Sculpting dreams out of paper clips

Remember when we were little and our parents told us we could be anything we wanted when we grew up?  At least, I know mine did. And even with limited means, they really did do their best to make that possible and true.

I wanted to be a dancer.  And I did it...well, for a while.  While I still consider myself a dancer, I realized early enough that if I actually wanted to have food and a place to live, I sadly would need a "survival job".

Sigh, the Survival Job.  That's the thing I do for half my waking hours, sometimes more, to pay the bills.  The dull, mundane, soul-crushing office work.  The corporate culture, wherein I laugh at the CEO's jokes, even when they're not funny and sometimes just plain wrong, and say things like, "Let's circle back and get that offlsite scheduled when you're back from Japan."  Or, "In EC&D, all of our coaches are certified in the MBTI, CDP, and EQ-I, and they specialize in M&A."  Wha?  Do I actually say that stuff daily?  Yes.  Yes, I do.

Yesterday, as I sat at my desk trying to skirt around corporate firewalls and stream the Boston Marathon, I was thinking to myself, "Okay, so if I can get out at lunchtime (if?!), I can go to the gym and do a little strength training, but the run will have to wait, since there's just no time for that.  So, I guess if I can get out on time, I'll go after work.  Yeah, that will work.  I'll just split it up."  

Or like with dance and theater, I can't even list the number of roles and projects I've had to turn down because I couldn't make rehearsals due to work.  "Get a job bartending or serving," some say.  Well, I did that, and I still do on a part-time basis.  The problems are the same, the only difference being my schedule is un-predictable in that scenario.  So really, the New York waiter/actor gig doesn't work either.  When I discovered that, I decided to opt for the higher paycheck that came with benefits.

I had a moment yesterday when I wanted to throw my desk and everything on it out the window.  The survival job is about more than survival anymore, it seems.  It's taking up most of my life.

In Moscow, there are malitsia men (police officers who patrol the streets on foot).  Picture NYC cops, but with machine guns and combat boots.  They're everywhere.  They don't get paid much, so they work for bribes, basically.  They love to stop foreigners for their papers, and if the person doesn't have the requested papers, they'll charge them 100 rubles or more to walk away, the alternative being you get taken to the police station.  And you REALLY don't want that. 

I was lucky enough to only get stopped once in all my time in Russia.  I looked the part, after all.  Eastern European on my mother's side, with blonde hair and big blue eyes.  Plus, I furthered it by watching the Russian women and mimicking them.  Wearing the high-heeled boots in the snow and ice, always wearing makeup no matter what the hour, and carrying a fancy "designer" (knock-off) purse.  Smoking only the capri-style cigarettes and walking like a "woman" - light as air, with a hint of movement in the hips.  Head always up, expression blank.  Trust me, there's a reason Russian women attract so many American men - if you ever observe this type of motion done to perfection - it's stunning; traffic-stopping.  And perfectly effortless.

It was inevitable that at some point I would get stopped, though - my papers had to be renewed every two months.  So, when I did, I used my best Russian to tell the nice officer (oh my god, oh my god...he has a machine gun.  It's right there...) where my papers were, and would he like to see my school ID?  I went to the Vahktangov Institute and worked as a teaching assistant at the Moscow Art Theater School (MXAT).  If you don't know theater in Russia, well, it's a little like the NFL here.  But more respected.  By everyone.  Can you imagine if we treated the arts that way in the U.S.?  But, I digress.

So, I showed the malitsia man my MXAT ID, and he immediately began stammering and apologizing, asking me if I needed anything, and could he please escort me to my school?  Because I went to the theater school.  Because I was an actor, an artist.  Because of that, I was special.  Worthy of respect.  I don't think there are words to describe how that felt.  It's a story I repeat often to my parents and to anyone here in New York that will listen.

I tire of the survival job.  If I had my wish, I would be somewhere beautiful making art with my husband half the time, and running and training the other half.  Getting paid for both.  Sadly, that's just not the way it works.  As my dad says, "There's a reason they call it 'work'."  I guess, then, I just wish I was given abilities that tranfer to the real world, or at the very least, an interest in careers other than the impossible.

I suppose for now, I will continue to make my paper-clip sculptures and sticky-note murals at my desk and use my lunch to run off the corporate coating.  I just wonder how many rare and beautiful talents are wasted in this country every day.  If ever there was a thought that kept me up at night, it would be that.