Growing up in Astoria NY

By Debra

PROMPT—I am grateful for ...

I earned my last paycheck on 1/6/94. I was 39 years old. It’s too bad that I didn’t retire early or marry rich. Rather, a careless driver ran me over as I walked my two dogs after work. I landed in a ditch, bleeding and unconscious, leading to a two-month hospital/rehab center stay for treatment of brain trauma. I entered an entirely new world with a permanent disability from brain trauma. That’s not what I expected but who would? Thankfully, friends and neighbors cared for my beloved dogs in my long absence.

Brain trauma impacted my mobility, memory, and reasoning. I walk but slower, much slower. I might remember your name but then again I might not. There are days when I feel like I’ve been slapped by a wet fish.

Probably good that I’m not part of the work force because technology overwhelms me. I can barely keep current with today’s hi-tech world of passwords, QR codes, and artificial intelligence. In years gone by, blackberry, and apple were mere fruits. An app was the beginning of the word application. Virus? Made you sick. The sight of a mouse caused shrieks. The term 5G didn’t terrify people in torching cell phone towers. Coffee was coffee, served at the corner diner. I liked mine with cream, no sugar.

Over the years, I worked as a cashier, waitress, secretary, department manager, cleaning lady, and social worker. A few times I worked as a temp where hardly anyone knew my name. I was merely the temp. I didn’t like bouncing around with different employers without job security or benefits, but I needed a paycheck. Hollywood agents somehow overlooked my stunning good looks and brilliance. Why they didn’t want me to star in a runaway hit is beyond me.

High school students like me were an abundant source of cheap labor. I landed my first job in the now defunct New York City department store, Alexander’s. In 1970, at the age of sixteen, I earned $1.85 per hour, proud to be among the workforces. I chopped off price tags attached with pins to a wide assortment of garments. The cashier entered the cost on a mechanical register then handed the item to me. After the customer paid cash (no checks or credit/debit cards) I folded garments, minus the tags, into paper bags. Plastic bags were unavailable. Gift wrapping and boxes were free. For real.

For work, I rode the Steinway Street bus to East 59th Street and Second Avenue, a short walk from Alexander’s. I felt grown up traveling into Manhattan on my own. As the crowded bus with rush hour passengers inched its way over the 59th Street Bridge, a major connection between the boroughs of Queens and Manhattan, I gazed out the window at the dazzling Manhattan skyline. Midtown Manhattan seemed so much more refined, than my dumpy Queens neighborhood where housewives ventured outside in hairnets, bath robes, and house slippers. At lunchtime, I strolled around the neighborhood passing by a Rolls Royce dealership, pricey apartment buildings with suited door men and chic women’s boutiques. I fantasized about living in more classy surroundings. (PS I never have.)

In 1971, my senior year, I left Alexander’s for Macy’s. I worked as a waitress in the long-ago closed basement restaurant called the Dutch Treat. The food was hardly a treat but for us employees it was free. The cheese on the burgers was fake but nutrition wasn’t an issue then. I now earned $2.10 an hour, plus tips. We were paid weekly in cash.

Most customers tipped with small change. I took home about $25 a week in coins. For a high school kid that was a lot of money. I interacted with customers because talking to people was fun. A middle-aged woman with coal black hair teased into a swirling bouffant came in almost every Saturday morning. She rarely spoke but was polite. I called her rye toast because she placed the same order every week – plain rye toast and black coffee. Her bright red lipstick smudged her empty coffee cup, but she always left a quarter for a tip.

Macy’s employees belonged to a union. In my senior year, the union called a strike, over wages, working conditions and benefits. An older co-worker urged me to join the picket line after school, saying it was my civic duty as a union member. That was my first introduction into the American labor movement, which was already losing strength. The strike didn’t last long, and we got a raise.

From 1975 until 1982, I worked for a major manufacturing company. In 1982, jobs were slashed to pump up corporate profits. Being on the hit list jolted me. I couldn’t believe that me, a loyal corporate servant for seven years, was getting the axe. What now? I never thought of working anywhere else except for the company. I had bills to pay. I was also a few degrees shy of my bachelor’s degree, for which the company had paid. I typed up a resume and applied for various jobs. I stopped in at personnel agencies too. After several weeks of fruitless interviews, answering questions like where I hoped to be in five years, not a single job offer came my way. Not so much as an interview. To avoid panhandling on the subway, I enrolled in a six-week word processing course. On job applications, I neglected to mention I had almost earned a college degree, afraid I wouldn’t get hired if employers thought I was overqualified. I needed a paycheck because my savings were dwindling, and unemployment was scarcely enough. Since corporations were uninterested in my qualifications, I stepped down and accepted a job offer at a hospital as a medical secretary. I now had a steady paycheck, but no office of my own. Gone were my business cards and name plaque on my desk. No one invited me to meetings to ask my views. I felt dried up like a three-day old tuna sandwich. I paid for the remaining three credits and earned that college degree.

At end of 1983, I rode a bus after work through midtown Manhattan to join friends for a group run in Central Park. Group runs were healthier than sloshing down martinis and less costly than weekly visits to a shrink for happy pills. An overhead advertisement seeking volunteers for an innovative child abuse prevention program caught my eye. I snatched one of the cards attached to the advertisement and mailed it. What was I thinking?

The agency called me, and I became a volunteer. For two and a half years, I served as a parent-aide to a young woman who was a child abuser. Conveying our journey in this short space is impossible. As a result of my volunteer work, I enrolled in the NYU School of Social Work and in May 1988 graduated with a master’s degree. Despite the shock of losing my corporate job, I realized that it was a blessing. Corporate earnings, balance sheets, or sucking up to cocky managers was in my past. In social work, clients depended on me to locate affordable housing that’s still in short supply. They relied on me to secure health care in the frenzied AIDS era. Doctors consulted me on complex cases and expected me at meetings. I dealt with homelessness, child abuse, drug addiction, domestic violence, and teen pregnancy. Sometimes, I was in over my head, but I knew I was in the right place. I couldn’t solve everyone’s problems, but I belonged.

After the 1994 accident, I missed work. I longed for days when I woke up, slipped into my corporate attire, and rode the crowded NYC subways. Eating lunch with co-workers was fun, except for listening to the chronic nitpickers.

After a long recovery from the 1994 car accident, I re-invented myself as an all-around volunteer. Each position fulfilled and rewarded me in special ways.

I answered calls in former AZ Governor Janet Napolitano’s office of constituent services once a week. Citizens were disappointed they spoke with me rather than Janet Napolitano. Five years later, I left the state house when the governor resigned to work in the Obama administration. I was proud of my service to Arizona. I parted with a long list of stories that could fill pages.

Since 1989, I’ve been an animal shelter volunteer, taking off only because of the car accident. I provided snacks to beat up stray dogs and cats that never experienced a shred of decency at four different shelters in MA, CO, and AZ. Dogs and cats, unlike people, took my disability in stride. A motorized scooter? No big deal to them. In my long service as an animal shelter volunteer, I compiled enough stories to fill a book.

From 2001 to 2008, I volunteered as a pet therapist with my adopted dog Luke. Homeless children who I met as a volunteer through Gabriel's Angels, a group that uses pet therapy to break the cycle of violence in abused and at-risk children, learned the power of healing from Luke. After seven years of service, I have lots of touching stories.

I started Breaking the Chain in 2004, a children’s writing/art contest, to teach third grade children in the local schools about the cruelty of chaining dogs outside. I wrote a short story about a chained dog named Joey and how the neighbor’s cat, the Great Harriet, freed Joey from his chains. Children wrote or drew their conclusion to the story. The contest was sponsored by PACC911 (Phoenix Animal Care Coalition), a non-profit group where I once served on the board. We awarded small prizes for first, second and third place winners in each category, writing and art. Children who won prizes were always thrilled. Sometimes their parents attended school when I handed out the prizes. During the time I volunteered for Gov. Napolitano, I asked for and received special proclamations for the prize winners. Students were overjoyed to receive a proclamation, signed by the governor, with their name on it. One student’s art entry was so spectacular that, with his mother’s permission, I submitted it with a magazine article I wrote about the contest. The magazine used it for the cover. The entire family was delighted.

At Sky Harbor airport, volunteers like me work at a post behind security. ID cards allow us entry for employees, which is usually shorter than the public line. TSA agents protect us from harm. The job can be tedious and stressful but constant vigilance is vital. Because my scooter cannot pass through the x-ray machine, a female agent screens me personally. Agents always explain the personal search procedure, especially around sensitive areas like the breasts, as required by Federal law. During the procedure, I ask agents about their jobs.

A woman arrived at security with a 20-pound frozen turkey. Odd, I said to myself. What part of the country doesn’t sell frozen turkeys?

“What’d you do?” I asked.

“Ran it through the x-ray machine,” she said.

“And?”

“The bird was clean, so I let her go."

I also helped teach English as a second language to refugees new to the USA. I did clerical work for the Sierra Club. I served in a children’s reading program. I now sort and fold donated clothes, shoes, and school supplies for a global humanitarian agency. Once a month, I serve a meal to homeless guests.

Had that careless driver swerved and missed me in 1994 my life would’ve gone on as usual. The accident changed everything. I’ve struggled since then, both physically and financially. My income level plunged. I’ve relied only on meager Social Security Disability payments that barely cover rent, utilities, food, and insurance. I drive an old car. I water down dish soap and laundry detergent to make them last longer. I shop in thrift stores and buy day old bread. I’ve dug through the trash for aluminum cans to redeem for cash. Never in my life did I imagine myself rummaging through other people’s stinking garbage. If 1/6/94 was an ordinary day, I would’ve missed so many volunteer chances that enriched my heart and molded me into a better person. Do I regret the accident that knocked me out of the workforce? No, absolutely not. I’m thankful for a second chance.

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Debra's social work career ended suddenly on 1/6/94 when a car ran over her as she walked her two dogs. After a long recovery, she found new life in volunteering and creative writing. She remains thankful for a second chance. Debra writes from Gilbert, AZ.