A Picture Perfect Day

By the time I was in 1^st grade, I had attended a number of primary schools across Delaware and North Carolina (I believe it was 4 or 5, which would mean that I attended one or more schools every year until our family moved to Kentucky). I was six—truthfully wishing to be seven—but I am positive I was six. Endless summer days in the North Carolina sun bleached my short, boyish-like hair and freckles splashed the brims of my cheeks. My attire consisted of shorts (or overalls), a pair of roughed-up tennis shoes and a t-shirt ready for a beating from Mother Nature. A daily invitation from the sun beckoned me to come and play (and, willing, I never let the sun down).  I would run and run and run. And if Ali, my sister, was outside (which was always very likely) we would run and run and run. Like every summer, time was always deceitful. Rolling around in the dirt, making mud pies and selling or eating the mud pies always had to stop sooner or later. And when the production line had to stop, it was a sign: school was on the horizon, and picture day was soon to follow.

Like all of my 20-30 classmates, I was going to experience picture day.  I am sure my mother probably mentally prepared me the night before, but all I could remember was the sheer terror I felt when my feet landed on the pavement and the blue car door shut behind me.

I was wearing a dress. The dress was painted with pastel green and pink flowers. The sleeves held an 80’s puff complimenting a simple, white lace accent, and a light pink sash tied around my waist to complete the grand statement: I was coming to school with style.

I began to wander toward my classroom door. It was then my pace began to slow. I came to a stop, and wiggled in my dress. I was uncomfortable. That was when my conscious was flooded with consistent and awful thoughts: What if today wasn’t really picture day? What if I am dressed up and no one else is? What if my friends don’t like my dress? My stomach began to ache and my throat quickly dried out. I was tempted to turn around to find someone (or run), but the hallway was empty. The idea of being alone terrorized me further; I was stuck in the spot where I stood. The slight glow from the classroom remained in my focus giving me little comfort. Seconds turned into minutes; it wasn’t until a parent rounded the corner with her son dressed in the height of fashion that I could will myself to move.

My lovely desk...

 Fast-forward 17 years. It is the night before my first “official” day of work, and I can’t help but relive the terror that visited me years before. I am no longer in college (hooray! I am a college graduate!), and I no longer can say I am “hunting for a job.” I guess that would put me into the category of “big girl.”

To preoccupy my fears, I packed my lunch, laid out my navy dress, organized my paperwork and started to watch a movie. The rumbling in my stomach and clenching of my throat put me on my feet again.  I began to wander around my room. I was forgetting something, but what? And then it hit me: I was missing the documents I needed to prove my citizenship. Unfortunately, my desk became the victim of a mini tornado. Destruction laid in my wake as I tore apart file after file.  Even my phone conversation with Ryan was disparaging—I needed to take my frustration out on something or someone. So I did both. After the mini storm, It took me 30minutes or so to reconnect with myself and harness my chi, but I did it!  And I eventually fell asleep. Like my first grade photo shoot, I really had nothing to fear about my first day of work. It was wonderful (minus the traffic I had to wait in).  Hopefully, day two will be even better.

Girls. Night. Out.

My girls: Marcie, Kellie and Amanda

Faces Nightclub in Sacramento is definitely a place where you can go and let your hair down. You can be you. Nobody cares what you look like, and nobody cares who your with. Men dance with men. Women dance with women. People dance alone. People wear costumes, funny hats, funny purses, funny goggles, etc. You can be ANY age (over 21 of course)--acting and/or truthfully. This, of course, made for an entertaining and perfect GIRLS NIGHT OUT. After Amanda and I were rescued by Kellie (the Light Rail blog pertains to these series of events), we went to gather Marcie from her apartment (another friend of Kellie’s). Our small group of eager girls walked into the heart of Sacramento’s nightlife.

 

Faces was over the top. There were dancers inside, there were dancers outside, there were dancers on the bar(s), and most importantly, there were bars in every room (there were even bars in the hallways). The club consisted of three main dance areas—all of which stepped to a different beat.  Kellie, Amanda, Marcie and I ordered our first round of drinks and travelled from room to room.  We didn’t want to leave our drinks, so we sipped them quietly (because you can’t hear over the music), and bounced to the beat of a country song. That didn’t last long. After a song or two, we resolved to find yet another room playing hip-hop and our empty glasses were abandoned.

A bride-to-be and her possy took center stage—so, of course, we went and danced right next to them. The bride-to-be held a glowing lightsaber in her hand, and her headpiece consisted of a veil with horns. At one point, the bride detached herself from her bridesmaids and became the center of our group. That’s when I knew it was going to be a great night. Not only was I creating new memories with friends, I was creating new memories with people I’ve never met. Everyone was there to have a good time, which added tremendously to our experience (regardless if we had drinks in our system or not).

Badlands

After a short wait, another group of Kellie’s friends arrived. It seemed to be around the same time when crowds of people slowly began to trickle into the club. By midnight, it was packed. The stainless steel floors vibrated violently with the beat, and your calves had no choice but to move with each vibration and pulse. Techno, wicked remixes, Lil-Wayne, Ke$ha, Neyo and Pitbull were contants. At times, the dance floor was so packed there was only enough room to sway your shoulders to the beat.

Amanda and Me

The ever-growing crowd persuaded us to visit Badlands across the street. We found the result to be the same. There. Were. People. Everywhere!  Kellie and a crowd of her friends took shelter on the cool, opened back deck while Amanda and I went to dance. We danced, and we danced, and we danced. We didn’t care that we were sweating, and we didn’t care that we were shoved into a tight space. We didn’t care about the crazy and reckless behavior that surrounded us. Feeling carefree was AMAZING.


All of us eventually returned to finish our night at Faces. Everything happened so quickly: mid-song, the DJ stopped the beat, turned on the lights and everyone was ushered out the nearest door. It took us little time to realize how deaf we were and how much money was spent.  The crowd dispersed disappearing in all directions. Taxi’s sat in the busy intersection, and waves of people continued to exit the club. Marcie, Kellie, Amanda and I returned down the path we began earlier that night. We said our goodbyes to Marcie, climbed into Kellie’s car (thanks Kellie!) and made our way back to where our evening began—Amanda’s house.

The Possy

Our Journey to FACES: The Light Rail Train

Amanda and I didn’t want to run the risk of crashing our cars (or even worse, contracting a DUI), so we decided to ride the Light Rail train into the heart of Sacramento. The plan: get on the train, survive the train ride, walk 8 blocks to the night club, FACES, and dance the night away with Kellie Edson and friends. 

Our plan of attack was sound. We were to get to-and-from downtown Sac by using public transportation.  Amanda’s mom, Jan, drove us to the Light Rail where we waited in her car. The empty parking lot was dimly lit, and small trees wrestled with the wind. Only one passenger sat outside under the glow of florescent light bulbs. The anticipation of the train’s arrival shook my stomach. Every few seconds, I would look over my shoulder (and we sat there for ten minutes—I probably looked nuts). The idea of public transportation really excited me (in my opinion, America needs to get their butt in gear to make public transportation work).

Light Rail’s core inhabited faded, soft blue cushions. With the exception of one elderly gentleman wearing lime green, tie-dyed socks, Amanda and I had the cabin to ourselves (at least for the beginning of our trip).  The train shook violently—similarly to the Matterhorn in Disneyland—and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see out the window. So instead, I stared at my reflection.

I took the opportunity to document my experience by taking photos. Who knew that blue cushions could excite me so? By our third or fourth stop, people began to fill the cabin.  Soon enough, a middle-aged gentleman sat in the seats across from us. He really wanted to sell us bus tickets and magnets. He then began to ask why we were so “dolled up” and where we were going. His questioning proceeded to become more and more personal—almost to the point of harassment. That is when our HERO made eye contact with Amanda.

A security guard had just made his way onto the bus when Amanda used her telepathy. The expression on Amanda’s face didn’t lie. We. Needed. Help. The last thing we wanted was for the guy to follow us off the bus (because he was indicating that’s exactly what he was going to do).  

Even after the man was told to leave us alone he continued to bother us—he even attempted to coax the security guard into flirting with us.  This prompted a fast conversation with Kellie on the phone, and an even faster departure from the train. The guard stepped away from our seat to let us pass, and the door closed behind us with our nightmare calling after us. Luckily, Kellie was around the corner in her car. No chance for stalking tonight. No. Way.

I Found my Childhood Yesterday

The house we were evicted from

Yesterday I went to a family friend in Kentucky who was always a constant means of support in times of need (which was almost everyday). After getting evicted from our house on Walters Road all of the family ended up scattered. Ben (my stepdad) and Mom asked for the family's extremely part-time housekeeper to pack their things. They only took THEIR things. None of the 5 kids were considered in the chaotic moving process and almost everything that wasn't snatched was abandoned. That included any connection to my past—or so I thought.

It wasn't until halfway through my visit that my friend had an epiphany. Mid sentence, Sherry caught her breath, pointed to her daughter, Carlee, and said, “I have two boxes of miss Karlee’s. Go upstairs and behind the pony you will find one of her boxes.”  I didn’t want to get my hopes up; after all, there were 5 children and 2 adults living together in that house—what she had in that box could have been anything.  After locating the first box behind oodles and oodles of other boxes, I sat down on the kitchen floor and tore the box apart (not literally). On top of the box sat two containers of hot hair curlers (which were missing most of the pieces), a dirty, old Santa cookie tray, a few minor paintings and a flag that hung outside our house.  Besides my mild amusement with the flag’s ironic statement, "Welcome to the Nut House," there was nothing in the box that I wanted to connect to my past.

Disappointment didn’t sink beneath my skin; it stayed on the surface—I wasn’t about to relieve those unfortunate moments of my childhood. So, if the other box wasn’t recovered, I would be ok with that.  We continued our conversation in the Kitchen for about 20minutes before Sherry said, “Lets go get that other box.”

Following her lead, we walked out their backdoor to the two car garage. Behind the first door sat boxes of tools, boxes of shoes, boxes of books—I didn’t believe she could find my box.  Regardless, I followed Sherry. We had to climb over boxes and push through piles and piles of personal belongings. In the back corner, behind the malformed plywood, school projects and the baby swing, she wiggled out a water-damaged box. Years and years of sitting brought a damp, unfriendly smell to our noses.

It was filled with thousands of pictures. Pictures.

After the eviction, Sherry felt so bad for our situation that she hunted for anything that may of had value to me. It turns out, that she had my whole childhood stashed in her cluttered garage. But it wasn’t just my childhood. It was Ali’s childhood. It was Mac’s childhood. It was Kenton’s childhood. It was Walker’s childhood. It was the connection to our past that could never be separated from our souls—it’s who we are.

Over the course of my stay in Kentucky, I sat in my grandmother’s living room and sorted through pictures. Many of the photos were irreparably damaged; luckily, most of them were not.  Many tears and buried stories surfaced with each of us. The emotional reprocutions from a simple box of pictures was outstanding.

 Thank you, Sherry, from the bottom of my heart. My siblings and I now have a photo album instead of a box.

Kentucky? Or, not Kentucky? That is the Question

Thanks to Ryan's dad, Scott for purchasing my ticket so I could make it to Kentucky today. Needless to say, Yesterday was a relentlessly tiresome roller coaster. After being turned away from the Sonoma County Airport with the response of "there is nothing we can do," I continued my crying spree for hours. My eyes were swollen, my head hurt, and my stomach continued to twist in knots.

Ryan eventually got me connected with an Alaskan Air

Representative (by this point I had already sent my letter to KTVU). Not surprisingly, I was told, "mam, this isn't our fault."

My response to her was less than kind, "So, you are telling me, that it's my fault that someone isn't behind the counter to help?" I paused fighting tears. She was telling me that I wouldn't get compensated.

I then asked, "so, why is it that your machines can take money from me but not give me the plane ticket I just checked in for?" She had no response.

After being places on hold, the representative returned to tell me that I was being put on request for compensation (I'll have to check my confirmation soon to see where I'm at).

 

At 3:30am the next morning, I set out for San Francisco to, hopefully, get onto a 6:00am departure for Chicago. I arrived—wow—only 35minutes before my departure.  Not only could I check in on time, I was able to buy a coffee and a more-than-delicious croissant. Riddle me that one…

When I landed in Chicago I spent hours wandering around, looking at  people and finding food. Eventually, I found my gate—it was shoved into the recesses of terminal G. I even had time to watch Justin Bieber's "Never Say Never" (I know what you're thinking, and—yes—I am a total nerd).

But, even between those moments of knowing I had my destination in reach (and flying through the city of Oprah), I was still traumatized by my poor experience the day before.

It was like clockwork: ten minutes before we were scheduled to board the plane a flight attendant interrupts the passengers over her tiny and powerful speaking device to say, "I need 3 volunteers to give up their seats. If I don’t get 3 volunteers, I will start calling people."

Breath discontinued to enter my body...

I had an awful feeling my name was going to be called—so instead of panicking, I got in front of the line and rushed onto that mini plane.

The Airport security didn’t hunt me down and the plane didn’t crash, so I'm back in Kentucky! It will be a wonderful week; thank you everyone for all of your kind and supportive words. I'm extremely grateful for everything. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

I just hope my trip back to Santa Rosa goes smoothly next Monday…

Today, I sent a letter to KTVU--the local news station

Dear KTVU,

Nearly a month ago, I purchased a plane ticket to visit my family and friends in Kentucky. Because I am a recent college graduate from SSU, it was difficult for me to even consider purchasing a ticket—especially with the cost of $823.00.  I even had to split the cost between two credit cards—bringing both of them to their limit.

In the 6 years that I’ve lived in California, I have only been able to return once to see my family. So, understandably, I would be excited to visit my mother (who has only become recently sober in the last 2 years), my grandparents, and my brothers who are now beginning to plan what colleges they wish to attend. To top it off, I was planning to attend the wedding of a good friend—the kind of friend that you would never intentionally miss the most important day of her life.  Needless to say, I was looking forward to my trip home. 

I booked the airline ticket to leave from STS (Sonoma County Airport) at 12:30pm on Friday the 22^nd.  Because I only live 10 minutes away, I thought it would be a no-brainer. I arrived to the airport at 1205pm with my flight delayed to 12:40pm. The ticket counter displayed a small sign saying that the desk attendants leave the desk 30minutes before the flights departure. By my calculations, that would mean that an attendant should remain at the desk until 1210pm. Am I right? So, like any logical person, I kept my cool and went over to one of 10 Alaskan Air computers to check in.  I paid 20$ to check my bag in with Alaskan Air flight 2473 and I received my receipt with my baggage information as well as what connections I would be making.

So, I went to the small airport security checkpoint (which is only 2 doors away from my destination) and the gentleman told me that I needed to return to the Kiosk to retrieve my boarding pass—BUT I DIDN’T GET ONE. So, I then asked if he could locate someone to meet me at the counter.  He told me No.  NO? Really? I was the only customer in line. There were 6-7 security Employees there (TO ONE PERSON….MAN, I MUST BE A THREAT). He told me I should go outside to the arrival gate and flag someone down.  So, I turned around and walked through the arrival gate.  It was now 12:15 and I could see the bags being wheeled out to the plane.  I tried yelling…no one heard me. I tried yelling again. No one heard me.

So I turned around and went inside to the counter. Still, no one was there. I had checked my bags and I had checked myself in. But there was NO ONE that could give me the $823.00 ticket. I even started to wander around—by this point I had begun to cry.  I asked a gentleman with an airport tag around his neck if he could contact someone to help me at the desk. His response was “I’m sorry, I can’t leave this door open.” What? You can’t close your door to help me?  What?

I then went back through the small door into the security check-point to ask if one of the 7 employees can help me by contacting someone to go to the desk.  Again, I was turned away—I needed to go outside.

The plane still sat right outside the gate. People were just now filing out of the waiting room to enter the flight.  I yelled. I yelled again. Finally! Someone in a blue shirt came up to me—but he didn’t work with the airline company.  He went and got a guy in an Alaskan airlines shirt. He then said, “I can see what I can do.”

With that hopeful answer, I travelled inside to wait, again, by an empty counter.  At this point, there was another gentleman waiting to get on the same flight with Alaskan Air.

Then, it seemed like—all at once—there were people behind the counter.    Wow.

I was hopeful though. I could see the plane from where I was standing. I had already paid for my bags. The plane hadn’t started yet.  I could make my flight. I could make it.

With out even an effort, the Alaskan employees began the process of trying to find me another flight. They didn't even consider putting me on the flight I was assigned. Why couldn’t I get on the flight I paid for? It was sitting right there.  By that point, it was 12:40pm and the plane still sat in its original spot. By that time, my boyfriend had returned from out apartment in Santa Rosa and stood with me for 9 minutes (plane still intact) while the people in front of me continued to say, on the phone, she missed her flight. But, how can I miss my flight, when it’s sitting right there?

Finally, the Alaskan crew got off the little black reservations phone to inform me that I would have to pay the difference of $1,100.00 to make it to Kentucky. WHAT? $1,100.00? You think I can pay that? And, so much for the convenience too. They then told me I would have to drive to SFO. WOW. 

So, the ticket I purchased was placed on my shoulders because the employees of Alaskan Air couldn’t get me on the plane that sat there for 40minutes (20 minutes past original departure). Congratulations Alaskan AIR—you have earned $843.00 (this includes the baggage fees) from a college graduate that can’t afford to pay her own bills. Thanks.

To top it off—I didn’t get the money back for my luggage…

STS should consider reworking their system--especially, if the computers won’t give me the ticket I purchased.

So, please, KTVU, if you can share my story of frustration I would be grateful. I believe many people could benefit from it.  Flying to and from the Sonoma County Airport should be considered an enjoyable experience (It’s not everyday that you can fly out of wine country). My hope is that one day, STS will be able to cover their bases and make their company known for customer service.  Unfortunately, today wasn’t that day.

Sincerely,

Karlee Tucker

tuckekar@gmail.com

530-414-1941

PS. I want to apologize to all of those flyers that saw me crying. I hope that my poor experience didn’t distress their travels. 

To the Future College Graduate

To the Future College Graduate:

As a recent college graduate, I feel as if it’s my duty to forewarn the large demographic of anxious students that anxieties will remain intact even after graduation. Maybe you are one of the lucky few who have honed in on your “life’s ambition.” Congratulations.  But, if you are anything like me, you are simply confused with your possibilities. Here is an analogy: I’m staring at the massive, 15page menu at the Cheesecake Factory questioning how to satisfy my empty stomach. Do I stick with a yummy menu item I know? Or, do I upset my taste buds with something unexpected? Like the menu items, I question what path to travel. Do I remain comfortable and continue my path in the education system? Or, do I risk of uncertainty and discomfort? I took the path of a smart person, and started to explore other career paths…

Here is a problem I’ve repeatedly come across.  Yes, I did go to College. Yes, I did receive a BA in English and a minor in Linguistics. Yes, I did graduate at the top 10% of my class. And, yes, I would find my degree relevant to many professions—including teaching. But does that mean employers agree? No. More often I find my choice of study questioned—in turn, I question myself.   Time and time again, I am recited these dreadful words: “you are not qualified,” or “you have a degree in English? Are you going to teach?”  What happened to those  “entry-level” jobs that anyone, regardless of their degree, can obtain? News flash: they don’t exist. You either have a raincloud of luck booming overhead, or you know someone that knows someone.

The small coin of luck retrieved from my pocket is testament to this concept.  My newest venture (which is a traveling freelance job) was only obtained because of a close contact. For this small opportunity, I am grateful. After all, if it were not for this freelance work, I wouldn’t have been able to work in Dallas, Texas and Portland, Oregon—all in less than 3 months.  But, now that I’ve been home over a week with no consistent form of work, I find myself spending hours searching for another potential opportunity. 

With 41 applications and 7 interviews behind me-- all I consider is this: what am I doing? I’ve been told not to doubt myself, but my patience wears thin (especially when interviewers tell me that I should go back to school). I set the bar high, convincing myself that I wouldn’t fall into the category of those who end up working a minimum wage job. But, today, I felt a sense of desperation. Thousands of other college graduates work minimum wage jobs wherever they can get hired. So, how am I any better? The correct answer is as follows: I’m not better than anyone. Anyone. Nobody should have that attitude. But, I am different—maybe even unforgettable.

I recently went to celebrate a friend’s birthday; “life goals” became a quick topic.  As I was chatted with Kevin (a mutual friend at the lunch celebration), I shared some of my uncertainties—especially because I was lacking a career.  But, within those uncertainties, I found a moment of brilliance and said, “I truly believe that I am meant for something spectacular”—I just couldn’t put my finger on what that “something” was. It was then, that Kevin turned to me and stated, “Well, why aren’t you doing it?” Such a small statement became a profound moment for me. Why wasn’t I doing “it”—whatever that maybe? 

For those empathetic to my note: create your own path. Take the advice you wish to take, and pass the rest on for someone else. The path less travelled (thank you Robert Frost for the cliché) may be unsettling but rewarding nonetheless. So, if you need to hire an “analytic, creative planner and organizer” I’m your girl. I won’t let you down. But, if you’re trying to find your place in the disoriented American society, be persistent—and patient. Patients is key.

Sincerely,

The College Graduate