Sunday, December 5, 2010

The Four Lessons Everyone Learns in Retail


The Four Lessons Everyone Learns in Retail
            “I already gave you my money.”  I look around the counter.
            “No, ma’am, you didn’t,” I reply, trying to maintain calm.
            “Yes, I did.”
            I look to the floor of my register, though I know there is nothing there, because she has not given me her money yet.  Just as I begin to get frazzled, a little girl walks up to her with a five-dollar bill in her hand.
            “Excuse me, did you drop this? It was on the floor by your feet.”  The woman grabs the money from the little girl, and slams it on my counter.
            “Well you should have been paying better attention,” she says to me.
            Enough said.
Anybody who has had the ‘pleasure’ of working in retail knows that there is hardly ever a dull moment.  The word ‘pleasure’ is used sarcastically because of the fact that working in retail is hardly anything but.  No matter what kind of retail it is, many workers walk out feeling the same way-unappreciated and angry at society.  There are situations, however, that can also cause someone to learn and view life in a different way. Dealing with people on a regular basis can truly teach a person a thing or two about life.  Unfortunately, the world we live in tends to be pessimistic and negative, and those feelings are often reflected through customers.  People want what they want, at the exact moment they want it, and usually do not care how they treat others.  Learning to deal with this negativity in a mature and positive way can be tough, but if a worker is able to do so, then they can basically deal with any circumstance.
            Working at Five Below was anything but glamorous.  Cleaning up after people’s messes, dealing with disrespect, and trying to maintain a calm demeanor when asked ridiculously ignorant questions can really put a damper on someone’s morale.  I try to take it all in stride and not focus on the negative things that happened while working there, but rather, reflect on everything that I witnessed and the lessons I learned during my almost 3 years working there. 
            Lesson number one-the majority of the human race will always be ignorant, dense, and rude.  There is just no getting around it.  It doesn’t matter how many signs are around the store, how big the print is, what the price tag says, or what the company policy is-it is always the worker’s fault.  How dare you accuse the customer of looking on the wrong shelf, or trying to use a coupon that expired months earlier-they are always right.  No matter what position, you are going to be answering the same exhausting questions time and time again.  Complaints were constantly running rampant about the way in which the store itself was designed.  The outline of the store does not suffice for the amount of traffic it acquires.  The rows are tiny, and though the store has carts available for use, they barely fit down the aisles.  At times, in-demand products would be placed on the ends of the aisles, instead of placing it in top-stock, because it would be easily attainable by the customer.  Customers always yelled at us for this, saying that the aisles were too clogged.  The store is tight and compact, and there was nothing we could do about it, yet people still blamed us for it, as if we designed the store ourselves.
Society is always looking for a way to beat the system.  Even though Five Below is already a cheap and extremely inexpensive store, people always complain about the quality of the products, and the fact that the store does not offer refunds. Forget the fact that the product you’re buying is only $3 and made of flimsy plastic and will probably break within a week, they want their money back, and will go to any lengths to do so.  Customers always seem to think that they were shopping in Nordstrom’s and expected the products that the store sold to be top of the line.  They were always shocked when we, the workers, would tell them that the store did not offer refunds, however, they could pick out another product of the same price and do an even exchange (even though there should not have been any shock, because the store policy was clearly and boldly printed on the bottom of their receipt).
            Another lesson learned while working in retail is the fact that there is always going to be some type of inequality and unfairness felt.  While this is true in almost any job in the world, it is especially felt in the world of retail. Associates are already dumped on and treated poorly, and the position one holds really has an effect on the amount of respect they acquire.  Even in a small store like Five Below, there was always some type of politics going on.  Whether it was an argument between two associates, a disagreement between corporate and the general manager, or problems with the amount of hours on the schedule, something was always happening.  No one was ever truly and genuinely happy.  This coincides with lesson number three-the morale of a store has a tremendous effect on how well the store performs.  Simply put-if the workers aren’t happy, then no one is! Think about it-work is already considered a stressful environment.  If the associates of a store are being treated unfairly-constantly being put down by their managers and always being told everything that they are doing wrong, then no one is going to want to perform well at all. Overworking employees and showing so signs of gratefulness is also a huge factor to the dissolution of a store.  There were countless times when we would stay well past our shifts to clean, and no one would give us the gratitude we deserved.
            While it may sound like working in retail will result in nothing but horror stories, I should include the fact that it can also produce wonderful bonds and friendships.  A person’s co-workers can make all the difference in the world, and work can be much easier and less stressful when getting along with them.  I started to become very friendly with the general manager of the store.  He was just great to talk to-very intelligent, funny, and good at his job.  Through our discussions, we found that we had a lot in common, and developed a mature and professional friendship that I really enjoyed.  Little did I know, the other managers in the store did not hold the same feelings, and were planning to get him fired.  As it turns out, the assistant managers did not like the way my manager ran the store, claiming he was lazy, and was not strict enough with the associates.  They discussed it amongst themselves, and made a plan to get him in trouble with corporate.  They told the district manager that he had items still locked away in a storage unit from Christmas, and that it was technically considered stealing. When it occurred, everyone was in shock, and there was a shift in the staff.  No one wanted to do anything, because the manager that had taken over had no idea what he was doing.  He was too young for such a responsibility, and treated everyone like an idiot.  This whole ordeal taught me lesson four-always be prepared for the unexpected.  The world of retail can be cutthroat, and not everyone is a friend.
In order to really understand life and the way people are, everybody should spend at least a year in retail. We spend so much of our time having relationships with retail people-how many times a day do we go face to face with associates, with people taking our money?  Retail is such an integral part of everyone’s lives, even though it’s something most people don’t even think about. While the experience itself is not always pleasant, the lessons learned can truly be useful in other aspects of life.  Some people may not realize it, but positive reinforcement can really go a long way in the land of retail.  Let’s face it-the world is always going to be filled with pessimists and people who will do anything to make others miserable.  My years in the store have really trained me on how not to let these people get the best of me.  I have experienced my fair share of craziness in what feels like such a small amount of time.  The greatest lessons of life can be taught through retail, and if a person can overcome the initial hardship, then they are capable of handling anything life throws at them.   

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Analysis of Literal Latte

“A JOURNAL OF PROSE, POETRY, AND ART”

About Literal Latte:
  • Debuted in 1994, offering 30,000 free copies to coffeehouses and bookstores all over New York City.
  • Offers a wide range of genres, including essays, fiction, poetry, plays, and artwork.
  • Accepts submissions 365 days a year.
  • If accepted, the work is published within one year of submission.
  • Comes out with several issues a year.
  • Most issues include someone who has never been published before.  Literal Latte is very supportive of first time writers.
    • “The founders knew that good writing, in a friendly and easily available format, would be as popular as cappuccino in a cafĂ© in New York City.  In a world where it is harder than ever for new writers to get a foot in the door of the traditional publishing world, Literal Latte remains committed to finding and nurturing great talents…”
  • The first anthology is now available in both hardcover and paperback.
    • Highlights from the first 15 years of the journal’s existence.

Guidelines for Submissions:
  • Literal Latte accepts many types of creative expressions.
  • Unpublished stories or personal essays
    • Up to 6,000 words
  • Short plays or poems
    • Up to 4,000 words
  • Reviews
    • Including film and theater reviews.  Many of the works reviewed are either independent films or off-broadway material.
  • Artwork
    • Anything from literary cartoons to cover artwork
      • Photography, drawings in black and white or color, paintings.  No originals, slides or copies only
      • Sebastian Wahl Artwork

  • Styles of submissions can range from classical to experimental.
  • Simultaneous submissions are accepted.
  • Patience is needed-can take up to 3-6 months for a response.
  • NO email submissions accepted.

Analysis of Literal Latte’s publications:
  • Subject matter 
    • All of the genres are filled with passion, expression, and seem to be rather personal.
    • The focus of essays range from religion, personal growth, education.
      • Essays are very truthful and honest.
    • Includes many works of creative non-fiction, as well as fiction.
      • Some of the fiction work discusses ideas of Philosophy.
  • Voice/Tone
    • Lightweight, positive feel.
    • Laid-back, fun vibe.
    • The reviews are not too opinionated and domineering, but are very helpful and offer much insight.
    • Pretty much open to anything.
    • No distinctions-nothing too political or controversial.
    • Filled with creativity and feeling.
    • Much thought behind the works.
    • Nothing is too complicated or difficult to understand.
  • Form
    • Emphasizes creativity
      • Nothing is boring or ordinary.
      • Between the fiction, essays, poems, and artwork, there is something for every type of person to enjoy.
  • Artistry
    • The publications tend to be longer in length.
  • Currently offers 5 annual writing contests.
    • Fiction Awards
    • Short Short Contest
    • Poetry Awards
    • Essay Awards
    • Food Verse Contest
      • Prizes from $200-$1000.
      • Deadlines vary.
      • All entries received will be considered for future publication.
  • Current fee for every contest is $10.00.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Reflective Analysis Start


            I feel as though I had somewhat of a clear understanding of what creative non- fiction writing was when I first entered this class, but I now know that it entails so much more.  I had originally thought that there was not much to creative non fiction-just use the imagination.  While that is a necessary tool, one must learn how to develop ideas and assess them in order to make the reader want to actually read what is in front of them. 
In just about 3 months, I feel that my writing has changed because I have a better understanding now of the elements that go into a successful creative non-fiction piece.  Being an honest writer is crucial when writing this particular type of genre.  If the audience does not feel truth and honesty within the work, then are going to be put off and disregard the writing altogether.  A connection between the writer and the reader is also extremely important.  The audience wants to be able to empathize with what they are reading.  Months ago, I never would be able to tell the difference between an “I” and “Eye” essay. 
            Like many others, I feel that I have a stronger connection with the “I” essays.  I think that they came more naturally to me, most likely because it was coming from my own heart and mind.  Personal experiences, I feel, are much easier to express under most conditions.  I unintentionally learned more about myself through these writings, and realized just how much I have grown personally and emotionally.
            Writing has always been a great release for me, and this particular kind of writing is no different.  A great amount of pressure was released while confronting my emotions regarding certain things in my “I” essays.  Though there is still some tweaking that needs to be done, I am very proud of tackling the personal discussions within those works.  For instance, in my first “I” essay, I discussed my experience with my brother’s illness.  Without even realizing it, I confronted my emotions like I never had before, and made it known that I was angry that no one asked ME how I was doing during that time.  Normally, I would be mortified to write something like that, but because of the way I wrote it, I realized it was okay.
           I am not entirely sure who my audience is, or who I want to direct my future work towards. I am not writing for anyone in particular.  I’m not sure if this it is a bad thing, writing without an agenda, but I feel that if there is someone out there meant to discover my work, then it will happen.  

Monday, November 22, 2010

hmmm...my audience...?

I suppose I never really gave this much thought.  I have been writing for as long as I can remember, and I never really thought about who my target audience was.  I guess I don't have a particular audience in mind.  I merely write because I enjoy it, and it's a great form of release.  I don't focus on a particular genre of any kind-I write fiction, non-fiction, essays, poetry.  I suppose I should say that I write for anyone who wants to listen.

I really like the work that I found on the website Literal Latte, and plan on sending some of my work there.  I enjoy reading honest work-meaning, I can tell when it comes from the author's heart and soul, because that is exactly how I write.  If I'm not interested in a particular subject or topic, then I'm not going to put a ton of effort into it.  I only want to write when I feel it is necessary, and when I feel a true connection to something.

I'm not saying that my work is so spectacular that every person of every age, race, sex, etc. is going to want to read it.  But what I am saying, is that I don't specifically write for young girls, or older women, or teachers.  I write for you. I write for me.  I write for those who hate to write.  I write for those who love to write.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

A Place We Shouldn't Be



            The staircase is so narrow, it’s almost claustrophobic.  The eggshell white walls are bare, and look tired, as if they have not been painted in over a decade.  The generic carpet is a maroon color and frayed around the edges.  Turning the corner, I see a decent sized waiting room.  The seats, also a maroon shade, are almost completely filled, so I quickly take a seat.  The room mostly consists of young females, many accompanied by, I’m assuming, their mothers.  Though there are a variety of races, all of the faces have the same exact look of fear and uncertainty.  The mother’s faces are filled with anger and discomfort.  Directly across from me is the reception area. The small cubicle is filled with countless folders and files.  The three women, dressed in different colored scrubs, have impatient scowls, as if they want to be somewhere else.  Every few minutes, girls walk through the large metal doors, returning with cotton swabs and band aids covering their arms, and sit down to anxiously await the results of a blood test-THE blood test.
            It seems as though every one of these places is the same, or so I’ve been told.  I have only heard recollections through friends of friends who have been here before.  It is not the most pleasant place to be, but it gets the job done, without costing you your whole paycheck.  While I’m sitting here, I don’t feel better than any of these people, nor do I feel any kind of disgust.  Instead, I try to empathize with and be supportive of Emily.  She’s the reason why I’m here this morning. 
            Emily and I have not been friends for very long.  In fact, up until this point, I think I’ve only known her for about a year and a half.  We don’t have too much in common, besides the fact that we work together and like some of the same music.  Pink is our absolute favorite, and I can’t help but think that she is the reason why we initially began talking. 
            Emily, at first sight, can come off as a bit tough, and most definitely exudes an attitude of being streetwise.  She has more than ten tattoos, including the most dominant and noticeable one, a butterfly, across her upper chest.  She has a few on her wrists, and two large ones on her arms.  She also has numerous facial piercings, including one on her lower lip. Either way, it does not take away from her beauty.  She is strikingly beautiful, her light green eyes one of her most likeable features. Emily is a sweet person, but a part of me can’t help but feel kind of sorry for her.  I feel guilty for even thinking this, but it’s the truth.  Over the last few months, I have gotten to know her so well, and she has shared things with me that no one else, not even my life long friends, has ever shared. 
            She dropped out of high school in her late teens, but ended up going back a year or two later and graduating.  She became pregnant in her mid teens, but lost the baby due to the fact that she was being threatened at school.  This caused her to become so stressed, she had a miscarriage.  Emily had never told her parents, and to this day, even more than ten years later, they still have no idea. 
            A few weeks after we began working together, she revealed to me that she had a 2 and a half-year-old son.  When she spoke of him, her face magically lit up, and I found it beautiful that he had such an amazing and positive effect on her.  Through our discussions, I learned that she has a live in boyfriend, Freddie (also the father of her son), and that they have been together for about four years.  That was the extent of the discussion when it came to him. 
            Emily seemed to be a very reliable and hard worker.  She was always on time, and got every job done that was assigned to her.  She was polite, had good customer service, and got along well with the other associates.  However, about three months after she started, she began calling out once or more a week, and when she was at work, she started spending a lot of time in the bathroom.  One of the managers told me that she heard Emily vomiting.  The next time I worked with her, I asked her if she was alright.
            “Oh, I’m pregnant!” she said nonchalantly, but with a smile on her face.  “I had really bad morning sickness with my first son, so I knew something must not have been right.  I took a test, and it came out positive.”  I didn’t know whether to be scared or happy for her.  I just told her congratulations and went on with my business.
            Emily was on and off at work.  She went almost a whole month and was not on the schedule, and when she returned, she was six months pregnant and had a big belly.  It was the holiday season, so things were hectic and ridiculously busy.  I felt an urge and a need to protect her.  If I saw her trying to lift a heavy bag, I would run over to her and pick it up.  If she couldn’t reach something on the ground, I would get it.  Whichever way I could help her out, I did. 
            In February, she invited some of my co-workers and me to her baby shower.  It was at her apartment, in the two family home she shared with her parents.  I was curious to see how she lived-what kind of family she came from, how Freddie treated her.  From what I saw, her family was very friendly, and Freddie seemed like the doting and loving boyfriend and father-to-be I expected.            Emily’s second son was born in March, and within six weeks, she was back to work.  I was surprised she came back as quickly as she did, but later on she revealed to me that Freddie had lost his job and his unemployment was running out.  It was then that she opened up more to me about him.  He was not quite the man I saw at the baby shower, sitting next to her, looking like he was madly in love with her as he helped her open up gifts.  As it turned out, Freddie was twelve years older than Emily, and had a few other kids from previous relationships.  While there is not too much wrong with that, what is wrong is the fact that he was lazy and could not hold a job for very long.  Emily told me that he had been through countless jobs and could not hold on to anything for a long period of time. 
            Months went by, and we still were not at the level of being much more than friendly co-workers, until one day, when we were putting out shipment together.
            “You know, Freddie and I are having a lot of problems,” she said, not quite looking at me in the face.
            “Oh, really?  Like what?”
            “Well, he cheated on me, months ago, with one of my best friends.”  My eyes widened with shock as I looked up at her.  She then continued and went into the whole story of how Freddie had left her when their first son was barely a year old, for one of her closest friends.  Scared to be alone, they eventually reconciled, and when she revealed to him that she was pregnant with their second child, he denied it and accused her of cheating on him.  She also revealed to me that he had hit her on numerous occasions, and each time he did so, he ended up begging her for forgiveness.
            I tried to give her as much advice as I could, but never having been in that situation myself, there was not much I could say.  I just tried to be there for her as much as I could, and take her out when she needed time to herself.  It was at this point when I started to feel closer to her.
            Which brings me to the present.  As I sit here, in this depressing waiting room, I am wondering how people allow themselves to get into certain situations.  A few weeks ago, Emily tells me that she isn’t feeling well.  She is throwing up, has constant migraines, and is overwhelmingly tired.  I know right away why, but I ask her anyway.  “Are you pregnant?”
            She replies with a definite no, and tells me that there is no way she can be.  I believe her, almost, and when she tells me two weeks later that she took a test and it came out positive, I’m not surprised.  Emily is devastated, and swears up and down that she has no idea how it happened.
            Since she has no insurance, she can’t go to a regular OB-GYN to get tested for sure, so instead, she begs me to take her to Planned Parenthood, since neither she or Freddie have a car, let alone a license.  I really did not want to, but for some reason, I just could not say no. 
            Emily stands at the reception area, dressed in what looks like her brother’s hand-me-down sweatpants, and the nurses give her some forms to fill out.  She squeezes next to me, and I watch her fill out her information.  I love her hand writing.  She lets out a few quiet sighs here and there, and when she returns to her seat, I swear I can feel her trembling. 
            I continue to look around at the other girls in the room.  I see a blond haired girl, dressed in sweatpants with my town’s name and mascot written across the front.  Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun.  She cannot be more than sixteen or seventeen.  Her mother sits beside her, cracking her gum.  Her eyes are on the television in the corner, but I can tell she’s not paying attention at all.
            I try and keep Emily calm, talking to her about things that have been happening at work, but I can tell she is pre-occupied.  When her name is finally called, she looks at me, stands up, lets out a sigh, and disappears through the cold looking metal doors. 
            She returns a few minutes later, accompanied with a band- aid across her arm, and tells me that it will take a few minutes for both the urine and blood tests to come back.  Those few minutes seem like hours, and finally she is called in again.  My heart races for her, and I find myself wondering how they were going to afford this baby.
            Emily comes back with a blank stare, and tells me we can go. I get up, and follow her down the endless flight of stairs.  I know what the result is already, so I don’t even ask her.  Instead, as I put the key in the ignition, I tell her that no matter what, I’ll be by her side.  

Monday, November 15, 2010

A snippet of my second "eye" essay...still untitled!


            The staircase is so narrow, it’s almost claustrophobic.  The eggshell white walls are bare, and look tired, as if they have not been painted in over a decade.  The generic carpet is a maroon color and frayed around the edges.  Turning the corner, I see a decent sized waiting room.  The seats, also a maroon shade, are almost completely filled, so I quickly take a seat.  The room is mostly filled with young females, many accompanied by, I’m assuming, their mothers.  Though there are a variety of races, all of the faces have the same exact look of fear and uncertainty.  The mother’s faces are filled with anger and discomfort.  Directly across from me is the reception area. The small cubicle is filled with countless folders and files.  The three women, dressed in different colored scrubs, have impatient scowls, as if they want to be somewhere else.  Every few minutes, girls walk through the large metal doors, returning with cotton swabs and band aids covering their arms, and sit down to anxiously await the results of a blood test-THE blood test.
            It seems as though every one of these places is the same, or so I’ve been told.  I have only heard recollections through friends of friends who have been here before.  It is not the most pleasant place to be, but it gets the job done, without costing you your whole paycheck.  While I’m sitting here, I don’t feel better than any of these people, nor do I feel disgust.  Instead, I try to empathize and be supportive Emily.  She’s the reason why I’m here this morning. 
            Emily and I have not been friends for very long.  In fact, up until this point, I think I’ve only known her for about a year and a half.  We don’t have too much in common, besides the fact that we work together and like some of the same music.  Pink, to be exact, is our absolute favorite, and I can’t help but think that she is the reason why we initially began talking. 
            Emily, at first sight, can come off as a bit tough, and most definitely exudes an attitude of being streetwise.  She has more than ten tattoos, including the most dominant and noticeable one, a butterfly, across her upper chest.  She has a few on her wrists, and two large ones on her arms.  She also has numerous facial piercings, including one on her lower lip. Either way, it does not take away from her beauty.  She is strikingly beautiful, her light green eyes one of her most likeable features. Emily is a sweet person, but a part of me can’t help but feel kind of sorry for her.  I feel guilty for even thinking this, but it’s the truth.  Over the last few months, I have gotten to know her so well, and she has shared things with me that no one else, not even my life long friends, has ever shared. 
            She dropped out of high school in her late teens, but ended up going back a year or two later and graduating.  She became pregnant in her mid teens, but lost the baby due to the fact that she was being threatened at school.  This caused her to become so stressed, she had a miscarriage.  Emily had never told her parents, and to this day, even more than ten years later, they still have no idea. 
            A few weeks after we began working together, she revealed to me that she had a 2 and a half-year-old son.  When she spoke of him, her face magically lit up, and I found it beautiful that he had such an amazing and positive effect on her.  Through our discussions, I learned that she has a live in boyfriend, Freddie (also the father of her son), and that they have been together for about four years.  That was the extent of the discussion when it came to him.  

More feedback, maybe?

Thanks to my group for giving me some feedback on my first eye essay.  Though I was aware of the difference between an "I" and "eye" essay, I was a little hesitant to use I in this one.  I was afraid that it would make it seem more like an "I" essay.  However, I now know that it's fine to do that, because an "eye" essay is all about observation, whereas an "I" essay is more about personal growth.  I liked writing about this topic, but I didn't want to make it sound like one big rant.  My group, as well as Dr. Chandler, told me that it did NOT sound like that, which I was relieved about.  Is there anything else that could help make this essay less essay-ish, and more of story?

I have some writing for the second "eye" essay, which I will be posting later on before class.  This one was a little harder to think of, but as I begin writing it, I find the words are easier to type.