What to do when you don’t get the job

After five interviews, I was so excited to be a final candidate for a Managing Director of Communications position at a well-known company in San Francisco. But I didn’t get it. Another well-deserving candidate did. And that’s okay.

While I was disappointed, I knew I did well in the interviews and established a solid rapport with the team. So I sent an email to the hiring manager and closed it on a personal note, tying in something we laughed about during the interview. Her response (and just the fact that she responded at all) came in three minutes later, and it completely made my day. She said I was a strong contender and she passed my name on to another team that may have openings in the future.

MY ADVICE: Always send a note of thanks even if you didn’t get the job. It’ll bring you good juju! Well, at least that’s what I’m hoping. We’ll see!

The amazing things you uncover in a San Francisco tent

Almost every morning, I walk through a pretty park on my way to work from the San Francisco Ferry Building to downtown San Francisco. And almost every morning there are homeless people either wrapped in sleeping bags on a bench or curled up on the ground among their belongings.

This morning, with the winter chill still lingering, I stop in Peet’s to grab a coffee (and a banana loaf) for the first homeless person I come across. I’m certain they could use the warm-up.

I get to the park, but there is no one there. I decide to venture off the path into the wooded area, and I see a single tent among the trees. I say “good morning” and ask if anyone would like a hot cup of coffee. The zippered flap immediately opens to a smiling woman who doesn’t look so different from myself. And then I hear a baby’s cooing. Startled by the baby wrapped in blankets behind her, I tell her I wish I had more to give. She warms her hands around the coffee cup and tells me the coffee made her day. And that right there made my Christmas.

 

 

Speak English, please.

During breakfast at a bucolic Vermont inn, I eyeballed an older couple as they became increasingly crabby with a server because he couldn’t speak English. He wasn’t the couple’s primary server… his job was to bring them food. When he couldn’t understand their request for water and was understandably shaken by their disgusted tone, the young boy with a sweet face and demeanor tried his best. He then politely left the table and fetched their server, who translated the request. (The couple got their damn agua.)

When he placed my plate of goodness in front of me, I smiled and said, “Gracias.” Happily caught off guard, he beamed and offered, “De nada,” sort of bowing his head in gratitude.

My point: Even if you feel everyone in this country should speak English, please show compassion to those who are trying… you don’t know their story or their struggle. Let’s help each other, not hinder.

One last thought: When you go to another country, don’t be a stupid American. Learn the language and customs. And remember: The United States has never adopted English as its official language, and 1 out of every 5 residents speaks a foreign language at home. Read more here.

The homeless and hopeful bond over a burrito

Last night, I met a homeless woman on the street and bought her a burrito… and in that short amount of time I realized we have more in common than ever.

I had been heading back to my home in San Francisco after dinner, and she was in front of me carrying a bunch of folded cardboard boxes. She was sure-footed but frail, so I asked her if she needed help. She said, “It’s okay. I’m almost to my tent.” I grabbed a few anyway and walked to the parking lot where she lives in her tent. I asked her how she ended up here. It turns out she was in an abusive situation with some guy and she took whatever she had (not much) and left. She said to me, “I’ll get back on my feet — I know I will.”

As we stood there, I told her how I moved to San Francisco without a job and without a place to live, and how fragile and vulnerable I feel from moment to moment. “While I can never truly understand what you’re going through, I sometimes feel like I’m five minutes from being homeless. We all deal with tough times, but it’s that positive attitude that will get you through. I had a good day today, so let me buy you a burrito.”

After the burrito came, I gave her a hug and headed home happy, although tearful, because she needed that $11 so much more than I did.

 

 

 

Chasing waterfalls and hoping not to drown

Yesterday, I answered a house cleaning ad on Craigslist — a $15/hr job that I happily pursued. I biked 40 mins across San Francisco, cleaned for 4.5 hours, and then biked back. While I make much more per hour as a freelance copywriter, I am not too proud to pick up work where I can. (I thank my working-class background.) House cleaning, gardening, promotions, event staff, prostitute… ha! Kidding. But I do what I have to do to make ends meet these days. Until I find a full-time job, I will continue to happily bike across this beautiful city for odd odd-jobs. Because, come on, look at this waterfall I passed.

Reveling in the sights and smells of The Mission

After living in Massachusetts for almost four decades, today I officially became a resident of California! San Francisco, specifically. To celebrate, I walked from one end of the city to my home in Bernal Heights. Mostly because I was confused by the BART system. But since then I often walk great distances just to get the feel of the neighborhoods and people. This afternoon, I had a meeting in The Mission District and walked back home about 10 blocks to meet my roommate for a beer. The beer was fantastic, but the most memorable were the sights and SMELLS of Mission Street. What a colorful neighborhood (and history)… it feels like a third-world country in some respects. A grittiness pervades, and there are about a hundred taquerias and bodegas lining the streets with a few bistros sprinkled in. Sadly, there are more homeless than I ever experienced anywhere else. Still, I love being among people with different stories and different skin. What I’ve learned (and keep learning): We have more in common than you think.

 

From pillow to pillow, here I come San Francisco

I am homeless, but I’m somehow finding places to settle in for a few days or more until I find a place to live. Sometimes it’s my persistence, other times it’s pure luck.

Last week, which is my second week here in the Bay Area, I landed a five-day overnight dogsitting gig via Craigslist. This week I’m playing host at an Airbnb house where I stayed as a guest the week before. They had to go to LA and needed someone to host guests, and I needed a pillow. (Plus, they’re letting me use their car!) Next week,  I head to their friends’ house for a 10-day dogsitting gig.

I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the stars keep aligning! Either way, Ollie doesn’t seem too stressed about it.

Pondering pain, purpose and peace

Walking along the quaint and quiet streets of Providence’s East Side this morning, I relished the sweet sounds of wind chimes singing from the porches of majestic Victorian homes. I’ve never heard so many wind chimes at once. Just like my endless sighting of 4:44 or 3:33, I take everything as a sign and ponder the meaning of the present moment. As my life and those of others I love dearly endure such pain and upheaval, I pray it’s a message signaling that “peace, good fortune and happiness” are on the way. Love to all in 2015…

A Message from Maya, 1992

Poets move me. Every day. But they never did until Maya Angelou. She stood on the podium in Northeastern University’s colossal stadium in 1992, when I just arrived after transferring from a nearby community college. I was the first of my five siblings—and my family—to attend college. I grew up working class with industrious parents who toiled on factory floors to provide for their kids. After my father passed away when I was eight, my mother carried the load, as she did for the rest of my life. So I am grateful to her for being there that day with Maya—in a college stadium with college dreams and college minds. It was a world completely foreign to my mother. But there she was supporting her youngest—the mouthy troublemaker who skipped school and swore she was going to be the next Madonna as a crucifix dangled from her ear. Now a college student? Go figure.

So, my getting into Northeastern was a big fucking deal. I honestly thought I’d be slicing bologna for the rest of my life if the rock star thing didn’t work out. But I knew I had a talent with words. So I took a chance on college. I was a writer, always a writer—my childhood filled with poems, songs and short stories penned by me and read by my mother. I would leave my scribblings on the kitchen table at night and when I awoke she would always tell me how beautifully written they were. Even if most of them were sappy teenage poems about teenage angst. Her praise mattered. And her presence that day when Maya Angelou spoke mattered.

The best part about that day as I remember it: We didn’t even know who Maya Angelou was. We were simply awestruck by this woman… our breath taken away. She spoke of courage, determination, failing and persevering. And she encouraged us to get to know our hearts and to always follow them… and to always be true to yourself.

On that day in 1992, Maya opened my heart to poets and possibility. I was terrified to enter a world so unlike the world I came from, but it was courage and determination that got me through. Even more, authenticity, because I will never be someone I’m not. And I thank my mother for that. As I continue to soul-search and pour my words onto paper, uh, computer screen, I thank you, Maya, as well as Edna St. Vincent Millay (and my therapist!) for inspiring me to be true to myself.

“Open your eyes to the beauty around you,
open your mind to the wonders of life,
open your heart to those who love you,
and always be true to yourself.”
~Maya Angelou