A Star Way to Start the Day!

A Star Way to Start the Day
-Rachelle Linda Escamilla


Sitting in Starbucks this morning, a place where I regret entering, but as a result of corporate branding I lack willpower to refuse my once-in-a-while soy misto. Anyhow, here I am sitting in Starbucks, composing myself before my long Thursdays which include driving to Los Banos to teach, driving back over the mountain to Gilroy to teach, driving back into Hollister for a small break, late-afternoon/early evening dinner, gather my things and head out for what I like to call Protest O’Clock.  Starbucks is always warm, always cozy, sometimes busy, but mostly satisfying.  The corporation aided my funding through graduate school, when there was a lack of funding and I was bumped out of the T.A.-ship, I was devastated. I was hired as a barista and assumed my position in working-class America; a position I was not unfamiliar with.

Growing up in Hollsiter, California, my story is probably just as recognizable as any other small-town girl’s.  I grew up sheltered, in an overtly evangelical Christian church, a meager education (thanks to wonderful teachers and no thanks to budget cuts, but lucky enough to have missed the no-child-left-behind time), and a thirst to go beyond the parameters of my small town.  And I have.  I was an attendant of Gavilan, San Jose State University, and the University of Pittsburgh for graduate work.  My future was bright and ubiquitous, grad school - met the love of my life - marriage - career - saving - buy a home - start a family - live the American Dream.  

My father told me, on the day of my graduation from San Jose State University, that he had worked his whole life at a job he didn’t particularly care for in order for me to pursue my dreams.  And that’s the American Dream - the hope that if you work and work and work you or your children will see the dream come into fruition.  They will reap the benefits of your toil.  And I have - combining the provisions from my father and the stable, two-parent household - a fine foundation for my success in this country.  Even as an underrepresented college student.  

But this is a forum for the 99%, and you know that this story isn’t complete.  During my final year in graduate school I received a call from my mother saying that Dad had lost his job. After 23 years at the same location, after giving them his youth, his muscle, his all, (and he did! Never missed a day of work, even when he had pneumonia - they had to send him home) he was cut.  The politics behind the layoff were many, but let’s save that for another post.  The fact of the matter is he worked in the construction world, for Milgard Windows, and when you work in construction, and the housing bubble bursts, you are most likely going to lose your job.  

I was called home. Not overtly by my mother or father.  Not because it was my duty, but because that’s what you do in my culture; problems at home = come home and help.  So I brought my soon-to-be-husband to California and we proceeded to re-imagine our dream.  Now I would find work locally, he would transfer his duties with the Military locally, we would not think about buying a house because our family’s house was our priority, and children? Well, who can afford them in this economy, and why would we bring kids into a world so full of rotten, disgusting, self-serving, government tyrants and a country of passive, uneducated, consumers. That’s just unfair.

Fast forward to now: I tell my students that they have the burden of knowledge. And I can’t stop thinking about my students while sipping my misto (yum). I am  thinking about the conversations and  the blank looks when I urge them to get involved, the fear I feel when I discuss political topics because I know that my 50 minutes of lecture is undone by the 24-hour cycle of news which is owned and operated by the powers that be, and gobbled up by the masses.  I care about my students because I was one of them, I am one of them.  

In Starbucks I am  listening to the squawking by the early morning gym birds hopping about in their tights with their discussions of spa days and lattes.  I’m no different than them either.  I wish I had money for a spa day - I have a limited amount for my lattes, and I am here, in Starbucks.  We are no different from each other. I bet they have a story like mine. Our stories link, if our stories were people, and those people linked arms, we could fill every bank, every landmark, every government agency, every Starbucks, college campus; if our stories were people they wouldn’t ignore us. They couldn’t.