"Jack, You're Doing It Wrong"

One of the first ‘grown-up’ movies I attentively watched and enjoyed as a child was the John Hughes feature Mr. Mom. In the film, Jack Butler [Michael Keaton] is laid off from his job and reverses daytime roles with his wife [Teri Garr], she returning to the workforce while he assumes the responsibilities of a stay-at-home parent. The movie is filled with the situational fuckupery you might expect of a man accustomed to the daily grind of 1980’s corporate shenanigans taking on the full time parent gig—dinners are burned, diapers explode, blankies are lost. But my favorite scene occurs when Jack drops off the kids at school for the first time. As Jack tries to meander through oncoming traffic, his eldest son chides him, claims mommy doesn't go this way, says: “You’re doing it wrong.” Jack protests, claims he using the Jack Butler Method, fudges his way through car after car honking and throwing spiteful looks at him, until  another fellow mommy approaches the car, motions for him to roll down the window, and tells him, “Hi Jack. I’m Annette. You’re doing it wrong.” She goes on to explain that she tells all the new mommies to enter through the south and exit through the north, and then in reverse for pick-up.

I don’t know why I felt such a kinship to this moment in the life of the fictional Jack Butler, even as a child. There was very little about my six-year-old self that would have connected in the logical sense with a mid-thirties stay-at-home dad. But the sentiment, even at such a young age, resonated with me. I was often ‘doing it wrong’.

That phrase still reverberates. I’m a parent and a homeowner. I have a master’s degree and a minivan. I’m a Marine Corps wife, for god’s sake. Why is it that I can’t get my shit together and quit working at the nudie bar and grow the fuck up and start doing it right?

Why is it the things that make me say aloud, “Oh my God, I love my life” also frequently accompany the thought “What am I doing with my life?”. I love my life because, despite all the shit I complain about, I’m a really happy person. And I am surrounded by people who make me laugh, and that’s currency in my house.

Someone asked me recently what I would do if I didn't have writing and teaching and dancing in my underwear taking up all my work hours. More specifically, the question was: “What would be your dream job?” And I’ve thought about that a bunch. The answer to this is very simple. My dreams rarely, if ever, involve jobs. I know myself well enough that if I were to overhaul my life and start working an eight-to-five in an office with cubicles and break rooms and industrial lighting, my soul would die. That sounds like melodrama, but I’m not kidding you. I’d give myself six months until I was deeply medically depressed and crying uncontrollably on a daily basis. I’m just not made for that kind of thing. And though it enters my mind occasionally that I might be doing it wrong, that this seemingly bizarre life I've created is steeped in madness, I’m also reminded that I’m so much happier than most of the people I know who are doing it right.

And maybe that’s why I developed that childhood crush on Jack Butler, and why I could find humor in his consistent doing it wrong. Because maybe I knew even as a child that I would hear that over and over again and that I should just start laughing at it early. I've done it all wrong, and backwards, and out of order, and the refrain has sometimes been Jack, you’re doing it wrong, but I’m learning as I get older that the people singing that chorus are people I don’t really like much anyway. And they’re unhappy people, and often unhappy because they've made life choices based on what everyone told them was doing it right.

It’s too late for me to derail from my crazy train now. I’ve gotten a taste of what it means to find the beauty in humanity and not succumb to the bullshit we’ve made up along way. I’m relishing in doing it wrong.

To fully appreciate the Jack Butler Method-

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fKkZhubwt04

Enthusiasm don't pay the bills, son!

On occasion, I’m asked to talk to certain organizations or groups of students or writers about my life. More specifically, I’m asked to talk about the content of my writing, primarily the seeming dichotomy of being who I am. And usually there’s a Q & A afterward, a set aside amount of time that generally is characterized by questions about the stripper job.

“Do you find yourself growing irritated at men because of the job?”

“How did you start doing it?”

“Who in your life knows about the job, and from whom do you keep it secret?”

There are elements of my life that I’m so accustomed to, I forget that people might find it interesting or unusual.  I've been doing a curious amount of interviews lately as a result of some of the talks I've given. And I’m noticing that the question I’m least often asked, or least often asked to elaborate on is this: “If you’re a professor, why are you also a dancer?” That whole element of my life is sort of overlooked for the juicier, and admittedly probably more intriguing, details of the stripper job. What bothers me is that the conversation I feel like we should be having, if there needs to be a conversation about me in the first place, is why DO I have to have both jobs?

I almost never reveal my daytime identity at the nighttime job. Largely it’s because I feel entitled to some semblance of privacy. But also, if the idea of privacy weren't in the foreground, I know that the truth about my academic life in the context of the strip club is almost unbelievable. I could make up the most asinine bullshit—I was born into a family of Irish travelers and I grew up in an RV, I’m a folk artist who makes lawn furniture out of discarded silverware, blah blah blah—and people buy it by the cartload. But the truth is far less believable, and so even if I felt compelled to tell it, no one would believe me anyway. The Cassandra Complex.

Here is the answer to the question I want to be asked: In name, yes, I am a professor of African-American Literature and English Composition. That sounds impressive, perhaps, inspiring thoughts of tweed jackets with leather elbow patches, and days spent in grand lecture halls, or quietly book-buried in an office behind a stout oak desk. But that’s not true for 76% of college professors. Yes, 76%, over three-quarters of American college/university faculty are adjuncts. Sometimes institutions dress the names up: part-time, continuing part-time, voting adjunct, etc. but ultimately the names define the same occupational status: higher education untouchable.

I teach two courses nearly every semester [sometimes it’s three, occasionally it is shaved down to one]and I am paid per course. I receive no benefits, no sick leave, no retirement or pension, no funding for professional development, no sabbatical, no real voice in administrative decisions regarding curriculum or course scheduling. There are semesters when my courses get cut, and therefore, my pay is suddenly halved without warning. I pay for my own parking. My gross income from teaching topped out last year at around $16,000. And honestly, that’s pretty spectacular adjunct pay. I have friends at other institutions who’ve worked the same hours for far less. All that said, I think a more colorful illustration to describe my work in academia is this: it costs more to board and ride a horse at Stephens than it does to pay my salary. That’s not an exaggeration. I just added up the fees. And don’t even get me started on what my students pay in tuition, room & board, technology fees. That number would likely pay my salary four-fold.

Since the economic crash of 2008 [coincidentally, the year I entered graduate school, partially at the behest of the former VP of Academic Affairs at my institution] 40% of full-time jobs in academia have been permanently eliminated. Simply put, there are no new jobs for MFA’s or Ph.D.’s available. When they do become available, the influx of applicants for a single position is gargantuan. If I were to quit, seek a non-academic job, I sever ties to my institution, limiting my likelihood of ever teaching again. And honestly, aside from the embarrassingly low pay, I really love teaching. I blush with joy when I get to share information with students. My enthusiasm is palpable in my literature classes. I don’t want to give up teaching; I would just like to think that it holds some value in the broader sense. Joy and enthusiasm don’t pay the bills, son.

Moreover, when I watch the money generated by academic institutions via tuition, sporting events, alumni donation get funneled into bigger buildings, posh furnishings, more bricks, more mortar instead of toward the development and maintenance of faculty, I wonder what the hell college is even for anymore. When the highest paid employee in the state of Missouri is the Mizzou football coach [or maybe it’s the basketball coach . . . either way, they both make more than our governor] meanwhile, I’m wondering how I’ll make it if one of my courses doesn’t fill and has to be cut, thereby cutting my already paltry salary in half. And don’t give me that old shenanigans about how sports generate money for the institution, so it’s crucial to hire the best, yada yada – shut up! I get it. I understand the commercial and economic factors behind this decision making. But ultimately, or at least historically, don’t people go to college to learn? Doesn’t anyone want to know stuff anymore? And why are faculty and faculty positions the first on the chopping block when it’s time to trim the fat? Something is wrong when 76% of faculty is paid as poorly as I am, while the football coach is a millionaire.

[Likewise, something is wrong when my husband, an active-duty member of the USMC is paid a dismal fraction of the annual salary of an average NFL player, but that’s a rant for another time.]

This is why I’m still a stripper on the weekends, folks. Because I make in a weekend what Stephens pays me in a month. That’s not braggartism, but a testament to exactly how poverty-level consistent my academic pay is. And this isn’t a condemnation of Stephens, but an observation of the larger institutional shift from focus on education to focus on commercial/financial gain. Colleges became businesses instead of idea spaces long before I entered the academic world, but the disparity between the learning part and the business part stretches, an ever-growing chasm, far from the original intent.

The weekend job isn't an exploratory gig for me, not an endeavor in immersion journalism, not an outlet for exhibitionism nor a therapeutic space for me to investigate sexuality. It’s a god damned job, like schlepping drinks, like busing tables, like cleaning office buildings, like retail . . . all of those jobs that supplement the lowly adjunct’s pay. I’m just getting by, just like everyone else.

These are the things I see, friends, from my figurative periscope, deep in the hot trenches. Lately in some ways, my written observations are taking on a life of their own, shaping the path ahead of me, which is terrifying and thrilling at the same time, but I can’t stop telling the truth about my experience. It’s probably because I’m getting older, and don’t give a shit what people think anymore. If people are going to hold court on my being a stripper, but not issue judgment on why anyone has to work as much or as hard as I do just to make ends meet, then they’re assholes I wouldn't associate with anyway. Also, I’m learning people seem to feel good about reading what I write, and the feedback has been overwhelming and inspiring. On days when both jobs make me feel like a slave to my own reality, the writing gig, this thing we writers do, fulfills me in ways no occupation can and I’m grateful for all of the amazing people who've written to me upon reading a post that has resonated with them in some way. So thanks for reading, guys. And thanks for being human beings, which I’m discovering is the most challenging job of them all.

A Few Remarks

I was asked yesterday in an interview whether or not I would call myself [or my multi-faceted lifestyle, at least] exceptional or if I would call it remarkable. The question gave me pause, because initially the words seem relatively interchangeable, synonymous with noteworthy, interesting, unique. But ultimately the query has led me to this conclusion: to call me exceptional is to say that I am somehow an exception to some rule. The notion is that because I have all of these variant facets of life all running concurrently at once, I am somehow more significant than other people whose lives intersect with mine. The idea suggests that although I’m a stripper, being an academic and a writer makes me somehow more acceptable than the other women who, for varied reasons, also work at a nudie bar. This is bullshit. I’m not exceptional. To say I am is to say that all those other women are not exceptional, thereby suggesting they are less than or equal to what society expects a stripper is or is not.

To call me exceptional is to say that I am not one of them. It also suggests that the women I work with must live lives consistent with the largely-conflated stereotypes surrounding the industry. You know that old song: drug-addled sluts from broken homes who survived a sexually-traumatic childhood only to be forced to seek positive affirmation through sexual exhibition straight out of a Mötley Crüe video. Come on, now. Aren't we grown-ups, yet? The whole idea makes me defensive for every other gal I've had the pleasure of working with. To say I’m an exceptional stripper is like saying to a black person ‘I don’t really like black people, but you’re exceptional, you’re better, you’re not one of those . . .”

Likewise, while I would agree that my life is remarkable, I might also argue that EVERYONE has a remarkable life, especially if you’re really good at telling a story. My life is remarkable because I have the skills to make remarks that people find interesting. But that doesn't suggest that my life is somehow better than or more acceptable than the lives of my coworkers. I think my friend Jill is god dammed remarkable because she’s the only person I know who has managed to successfully pull-off every single Pinterest craft, recipe, party-inspiration she’s ever attempted. It’s fucking awe-inspiring! And I occasionally find myself wishing I could be more like her in that respect. Does that make her an exceptional stripper? No. Does it make her remarkable? Yes, because I just remarked.

What this really boils down to is that every human being is remarkable. Those whose lives seem mundane are remarkable if you turn the picture the right way, if you artfully craft the words that shape their memoir. 

Unbalanced

The good folks at the University of Missouri Feminist Student Union invited me to talk about my experience as a nudie dancer, academic, and mother last night. The talk was great, though I always vacillate between wanting to maintain a sense of formality so people will take me seriously and embracing my natural inclination to just wing it. The evening before the talk, I checked the event announcement on Facebook to see what exactly the crowd would be expecting of me and the description read as follows:

‘Join FSU next Tuesday as we talk to a local woman about how she balances exotic dancing, motherhood, and academia. We will also be discussing how, as feminists, we can combat slut-shaming and promote positive body image. We hope to see you there!’

And while the talk I gave certainly addressed my life or the combination of lives that I lead, attendees may note that I didn't exactly address specifically how I balance two very different jobs, kids, husband, a writing life, friends, and the like. People often ask me how I do it all and here’s the honest answer: I DON’T! I do not balance these aspects of my life, by any stretch of the imagination. If I knew how to do that, I’d be a saint. Or a millionaire.

I don’t balance every aspect of my life because it’s impossible. My question for the wider world is this—why is that so bad? Unrealistic expectations that we place on ourselves as women [and men, too, I suppose] make us crazy. If I actually finished everything that I wanted to do in a single day, the number of hours in a single day would have to double. As long as I have to abide by the rules of a three-dimensional reality, something is going to get sacrificed. And that’s the scary word, isn't it? A whole faction of feminism is based on the notion that women shouldn't have to sacrifice things that they want in order to become the person they want to be.

But what I’m really petitioning is a redefinition of the word ‘sacrifice’. I move that we embrace the word sacrifice in reference to all those things on our daily to-do lists. We should be able to give up things of a lower vibration in order to gain things of a higher vibration. Or, in less ‘woo-woo’ terms: I henceforth refuse to feel guilty that my kitchen floor is disgusting because I spent all morning writing this blog. I really didn't want to mop anyway. No one is going to come over and fawn over the cleanliness of my cold, hard, ceramic tile. But someone might read this, and feel less guilty that they fed their kids cereal and toast for dinner because they worked all day and just need to sit down. Someone might read this and feel better about taking a ‘mental health’ day from work because they really wanted to spend time with their husband, or kids, or friends.

I could have that tile squeaky clean and gleaming right now, but what does it get me other than a clean floor? Chances are no one, particularly not the children who live here, will notice I mopped. Moreover, there’s an even greater likelihood that the floor will need to be mopped again come three o’clock when the offspring storm the castle and pillage the fridge and pantry. There will be spilled dark chocolate almond milk. There will be crumbs. Better I wait until four, sacrificing the fleeting and nominal satisfaction of the clean floor now for time spent in my writing head, where I’m much happier anyway, crafting these words that someone will read. There is no glory in perfection. There is no perfect. Do the things that are best for your soul first. Mop the fucking floor later.