Amy Adoyzie Enjoys Life and Junk

It was late morning and the sunlight bounced off the balcony and into the communal room at the Dove Cottage. My spine curved against the hard back of the red plastic lawn chairs, my legs stretched forward as I let out a yawn. We were in the middle of another TEFL (Teaching English Foreign Language) session, seated around the long table, when I felt a yank at my hair. A tiny spot at the top of my scalp throbbed and stung.
I turned to Auggie, "What the hell?"
"You had a gray hair, I was just trying to pull it out."
There are a about a dozen strands of white hairs sprouting from my boxy-shaped head, and frankly, I don't give a damn.
I would be lying if I said I wasn't vain, but I just can't be bothered when it comes to these whiteys. It's bound to happen, with stress and getting older every morning. I know that getting rid of them is as easy as plucking them off my head, but it makes me squeamish. The combination of wimpiness and apathy leads me to wander around with white hairs, made even more obvious against my dark strands.
This speaks volumes to my ability to be oblivious, to otherwise convince myself that it's quite alright to let this superficial world see some of my grays. I've come to terms with aging, why can't everyone else?
* * * * *

We expect birthdays to be obvious reminders of aging. On a daily basis, we encounter subtle signs of getting older- you don't get carded as often or a gang of teenagers will holler you old at you.
It's the unexpected booming announcements like time has flown by, dragging your bloated elderly body along with it, that are unbearable.
I have been officially invited to the ten-year reunion for the graduating class of 1998 from Glen A. Wilson high school (through MySpace no less!).
Was it really just a decade ago when I was an angry and cliched angst-ridden teenager who almost dropped out of high school as a form of protest against authoritarianism?
Here I am, plopped in the middle of south Asia as an educator. Things don't have to make sense to happen. Needless to say, I won't be returning to Hacienda Heights for the reunion. The most important person that I met in high school is still in my life and feigning interest in the lives of people I've forgotten isn't very appealing. I won't lie, it's pretty awesome to say that I can't attend because I'm in Bangladesh, you know?
* * * * *

Still though, I'm never old enough to enjoy a ride on a mini-roller coaster designed in the likeness of a crawly insect! (From Foy's Lake in Chittagong!)

It began years ago, when I first moved out and would return occasionally to do laundry or pick up frozen dumplings mom bought for me from the Chinese supermarket. I would be lounging on the lima green love seat when dad came into the house through the garage. He'd tilt his wrinkled bald head and say, "Who is dis homeless?"
There was a brief interlude, those two years at my salaried adult job, where my family refrained from calling me a bum. But ever since my annual income has dipped so far below the poverty line, to a point where I am not required to file a tax return for the past two years, the homeless title has triumphantly returned.
We were in my mother's grey Corolla for no more than five minutes after they had picked me up from LAX when mom said in Chinese, "When will you stop breaking my heart, find a real job and make some money? Please, when you get back, do something better and make some money."
I haven't even left and mom's already nagging and chiding future me into doing something.
It's disheartening to think that all that I've done with myself thus far has only made my mother worry.
Perhaps this is the plight of the non-professional child of working class refugee immigrants.
I can write all I want, draw and design as much junk as my hands will allow, play in as many ridiculous bands as my voice can plow through- but my folks will never understand or appreciate it as long I'm not earning more than five-figures a year. (I didn't break four-figures with my income from the last two years combined.)
"Since you're not my daughter, I can say that you're brave," Marah's mom told me. Everyone else's mom thinks I'm doing alright, except for my own. She didn't come here to America, to give birth to me in the richest nation in the world, just so that I can grow up to wash dishes with a BA degree and a hefty student loan. Dang, after having typed that out, I guess that is heartbreaking.
I understand that mom just doesn't want me to have to struggle financially, to be comfortable enough to afford whatever inane new gadget is on the market, to get fat and watch lots of TV and stay out of developing nations in south Asia that are nestled much closer to war-torn countries than we are here in her suburban home. I know mom loves me, she made me catfish soup and bought me coffee, but it wouldn't hurt for her to tell me she's proud of me every now and then before I leave for a year and a half.
I may be homeless, but I'm still someone's kid seeking affirmation from moms and pops.

This job gave me zits and $2 tips. It made me smell of grease and effed up my nail polish.
It also gave me unlimited coffee and salmon asparagus scrambles.
I might actually miss it.

Dear my incredibly generous friends,

There are two rules of writing that I constantly try to adhere by: 1. Show, don't tell and 2. Don't rely on cliches.
I'm about to break both rules right now.

Words cannot express the amount of gratitude that I feel. Seriously, I can't even begin to thank you for your generosity. In a couple hours I'm about to head back to the clinic to get my second dose of Japanese Encephalitis vaccine AND the polio booster. This time, when I'm sitting in that office, I won't be on the verge of tears from financial stress. You've giving me the gift of health and chance to be free from (some) anxiety in my last couple months in the States. Both of which are totally priceless.

I do really feel blessed, fortunate and that the universe cares about me by placing people like yourself in my life. Thank you so much. I know you've worked hard for what you have, and for you to be so generous with it means so much to me.

I hope this note finds you well and I'll keep you updated on every step of my craziness.

-amy


Sincere and super thanks to Lance, Kurt, Marah, Gus and Bradley for giving me less gray hairs.

Maybe I'm PMSing. Maybe it's stress. Maybe I'm just a crybaby.
I'm voting the latter.
I was sitting in a bare office at the Travel & Immunization Clinic of Portland while the clinician rambled off a list of shots I ought to get. Rabies. Polio. Flu. Japanese Encephalitis Virus.
A few weeks ago Corey asked, "You don't want your brain to melt out of your face, do you?"
"What?"
"That's what encephalitis is, the swelling of your brain."
"I can't afford the vaccine."
"Get the shot."
"But..."
"Get the shot."
I was there to get the shot. But it turned out that I should probably invest in others as well. The rabies vaccine is a multi-dose shot that would have ended up costing $600. The polio booster is $50. I didn't even ask about how much the flu shot is because I don't want it.
And the JEV? It's three doses. My first dose set me back $200. I have two more to go.


By the time I got home, it hit me that when all is said and done, I will have spent two months rent for one vaccination. Two months rent. In between the record store and dishwashing, I'm barely making rent now.
This sob story literally got sobby when I was scrubbing some dishes in our house kitchen. Gus was in the living room trying to eat his ramen in peace when I began raging out, "I think about what I'm doing with my life. What am I doing this for? Nobody cares. I'm trying to help out and give back. But who the fuck is watching out for me? Helping me out?"
Tears dribbled down my cheeks, into shallow pools of dishwater. I was nearly shouting, to no one in particular.
"You're right, man. We are all truly alone. We have no one but ourselves."
I jammed the last wet fork into the dish rack, clomped into my room, shoved off my boots, crawled under my flannel comforter and cried.
I was spent.
A year in China. Another year and a half in Bangladesh. Not making a dime.
My mom wonders why I don't just stay put and make money. I wonder that too sometimes.
I began questioning everything I've done and whether its worth it if I can't even afford the vaccinations to get to where I need to be to get things done.
It's all very daunting and I'm so overwhelmed that I can't sufficiently express myself.

And then, as if on cue, my friends came through. Gus, Marah and Bradley are going to help me with my shots. I might even be able to afford to get the polio booster. And asthma medication. And feel like someone cares.

My career from 2003 to present.

New Media Associate.




Naive Retiree.




Volunteer English Teacher.








Record Store Clerk.



Dishwasher.



In February 2008: Volunteer Teacher in BANGLADESH.

A new server at the restaurant said that I was the prettiest dishwasher she'd ever seen.
Ain't that sweet?

(PS Washing dishes ain't so bad, but closing is for the dogs.)

I'm going crazy.
And I'm totally okay with that.

You can also jot me down as an official dishwasher. If you're ever in the Northeast Beaumont neighborhood, at NE 46th and Freemont, on a Sunday morning- you might see me busing huge trays of dirty dishes into my tiny dish washing enclave.

It's been three months since I've been back, and all I've managed in terms of employment are two four-hour shifts at Green Noise. And even then, I wouldn't have this job if Ken wasn't such an awesome dude.
Currently, I'm pining after a dish washing job.

Been back in the land of opportunity for more than two months and still nothing in the way of solid employment. I'm grateful to Ken for letting me get by with two 4-hour shifts at the record store, but it ain't paying the bills. Design jobs are trickling in, but nothing substantial.
Maybe my approach to this job hunt is ineffective for my purposes. I've sent out more than two dozen resumes, but I've only been called in for one interview. Something isn't right in this equation.
Instead of trying to find a job, I ought to reset my search for a benefactor. Do they still exist? Will they give me a monthly allowance just for being me? If not, why not?

Maybe I've been preparing for this moment since I was nine-years-old. My parents bought an electronic typewriter, a box of black ribbon and a small package of clear eraser tape. When guests came over, I lugged that big hunk of black and grey machinery into the living room and gingerly placed it on coffee table so that my parents could do their own working-class immigrant version of "The Price is Right" while I transformed into one of Barker's Babes and mimed typing. Mom and dad talked about how expensive it was, but ultimately worth it because their kids should know how to type and it was the late 80's so everyone was stoked on technology and cocaine. (But our family was only stoked on low-end technology, no coke-except for the cola type.)
Between the typewriter and a small stack of wide-ruled notebooks, I wrote my first stories about classmates or fictional white girls, inevitably named Angela, with curly blond hair and impeccable clothes straight off the racks at Mervyn's. Nobody read them, except for me, and I was fine with it because something wound its way through my little kid body and needed to be released out my fingers and onto paper. It was like all those narratives that children create as they play with their toys, but I felt the urge to write it down.
Almost two decades later, I'm still clacking on keyboards and scribbling on blank pages, overwhelmed with the urge to say something, anything. But in all this time, I've been extremely hesitant to ever describe myself as a writer.
Sure, I write. But so do you, and them and everyone else. Everyone writes.
In a working class family with immigrant parents, being a writer was never presented as a career option. Working class folks are pragmatic, and they only wished tangible careers with health benefits for their kids. Writing as a profession is terribly abstract and nothing I felt comfortable admitting to even though I've been putting out zines since I first discovered them when I was 15-years-old and have been a columnist for Razorcake for the past two and half years. But I still never felt like a writer.
Odd.
Again, this is probably rooted in my upbringing that you can do whatever you please, but it doesn't count until you get paid for it because otherwise you're just a fool wasting your time. Razorcake doesn't pay me a dime for my bi-monthly smatterings of nonsense or any of the design work that I lay out for it. I work for the magazine because I respect that it's representing a counter-culture that's valuable and supports great artists. All of those altruistic reasons don't pay the bills, therefore my family treats it more like a hobby than real work.

* * * * *
Something completely insane has happened. I've come to terms with my lot in life at this young age. It turns out that I am, indeed, a writer. I am so committed to this notion that I even phoned my mom last night to announce this newfound realization. I could hear just a tinge of pride in her voice when she asked, "Oh, really?"

* * * * *
"Just admit it," Gus said.
"I can't. It's too weird." I flailed my arms around my head, trying to physically represent how weird it felt.
"You're a writer," he took a sip from his pint glass. "Just say it."
"Noooooo..." I whined.
"You've been doing this stuff since I met you. You were made for this."
I was floored that Gus, my most favorite and harshest critic, declared that I was made for this.
"I know, but it still sounds so pretentious and weird and... squeal." When I get too excited, I can't help but to emit a soft squeal. The bar was filled with people chatting away and no one heard my yelp. I inhaled the cigarette-tainted air for a single deep breath and quickly confessed, "Okay, fine, I'm a writer."
Gus smiled.
I giggled.
"See? You're a writer."

* * * * *
Where'd all this come from? Why this sudden urge to name myself as one who writes?
Because, *deep breath*, someone is paying me to write a story. Any story I want. A story.
It's bizarre that I needed my writing to be validated by a paycheck, but I can't think of a better way to do so than to get my bills paid with something I wrote.
It feels incredibly awesome to finally be able to say it and believe it.

(Thanks Greg!)

Sometimes Gus and I like to pretend we're starring in our own sitcom, where I fill in awkward silences with a laugh track reel in my head.
"Tell me a joke while I finish this cigarette," Gus said as I waited for him.
"Okay," I thought for a second. "Today I interviewed for a job at [insert asinine office workplace]."
He chuckled. "And you have a degree in what?"
"Journalism. Photojournalism. And a minor in Women's studies."
"How much more do you owe in student loans?" He chuckled louder.
"Eight thousand."
"Where are you parents from?" He slapped his knee knowingly and shook his head.
"Vietnam."
"Wow, that is a pretty good joke."

* * * * *
Earlier that day, I was talking to a friend when he asked what I was up to that night.
"Gus is taking me to the strip club he used to work at. So that I can inquire about an employment opportunity."
"What?" He sounded surprised.
"Oh no! Not that kind of employment opportunity! Gus was saying that I can make a side gig out of be a stripper seamstress. You know, make stripper clothes. That would beat sitting around at an office job."
Club 82 is named after one of Portland's seediest streets, 82nd Avenue. Gus worked there for the better part of a year as a cook, bouncer, bartender and DJ. He introduced me to Erin, who is one of the bartenders and dances occasionally.
She poured two glasses of Blue Moon for Gus and i and filled me in on how I could go about selling clothes to women who take them off professionally. I wondered if there was even a market for a seamstress like myself and Erin mentioned that there might not be that much money to make considering that there are plenty of shops where the dancers bought their skimpy outfits. The more we chatted, the less lucrative it seemed and somehow it veered towards the idea of me being a dancer.
The dancing profession offers everything I want in a job presently. Good money, to pay back the student loans I neglected while I was a volunteer. Good hours, so that I had the day to write and design. And again, good money, because the pressure of realizing that sometime next year I'm going to be making dirt pay again as a volunteer has blown up in my brain and I'm filled with anxiety about being poor and in debt.
It's rather disheartening to think that I have spent, and will spend, so much of my life not earning money while doing all this naive, altruistic work. Maybe my moms is right and I ought to just settle down, con a man into marrying me and just be normal.
I spent the rest of that night seriously contemplating becoming a dancer and going through the logistics of this career move. I'm still thinking about it.

* * * * *
I woke up early Saturday morning to attend Oregon's Liquor Control Commission's (OLCC) alcohol server education course so that I could be certified to sell and serve alcohol.
I learned about how to spot fake IDs and VIPs (visually intoxicated person). But most importantly, I learned that it would behoove me to find work at a bar with a good set of regulars because they tend to be better tippers.

To take a look at Gus, at 6'1" with a mass of hair jutting out of his face and head, with ripped shorts and stained t-shirts- you would never guess that he and I have a standing television date on Wednesday's night to watch America's Next Top Model. We've tried to recruit our friends to come by and enjoy our guilty pleasure, but no one else is interested in watching skinny bitches looking fierce and trying to speak English. (I still can't get over how so many reality-tv shows have to add subtitles so that the audience can understand what other Americans are saying in English.)
You might find Gus and I rolling by on our bikes in the midst of a superficial discussion about who we think will be America's Next Top Model. He always picks the least likely candidate, just to annoy me because I'm being serious about evaluating the candidates. And then we laugh at our retardation and move on.
With so much of our lives devoted to banality that is ANTM, Gus was understandably disappointed when he saw me perform as a model.
"What happened?" he asked. "You weren't fierce!!"
"I dunno. They just told us to stand at this spot, and I did."
"Why were you rubbing you stomach? All wild-eyed and shit."
"Really?"
Really. I watched the video of my debut modeling and it seemed that my version of fierce is to look like I'm lost and hungry.

* * * * *
My super sweet friend, Anna, works at the Yarn Garden, which occasionally hosts events with notable knitters. On Wednesday, they were hosting Iris Schreier, of Art Yarns, who was promoting her new book. Part of the promotion was to be on a local morning show on the ABC affiliate, KATU, and she needed models for her knit wear. That's where my yellow booty came in handy. Anna invited me to join her to show off the awesomeness of knits and I found myself being fitted with soft woven yarns on Wednesday morning.
Gus said that I looked like a sexy gramma in the over-sized garb. I'm mostly perturbed by how huge my head looks, with my eyeballs darting every which way and caressing my belly. What'dya expect? I'm just a short kid who was told to stand on the stage and wear clothes.
Judge for yourself, go here: katu.com/amnw/seenonamnw/9593887.html and click "Video."
I did make it a point to show off me arse. Because, as a model, I need to be aware of what parts of me photograph the best. And that would be from behind.

I'm old today. Older, at least.
Twenty seven years old. When my mom was 27-years-old, she was still a fairly new immigrant with three young kids to watch after in a foreign country where she didn't speak the language. But me, well, I don't even bother with taking care of plants.
It's strange to think that when my mom was this age, she was responsible for three little lives and all I've been doing lately is getting giddy over boys and thinking up stories to write. I hope this is why my folks came to America.
So's that I can be a hot old lady. A holdy.
* * * * *
I'm at the coffee shop that's behind our house. I come here at least every other day for a couple cups of house coffee and to use their wifi. I come here to look for work on craigslist, and I just started to make a point to tip the barista for employment good luck. It's not working. I need to tip more.
Gus said that I shouldn't be looking for work because it's my birthday.
"Why shouldn't I look for a job on my birthday?" I asked. But he heard me wrong and assumed that I'd use the anniversary of my birth as an excuse to be a bum and drew this picture of me last night as I mooched internet outside of the closed cafe.



I've been toggling back and forth between writing this entry and perusing job listings. Being unemployed is exhausting, but I'm not as stressed out as one would think. I'm still in the midst of readjusting and being preoccupied with all the little things fluttering in my brain. Luckily, I'm not plagued with the crippling fear that I've fucked up my life, that I should be doing better for myself at this age. I'm fortunate in that I'm not allowing myself to fall victim to what is expected of me, instead I'm just being.
* * * * *
Gus accused me of having me as my favorite subject.
"I'm sorry," I said. "But I'm just really excited to be talking about me being me in America."

Oh my, what a month it's been.

From Changsha,Hunan to Hacienda Heights, California and now finally to Portland, Oregon.
Being with my family for a week and a half was just enough time to remember how much I love and respect them and to get really tired and annoyed with them as well. Mostly, it was so incredible to be with my folks because I'm still floored at how much they've evolved as people. People who are understanding and insightful three-dimensional humans. It's always nice to be reminded that your mother and father are good people and to be thankful that you came from that.
My return to Portland was even more fantastic because of my super awesome friends. Gus and Marah made me cry tears of joy more than once with their generosity and thoughtfulness. They had my bike, Basil, tuned up and ready for me when I got home. Months before I got back, they kept reminding me to troll craigslist for a bed and reassuring me that the couch was comfortable. But when I walked into my bedroom, there was a full-sized bed waiting for me to nap on it. I was so immensely overjoyed when they pointed at a basket, stuffed full of my favorite Trader Joe's foods, sitting next to the bed. Friends like these make you weepy.
My Welcome Back party at Ground Kontrol was rad and I got to see Ultra Ape rock out with their socks out. Ken gave me my old 8-hour shift at Green Noise Records. And I'm dressing better! Oh boy, you ought to see me in these clothes I haven't worn in a year.

The only thing really bumming me out lately is my lack of solid employment with real pay.

My first step towards not being a gigantic bum when I return to America: I got me a telecommuting internship.
Sounds fancy, don't it?
It's a tiny side-job to keep me from withering away due to lack of nutrition from lack of fundage for groceries. It pays less than my volunteer stipend.
I'm taking baby steps.

Here's the grand announcement on consumerist.com:
Meet Amy, Flickr Intern!

It's got a pic of me and an old gun. And a red truck. And a couple open cans of Bud.
I'm comin' home, friends.