job waiting for me in California but I'm not so interested in complaining about non-profit life anymore (and let's face it, it was more out of bitterness I wasn't in the trenches like the good women I spend a majority of my time with). In fact, I'm well on my way back into those trenches at the Sierra Repertory Theatre in Sonora, California, smile on my face, rolling up my sleeves, stocking up on yoga videos and Jim Beam.

Recently I got an email from my friend, whom, in other blog worlds, I refer to as “The Tongue” because of his spot-on, quick wit and intelligence and not some unfortunate sexual euphemism (an explanation, I realize, I'm not required to give). But he, too, in his own way recently mined his dreams and desires and well, his willingness “to stoop” (as in to bend or accommodate not necessarily to condescend, only the Tongue knows which) only to discover, whether newly so or merely as confirmation of a long-held belief, what he truly wants out of life or, more to the point, what he doesn't want:

my job has lost its voyeuristic luster, subsequently i am back on themarket. dead end position aside i am NOT INTERESTED in being rich orworking my dreams away with corporate America. nonetheless this has been apositive and somewhat rewarding experience. i descended into the heart ofdarkness to confront myself
and have emerged feeling better and proud ofmy lower middle-class self. no joke.

well, occasionally it's a joke. like when my class-rage is inspiring a five state homicidal rampage i'll laugh at the rich people and their horrendous face-lifts, names like "tucker" or "chase," affected speech andfucking overall cluelessness!

you know. i was thinking about the editor of vanity fair when i just wrote that little digression, his name is graydon carter, look 'em up and embrace your inner class rage!

I responded to The Tongue that while I, too, felt like I had plumbed the depths of my heart of darkness, it's clear I didn't go as deep as I thought. Bitterness after all, is only a superficial wound; Look how easily it was remedied (Employment, it seems, takes some of the sting out of life.). The Tongue, in a feat of daring-do, slipped into the corporate world of personal assistant to grossly rich white people. I’ve only been “slumming” it with non-profit health insurance folk. Today, my last day after 4 weeks, I not only received a signed going away card from everyone in the marketing department, they also gave me a gift from the company store (finally, a zippy hoody!). Their kindness and generosity of spirit still overwhelms me, much like the Tongue’s inner class rage overwhelms him. Either way, I think we’ve received the confirmation we needed (even if we thought we didn’t need any).

I don’t know. In the end, what I want, and I imagine what most of my friends want, is respect. Maybe that’s what my rage was really about. I was looking for it in my paycheck, it being a very influential bottom line after all, and in employer-provided benefits. But maybe, in the workplace, in any one chosen career or occupation, maybe respect is found elsewhere, somewhere within (or in between) the ordinary interactions we have every day. (Was that too shmoopy? It’s the nostalgic side of me coming out. I am, after all, leaving my home of Oregon in 4 days. Cut me some slack.)

I can't help it, can I?

Yes, I feel that the talent entering the non-profit arts and culture sector is not being properly rewarded (or made room for) in the work place. I certainly do piss and moan about the lack of benefits—both financial and health, to ensure a person can thrive and have the energy to make change, whatever that may be, in the community in which she lives. I am almost convinced that I could work for a health insurance company because it’s non-profit and actually has a staff person for every conceivable need: the phone, the computer, personal wellness, someone to fill out forms and a person to make sure they’re correct. It’s damned impressive much as the wheel must have been to the cave people (I'm sure they thought to themselves, you mean this all could be easier?). Still, it is meaningful; I mean, affordable health care is meaningful, but it’s not going to be something that’ll get me out of bed every morning for the rest of my life (well, certainly for a few weeks).

All of this is to say, I’ve clearly forgotten why I’m in the arts and culture sector in the first place, even as I bandy about Ben Cameron’s name: I love and passionately believe in the arts. Of all things, I finally remembered that when I had a phone interview with a theatre in California. Despite knowing the pay was just enough to live off (but includes benefits), there’s nothing like doing what you love (or the hope that you can or will).

I am humbled.

I’m reminded of a post I wrote back in May 2006 about the differences between me and my corporate friend from college Nate Brown; between making money or loving what you do, between being passionate about what do you or just doing what you’re good at (unfortunately sometimes they are not the same things):

In the end, there’s one thing that perhaps Nate can never speak to: passion. While his basic hope for me is that I find a decent job that pays, I hope that as he’s constantly head-hunted and offered jobs without trying, that he finds an inkling of the passion that I live with everyday, that I experience and which emboldens me and makes me happy even as I suffer in it.

How is it I forgot this?