Socio economic status

The census is in, and my neighbor informs me that the average household income in my area is under $18 thousand. That's a meager sum of money when I see the Denalis, the Suburbans, the Monte Carlos, the Impalas all tricked out, and shining in the shade of my tree-lined street. Maybe these guys deal drugs. They sit on their porch all day and occasionally scream at each other.

Another day in the 'hood.

I made $8 thousand last year. I supplemented that income with approximately $1500 through a short-lived job helping my neighbor on his drug abuse study, selling items on e-bay, and interest on my money market account. I have something the thugs on my block don't have, money in the bank. I have something the thugs on my block don't have, academic credentials. I have something that the thugs on my block don't have, a job.

I am employed within an academic simulacrum, the University of Phoenix. I teach, I type, I grade, I send, I receive--a purely mechanical existence mediated by a text-based forum filled with topics apropos of organizational communication. It's a fitting metaphor for our lives, our fears, our politics, our aspirations, our rhetoric--business. I'm in the business of adding some theory and metatheory to the debate, occasionally losing my students, and sometimes perhaps giving them hope and positive regard. I've measured it. Positive regard takes up about 3 kilobytes of data, which takes around 2 seconds to get sent through my terminal, busted into packets of information, spread through the ether, reassembled on the other end, and saved onto this classroom space--this digital bureaucracy, this information-age sweat shop for the un-esteemed faculty. I hold on to the belief that I'm touching lives. I just stand in the way of these students and a few more degree hours on their way to a diploma. The diploma is paper. The ceremonies are real. I am real.

I can bet one thing. Each and every one of my students makes more money than I do. I made more money than I do now when I worked weekends at Debbie's Meat Emporium. I qualify for food stamps. I qualify for state aid. I qualify for a good job. I qualify for the city's weatherization program. I make well under $12,000. I also qualify for a better job--a job that I don't want.

Here I am. I like that I stand, one foot in poverty, one foot in some airy concept that is supposed to signal a bridge to a successful future, one that pays well. I've gone the distance. I've learned the rules of the game. When given the sandbox to create at my whim, I walked away. I've had this conversation a thousand times, and I suppose that I will have this conversation a thousand more times until I don't feel that tinge of irony. I like this idea that I'm an eligible bachelor, yet I continue to play 'hard to get.' I'll close for now. I'm unsure what I'm doing anyway.