A sign, a second chance

Ever since I was little, I was told to act a certain way. I've been told what to do my entire life, what to say, how to act— basically, how to live. 

'Alicia, don't talk too loud since people don't want to hear you. It's rude'. I wish I had the courage to say, 'how can you think that it's ok to say that to me, to minimise me into someone I don't want to be. Someone who doesn't like themselves. Someone afraid'. But I didn't say anything.

  'Alicia, when people ask how you are, they don't care. Just say you are fine, don't tell them your issues'. What I wanted to say was, 'just because you don't care, doesn't mean others don't. Maybe if you had an ounce of empathy, you could understand that, Mum’. But I didn't say anything.

'Alicia, you can't be a journalist because that job is not suitable. Be responsible like your sister and become a lawyer'. I wish I said, 'living my dream and doing the job that I am so passionate about is NOT unreasonable, Dad. It's called living a full life and doing the things that I actually want to do. Being a journalist will allow me to give people a voice, and I can help by telling their stories. Stories that will make a difference in the world!'  But I didn't say anything.

Every time someone told me how to do something, I always had a remark on the tip of my tongue that I wanted to voice. A comeback that boiled in my blood. I don't know why I never stood up for myself, maybe it's because of how I was raised. The rules that have been drilled into my head.

I'm not sure what exactly happened today. I can chalk it up to a handful of reasons. But I think it happened because every little thing that I held back, that I never said was filed away, until the point of overflow. I guess it was more like a volcano. The pressure of keeping everything I always wanted to say piled up and the pressure grew and grew until I exploded. 

Before I can tell the story, you need to know something about me. I'm 27, and I'm the assistant to the editor of a local newspaper. Even though I have a degree in journalism and have been in every journalism club possible, my boss said I had to 'prove myself' by working as his assistant for a year. I've worked for him for almost two years now, and I don't think I will be able to prove myself to Mr Jones, ever. 

I only stayed at this job because working at this newspaper has been my dream since I was little. I remember reading this article about this injustice that went on for so long and they stayed voiceless for so long until someone gave them a chance. Someone carried enough to let the world in and learn about this issue. I remember thinking this person is a superhero, possibly prevent future incidents. So, If I leave this job, then I guess, I feel that I am giving up on my dream or confirming my parents' ideas that I should have become a lawyer or a doctor. So, I hold on to the idea that Mr Jones will give me a chance and assign me a story one day. I think part of me knows that I will never get that promotion and this whole agreement is a joke. 

You are probably thinking, ‘ why don’t you just leave? Find a similar job?’ A rational person would. A rational person would put their needs first and stop this horrible person rom bullying day in and day out, holding on a sliver of hope.  I think the reason why I haven’t made a big deal or quit is because of those lovely rules my parents drilled into my head off to 'not make a big scene' and 'do what you are told to do'. So, I act like a little soldier, marching along and fulfiling my duties.  

So, when I arrived at work this morning, I as thirty minutes early, like I always am, to make sure everything is prepared for the day. Then, I run across the street to get Mr Jones' breakfast-- coffee with a hint of vanilla and an egg sandwich—before I rush back to hand it to him a few minutes later. I'm not sure why I have to get him breakfast or coffee every morning since he passes the cafe every morning. But, I do. 

When Mr Jones walked onto the floor this morning, he took a sip of coffee before spitting it back into the cup.

'Alicia, get in here!', he yelled. I quickly filed into his office, standing in the doorway. Shoulders hunched to make myself small, unnoticeable. 'That coffee that you got me today was--I don't know what you were thinking that it was ok to-to give me that vile— that rubbish!' 

'You have a lot of nerve. How dare you talk to me like that. You walk by that FRICKING cafe every morning on your way to work. Why can’t you be a big boy and get your own breakfast! 'Which is what I wanted to say. These words sat at the tip of my tongue.

In reality, I took a deep breath to quell my anger, figuratively tucked my tail, and apologised excessively. 'Sir, I am--am SO sorry. I gave your usual order...and it was a new employee who made your drink. I know that shouldn't excuse the fact--he shouldn't haven't given you that--'

Interrupting me as per usual,  he seethed. 'Why didn't you ask for a REAL employee to serve me my drink? Alicia, go get me my drink and try to do it right this time. If it is possible. If you can handle this simple task.

I quietly walked out of his office and out of the building. If I spoke another single word to him, I would have lost it. I would have said horrible things back to him, but I didn't. I always don't stand up for me and let jerks like him walk all over me like that. I hate that I never fight for myself. 

A few hours passed since that lovely interaction, and Mr Jones seemed somewhat pleasant since I brought him back his replacement coffee. So, maybe it was going to be a good day. Right? Yeah, that’s funny because I was so wrong.

It was mid-afternoon and I was at my desk, answering the last few of Mr Jones' emails. Most of his emails are from people suggesting crazy news stories that are not newsworthy or completely made up, and people asking for jobs. A typical day. Suddenly, I heard a slam as if a hand slamming against a desk followed by a metal chair being thrown back against the wall. 

Mr Jones flung the door open, 'Alicia, where is the spread for tomorrow's edition?’, he yelled. ‘Actually, just get in my office now!'

I quickly jumped up and followed him, closing the door. Mr Jones stood in front of his desk, a few feet away. 'I specifically asked for you to get this ready earlier today! One mistake after another. You are so incompetent that it is laughable'. He walked around his desk and sat down, his eyes boring into me, like a predator sizing his prey. He spoke like he was spitting venom, so much malice in his voice. 'I expected more from you. I thought you could handle a simple task, but you obviously need me to hold your hand for every...single... thing!'

'Mr Jones, I am so sorry! It must have slipped my mind. I'll grab it right now and personally deliver it', which is what I meant to say. I truly meant to say this to him, but I didn’t.

‘'Mr Jones, you are unbelievable! You never, not once, asked for the spread. It must have slipped your mind since you are so busy doing nothing all day. I do all the work for you, and you get the credit. And the salary! I had enough!' I circled around his desk, looking down at him. 'Two years ago, you promised that you would promote me as a journalist, if I could prove myself, but how can I freaking prove myself, if I am stuck being your assistant! You have been so, so horrible to me since I started--'. I laughed almost hysterically. 'I don't know why I ever thought you would change, that you would give me a chance, but I'm done. I quit. Get the spread yourself!'

I walked out of his office and straight to my desk. I don't know why I waited so long to fight back. To fight for me. But it was exhilarating! It was like a runner's high, a burst of endorphins filling my body. And I couldn't stop smiling as I grabbed my purse and jacket, and walked right out.

Thirty minutes later, still on my runner's high, so to speak, my mother called. Out of habit, I answered on the first ring.

'Alicia, your sister and her husband are coming to dinner tonight. I was calling to remind you not to be late as usual’ Thanks, Mum for always finding a way to insult me. Appreciate it. ‘I know you take your journalist job very seriously', almost spitting out the word ‘journalist’ as if it was the most disgusting thing she ever said,  'but try not to be late. It is not fair to your sister and Nathan to have to wait for you. They are very busy people'. I tried to get a word in, but my mum kept talking. 'And I am inviting Jason Taylor over tonight, so try to wear something that won't embarrass me. You are not getting any younger--' 

I honestly don't know the rest of what she said, but I saw red. 'Mum, will you shut up?! Who do you think you are that gives you the right to speak to me like that? I am your daughter. Your daughter! Actually, you shouldn't speak to anyone like that because that is called being a decent human, but you wouldn’t know how to be one! And I am NOT an embarrassment because I don't feel like dressing up at our weekly family dinner. It’s dinner. It’s not some grand affair! And I am busy too! So, if I am working late, maybe it’s because I am busy doing my JOB! I know that it is not the job you would have liked for me, but I want to do it! The one thing I ever did for me! And it is important to me, so you could try to be happy for me.’ 

And then it occurred to me that I don’t owe my parents anything. If they can’t treat me like a human and how I deserve to be treated, then I don’t have to spend time with them. I don’t have to do the ridiculous things they want me to do. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I am not. I don’t have to be set up on a date with someone I am not interested in. If they actually cared about me, they would know that I’ve been with someone for the last  two years. But I never wanted to subject him to my family’s insanity.  It’s seemed cruel to do that to him.

So, I used my long-lost bravery I recently found and said, ‘Actually, Mum, I'm not coming to dinner tonight. I'll let you know when it is convenient for me to see you… or when you can start treating me how I should be treated .' I hung up.

I couldn't believe it! I lived out my teenage fantasy of yelling back at Mum. But, as I walked down the street to my apartment, my endorphins must have run out because the utter fear of what I just did hit me. I just quit my somewhat good paying job, which pays for my rent and expenses. And I yelled at mother. My mother!

I was so lost in my head, panicking, that I wasn't paying attention when I was crossing the street. I didn’t notice that the traffic light was green, the people calling for me to get out of the way, or the truck barreling towards me. At the last second, I turned my head, and my eyes popped out of my head. I probably looked like a cartoon character. I didn't think to move out of the way, I was frozen in place. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact, but nothing happened. I didn't hear the truck's brakes or feel the impact of the truck colliding into me. I was fine. Strange.

I opened my eyes. It must have been a dream. Or, maybe it was a sign that I needed to start fighting for me. A second chance to live how I should have been living my life all along.