Today, Thursday, 24 April 2014 Frau Kolb types, from a, "centered quiet place within," having slept well, dreamt of nothing… passed out from a day fulfilling obligations, duties.
What do you do that you don’t want to do, really? What fills you with dread until it is behind you and then you realize that it isn’t so bad?
Well, for me… sometimes, my children’s school projects, deadlines, homework, teacher conferences, meetings… Oh! It is all too much. I get really stressed out. I have to buy poster board! Tape! Do this. Do that. Help! Now, I see… why my mother never went to school to talk to my teachers. My father did when I was little. When he could… when he wasn’t working, selling furniture in Manhattan, New York City. He worked, a lot. He studied law, earned an attorney’s title and thought he’d take his NEW WIFE to America, like she wanted, for six months—get loaded— and be able to set themselves and her four little ones; in their home nation, Dominican Republic, in the Spanish speaking capital, first city of the New World, home to Christopher Columbus, and his clan: Santo Domingo. Of course, six months after arriving in New York City, they had long ago worn out the middle class digs where they dropped as friends of family for the first few weeks and had passed to less comfortable accommodations, incurring debt along the way. (They had a duty to send money home.)
The first job my father took in the United States was as a dishwasher in a restaurant. It broke his proud heart, yet he took the position. He was punctual, attentive, and compliant; a better dishwasher doing a better job, rinse, and repeat. Shortly, there after, he had a better gig in a nicer spot; always… punctual, attentive, compliant; like his parents, descendant of African slaves brought to the Caribbean, imported to St. Croix… part of an Anglo-Irish household of prominence; as domestics… house slaves, virtually… yet, English speakers.
My father’s accented English was faultless. He spoke it with flare and taught me to, “always carry a book with me,” after teaching me to read, at home so that by age three, I was very good at it. Then he taught me to play chess… that was fun, beating old men, playing in the park; a five year old girl in a handmade cotton dress with pink satin bows decorating her flat little chest… quickly executing a “check mate!” Her father, laughingly… collecting cash.
When I was a kid, growing up in Manhattan, I could always call my Daddy at work, on 14th Street near Union Station where he was the top salesman on the floor. He’d always answer, taking my after school calls, with glee in his voice. My father advised me, “Watch people. Their bodies never lie. Their intentions are always clear in their eyes, on their faces… you will see what they are thinking IF you look carefully enough. They will call you a Mind Reader... I see the ones that come in with the intention to buy and I facilitate their transactions. I provide guidance, information, and encouragement. I sell.” He would contrast himself to the, “young and inexperienced,” salespeople that would, “jump on everybody walking in; wasting their energy and leaving the real business of furniture sales to me. Hah!” He’d laugh. I’d admire his thunder. He was amazing so black, tall, fit like a knight; always ready for a challenge; thus, he died loving my mother.
“People…” my Dad would explain, “Love walking into stores; just to LOOK… that is why they call it a furniture gallery… they can’t afford or don’t want to buy… ignore these people and they will be thankful for it.” Yet, “Costumers are clients… ignore these people and well, not only will you not have a job for long, it isn’t fun selling furniture if you don’t DO IT.” and then he would look down at me sternly and say, “And... you know, Cari… most people can’t really afford good furniture. They can’t afford a sandwich for a girl on date-night, my Dear. They don’t understand that money flows whenever and wherever it wills… we just have to be there to get our share." Work! Pay attention. Read. Write. Bike ride. Walk. Repeat.
He trained me well to think, and thus fulfilled his duty; providing for me and equipping me with people reading and sales skills; teaching me to pay attention to others as a means of fulfilling my own needs, “going with the flow,” of money… instead of against it… he taught me to swim the high seas of responsibility and come ashore today with pride.
Hah!
Thank you, Dad.
Loving Thursday,
Frau K.