My mother ruined me. She said I could be anything. I believed her.
I never felt hurried to lock into a career. That made it easier to walk away.
I changed my mind after a taste. Or when I had enough.
I love variety. I hate repetition.
Repetition is the Mother of Skill. That’s not the kind I hate.
I hate the dead-end kind. It tastes like cardboard.
I repeat a task until I acquire the skill. Then I acquire another skill.
Likely in a different field. Or in an adjacent field.
For security, my mother’s advice was horrible.
Security and scarcity are bedfellows.
Freed from scarcity, I felt good.
I left for college. 1982. It was cheap.
I changed majors five times. I graduated with a teaching degree.
Christmas.
I finished in four and a half years. I didn’t want five. Or six.
I wanted out.
I wanted the piece of paper. I didn’t care which major was printed on it.
I moved from Pennsylvania to Florida the minute I graduated.
I had my piece of paper. I applied everywhere. Including the school board.
I had no expectation for a teaching job. I didn’t want more high school.
I wanted rent money.
The school board called for an interview. I went.
A formality. I was breathing. No felonies. Misdemeanors long behind me.
I moved to the next round. That afternoon.
They showed a map. A school on the far side of the sugar cane fields.
It looked like twenty minutes. Forty-five minutes later I was there.
The principal expected me. The knock on the door gave her joy.
The last science teacher quit. She needed a teacher. Monday.
This was not an interview. She was selling hard. Like her rent depended on it.
It paid an extra $2000 tax-free. Travel hardship. Combat pay.
You had me at ‘job’.
Eighteen months later I quit.
Too many Zombies.
Kids I could handle. The rotten ones I kicked out. The rest paid attention.
For eighteen months I learned a skill.
Scratch that.
For twelve months I learned a skill. The rest I combed job listings.
Each year brings new kids. They move on. Teachers stay behind.
I would be held back a grade. Every year. For the rest of my career.
A Zombie.
The carrot for a Zombie is a pension. Zombies need pensions.
Experience had. Skill aquired. I quit.
Mom’s advice was perfect. I can be anything. Not at the same time.
Skill is security. Relationships are security. Experience is security.
Opportunity is infinite.
Best advice ever.
Thanks mom.
2017 - John B Murphy III - All Rights Reserved