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Alternative Office Space


J.A. Konrath says that writers who utilize Starbucks are mere wanna be’s, but speaking as a writer who sometimes grows weary of the same old walls of her home office, I say,

“God bless Starbucks.”

I would also like to lay a round of blessings on my local library too because I have logged a number of writing hours there – where the wireless is free and, mostly, reliable.

I am not certain what makes Starbucks the particular domain of “wanna be” writers. The paying for Internet or the fact that there is a certain amount of “Hey, look at me. I’m writing. Ask me what I am writing!! Nope, it’s a novel.” Silent reverence to follow after polite inquiry.

I just like that someone else is making my tea for me and on rare occasions there is a baked delectable that might not give me a tummy ache I can treat myself to. Nothing sinister or poser there, right?

Now that winter is over (let’s all knock as much wood as we can reach, okay?), I need a change of scenery for my inattention to the world at large. I really am not focusing on the environment when I write although at some level I am aware it is not my house. 

And that is the point. To be somewhere like a normal person with a job. Having a career you can do in the comfy of your snuggly bathrobe is wonderful, but sometimes, a person needs to be out in the world even if you aren’t really totally aware of it.

Soon the deck will be done and I can add it to my list of alternative office space, but in the meantime, don’t diss me because I like to put on clothes and go write at the local coffee shop once in a while.

Awards for All


I am seldom the recipient of blogging honors and I am deeply gratified when I am. Recently a fellow blogger and commenter here, Dawn of She is Too Fond of Books, generously bestowed honors on all of her readers which I thought was a very cool thing to do.

you-dont-sayThis is given to people who leave “super comments.” I try to comment when I drop by a blog but I am not as prolific of late as I can be.

proximidadeThe Proximidade Award declares “This blog invests and believes in the Proximity – nearness in space, time and relationships. These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement! Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers!”

One Lovely Blog award is just what it claims to be.one-lovely-blog-award

Because I love Dawn’s idea of awarding to all who read (even if you have never been here before today), I am asking my gentle readers to take these awards and award them generously to others. Blogging awards shouldn’t be about popularity. They should be about promoting community.

Life as an Immigrant


Until this last weekend, I hadn’t worked for pay since moving to Canada nearly two years ago. Before coming here I was a high school English teacher. I worked with at-risk and ELL (English language learners) kids primarily. The majority of my students were disengaged from the formal education process. A sizable portion had drug or other criminal issues to deal with and about a quarter of the girls were dealing with pregnancies or abusive home situations and, of course, there were the non-English speaking kids with their immigration ordeals.

I was always struck by the fact that I had colleagues who were all too eager to hand these “defectives” over to my program because they believed there was no hope, or never had been, for these teens who would become my kids. I never once ran across a student who didn’t have potential or couldn’t be at least partially plugged back in. But it was the immigrant students who impressed me the most, coming from distances which would have rendered my finicky co-workers bug-eyed with fear and overcoming language and cultural barriers which would have left those same adults curled up like fetuses.  They had learned so much already and most of it on their own. I admired them. I reminded them often that they were amazing and miles ahead of their American peers, most of whom couldn’t speak English properly, let alone a second language.
I was a typical American who had little sympathy for the plight of immigrants before I met them, but I didn’t gain a true understanding of the “lifestyle” until I became one of them.

The process for entering and gaining residence in a country not of your birth is a bit like navigating the social safety net programs set up in the United States. I have had more than my fair share of experience dealing with Medicaid, Social Security and Medicare, and I know first-hand that the initial barriers in any program run by the government are to discourage people early and often from continuing. It’s a cost-effective measure to keep the number of participants low.

Immigration was not dissimilar. It involved a mountain of paper from application forms to documentation, and followed a rule book that was written with a fuzzy sort of clarity that even those who worked in the immigration system were reluctant to interpret with certainty.

And it is a long process which can take a year or far longer depending on a person’s situation and their value as a contributor economically and socially. It was seven months before I was granted a work permit which I have used only once when I recently gave a workshop on blogging at our public library. It was ten months before I was officially “landed” which means I paid my final entrance fees, was instructed in my obligations as a permanent resident and handed the papers which allow me to live here and travel back and forth to the United States without fear of being denied re-admittance to my home.

Because Canada is my home now. It’s funny. I was reading Neil Gaiman’s blog recently, and he wrote about the slippery term “home”. Home is where one grows up and wherever one is currently living so that we are constantly in a state of returning home whether we are coming or going. That is what it means to be an immigrant too.

 

This is an original 50 Something Moms post by Ann Bibby