Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," leaning left since 1978 ... and that's just the way it is. Two weeks of living in Baltimore schooled me pretty quick on the notion that the government should be responsible for its poorest and most vulnerable citizens.
I have just returned from Netroots Nation, which is probably the most lefty gathering you can find that isn't an out-and-out Communist Manifesto.
Front loading: Elizabeth Warren was there, at the candidate forum, but I didn't get to meet her. It doesn't matter. She owned that forum. She was fearless, funny, and genuine. And smart. And she shouted out for public school teachers and unions. (Unions always get tepid applause. No one remembers what it was like back in the day.)
Of more moment to me was my perilous morning registering voters on the streets of Philadelphia. I volunteered for this task in order to make the cost of the convention more affordable. With this task, I moved over from an anonymous face in a march to an activist -- and I promptly learned the difference between marching and acting.
My voter registration tutorial consisted of the following information. Approach people with the idea that you're looking to defeat Trump, you want to register Democrats. Are they registered? If the person wanted to register Democrat, I was to fill out the form. If the person wanted to register Republican, I was to hand them the form, tell them to fill it out and mail it in. Seemed perfectly reasonable to me, to be honest.
The voter registration leader said we would be lucky if we got two forms in our three hour shift. Within 90 minutes I had registered four Democratic voters.
I was congratulating myself on seeming to have a knack for it when I was approached by a mixed-race couple. They wanted to register. The woman, African American, went first. She registered as a Democrat. The man then smirked and said he wanted to register as a Republican. So I took a blank form off the clipboard and handed it to him with a smile.
I guess you can imagine how that went.
It escalated with just the amount of rapidity you would expect in these troubled times, but I would not engage the man with words. I said, "I tried to give you the form."
He said, "No you didn't! I'm going to get you!" And he snapped a photo of my Netroots Nation badge, which (unfortunately) listed my school as my affiliation. So the dude knows who to call. (This was a rookie error on my part when I filled out my Netroots application. I should have put NJEA and not my local school.)
I've never gotten a disciplinary memo on my job, so if I do it will be my first. I think the dude will have to make up some big-ass story, but he certainly seems capable of doing it. There are no doubt security cameras on City Hall Plaza that caught the exchange, but what the hell.
Still, that irked Republican will have to call my school, find an administrator on duty in the summertime, and concoct a tale that will suggest I'm not providing a safe, secure, and caring environment for my students. More power to him.
If my administration takes me to task for wearing the school name while registering voters, then I will apologize and not do it again. As I say, rookie error.
So, Anne, you ask ... will you do any more voter registration?
Count on it. Pennsylvania went for Trump by 44,000 votes statewide. I know who to approach about registration, I know what neighborhoods to visit, and it turns out I'm not afraid to approach people respectfully. I believe I could register as many as 50 people by November of 2020.
When I returned from my shift with five voter registration forms, the coordinator was so impressed he asked me to spearhead the entire Philadelphia operation. That was an easy "no," but I feel really good about the fact that there are now five new Democrats in Philly, thanks to me.
Showing posts with label volunteering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label volunteering. Show all posts
Saturday, July 13, 2019
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Friends of the Cherry Hill Library
Oops! I did it again. I volunteered. I broke that most sacred of vows, to never ever volunteer to do anything for anyone. And as usual, I got my bitch slap. Happens every time.
It's hot as Hell here, and muggy as a sauna, so when Mr. J suggested I help him set up for the semi-annual Friends of the Cherry Hill Library book sale, I said yes. Mr. J has been lugging boxes of books for these Friends for about twelve years. He is a collector, and he does quickly peruse the boxes as he stacks them on the carts ... but he's there to work.
So was I. On a hot day it's good to have a workout with meaning.
We got to the library at about 10:00. I am not exaggerating one bit when I say that there were 40 pallets, each with ten to twelve boxes full of books. Think of a banquet hall filled end-to-end with books, VHS (why?), CDs, and DVDs. The task was to move all of these books out of the storage area into the selling area, which was two long hallways away.
When Mr. J and I arrived, there were five people loading boxes onto carts: a woman about my age who was having back trouble, another lady I recognized from many book sales, an elderly man, and a guy of about 60-65. We all set to work.
I'm very spry for my age, but I know my limits. I lifted whatever I could safely lift. Whenever I had a chance, I opted for the paperbacks. I was moving fast, but I was on the lookout for young adult books that my inner city readers would like. Of which there were nearly naught -- Cherry Hill is a snowy white suburb of keen snobbery.
About midway through the morning, a woman came up to me and said, "I don't know you." Well, that was true. This is the first time I ever helped Mr. J at a sale. So I said, "I'm Mrs. J," and nodded toward Mr. J, who was laboring like Hercules.
Readers, my hands are numb and my arms are tired. I worked my butt off in there. When I'm tasked with something, I do it to the best of my ability. I took one bathroom break. I found one precious Paul Volponi title. (Ever tried getting a 16-year-old boy who hates to read to actually do it? The author Paul Volponi is one of my go-to guys for this difficult demographic.)
Time passes quickly when you're moving stuff around. It was just before noon when the same lady who said "I don't know you" came back to where we were still stacking books. In 90 minutes we had reduced the number of pallets from 40 to 6. There was little left to do.
Nevertheless, the lady said to us, "You need to stop looking through the boxes and hurry up. I have corporate volunteers out there who are leaving at 12:30."
Mr. J, who never suffers a fool easily, pointed out the obvious. "We're volunteers," he said.
To which she replied: "I know you're volunteers. Hurry up. Stop looking at the books."
Giving Mr. J the props here. He said, "What the fuck?" He put down the box of books in his hands and walked out the door.
I tarried. You see, the Paul Volponi book I found (a library discard) was about inner city boys in a basketball tournament. I had never seen this book before. Darling Amazon does not list it as a "people who like this also liked" under Paul Volponi. And as for looking through the boxes, they've already been sorted. It's easy to find the young adult lit. And of course I fully intended to pay for the book. THE book. The ONLY book I had set aside.
Luckily, the other lady helping load the carts was a good ol' regular. She said I could give her the money for the book, and she would pay for it. So I handed her the ducats and hoofed it with Mr. J, the precious Paul Volponi library discard in my trembling hands.
When I think of being poorly treated as a volunteer, I have to go way back to my days as a United Methodist Church Lady before I find the kind of rudeness I got in spades today.
Free advice to people who are coordinating volunteers: Treat them kindly. After a thorough upper body workout lasting 90 minutes, I just didn't want to hear, "Hurry up." As for the "I don't know you," I've thought of about 25 witty responses that I should have used on her -- and would have, if only I had known she wasn't through cracking the whip.
With friends like Friends of the Cherry Hill Library, who needs enemies? Sermon over, sweet Pagans.
It's hot as Hell here, and muggy as a sauna, so when Mr. J suggested I help him set up for the semi-annual Friends of the Cherry Hill Library book sale, I said yes. Mr. J has been lugging boxes of books for these Friends for about twelve years. He is a collector, and he does quickly peruse the boxes as he stacks them on the carts ... but he's there to work.
So was I. On a hot day it's good to have a workout with meaning.
We got to the library at about 10:00. I am not exaggerating one bit when I say that there were 40 pallets, each with ten to twelve boxes full of books. Think of a banquet hall filled end-to-end with books, VHS (why?), CDs, and DVDs. The task was to move all of these books out of the storage area into the selling area, which was two long hallways away.
When Mr. J and I arrived, there were five people loading boxes onto carts: a woman about my age who was having back trouble, another lady I recognized from many book sales, an elderly man, and a guy of about 60-65. We all set to work.
I'm very spry for my age, but I know my limits. I lifted whatever I could safely lift. Whenever I had a chance, I opted for the paperbacks. I was moving fast, but I was on the lookout for young adult books that my inner city readers would like. Of which there were nearly naught -- Cherry Hill is a snowy white suburb of keen snobbery.
About midway through the morning, a woman came up to me and said, "I don't know you." Well, that was true. This is the first time I ever helped Mr. J at a sale. So I said, "I'm Mrs. J," and nodded toward Mr. J, who was laboring like Hercules.
Readers, my hands are numb and my arms are tired. I worked my butt off in there. When I'm tasked with something, I do it to the best of my ability. I took one bathroom break. I found one precious Paul Volponi title. (Ever tried getting a 16-year-old boy who hates to read to actually do it? The author Paul Volponi is one of my go-to guys for this difficult demographic.)
Time passes quickly when you're moving stuff around. It was just before noon when the same lady who said "I don't know you" came back to where we were still stacking books. In 90 minutes we had reduced the number of pallets from 40 to 6. There was little left to do.
Nevertheless, the lady said to us, "You need to stop looking through the boxes and hurry up. I have corporate volunteers out there who are leaving at 12:30."
Mr. J, who never suffers a fool easily, pointed out the obvious. "We're volunteers," he said.
To which she replied: "I know you're volunteers. Hurry up. Stop looking at the books."
Giving Mr. J the props here. He said, "What the fuck?" He put down the box of books in his hands and walked out the door.
I tarried. You see, the Paul Volponi book I found (a library discard) was about inner city boys in a basketball tournament. I had never seen this book before. Darling Amazon does not list it as a "people who like this also liked" under Paul Volponi. And as for looking through the boxes, they've already been sorted. It's easy to find the young adult lit. And of course I fully intended to pay for the book. THE book. The ONLY book I had set aside.
Luckily, the other lady helping load the carts was a good ol' regular. She said I could give her the money for the book, and she would pay for it. So I handed her the ducats and hoofed it with Mr. J, the precious Paul Volponi library discard in my trembling hands.
When I think of being poorly treated as a volunteer, I have to go way back to my days as a United Methodist Church Lady before I find the kind of rudeness I got in spades today.
Free advice to people who are coordinating volunteers: Treat them kindly. After a thorough upper body workout lasting 90 minutes, I just didn't want to hear, "Hurry up." As for the "I don't know you," I've thought of about 25 witty responses that I should have used on her -- and would have, if only I had known she wasn't through cracking the whip.
With friends like Friends of the Cherry Hill Library, who needs enemies? Sermon over, sweet Pagans.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Volunteers Needed
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Tis the season to be stressed to the max by overwork! Take your troubles to the bored gods. They're partly responsible for this predicament.
There's a dirty little word out there that sounds all noble and high-minded but is really just a synonym for slave.
That word is volunteer.
Everyone from popes to presidents lauds the work of volunteers. But aye, that's the rub. Volunteers work. They work their babyfat off, and for what? The State of New Jersey has given me a coffee mug, two t-shirts, and a plastic lunchbox for my volunteer work at a local museum. (Oh, yeah, I forgot the annual Certificate of Appreciation and Volunteer Brunch that I never have time to attend because it's hell and gone in Hoboken.)
In order to earn those certificates, uneaten bagels, and trinkets, I've had to deal with a "Here's Johnny" museum director who loves his volunteers one minute and treats them like chattel the next. If you say, "I just bought a wreath for the front door," he says, "Great! But you know, it has to be absolutely authentic to 1777, or, well, oh, em, well, we just can't use it, but you know it's your call." And then he'll spend 30 minutes telling you about the nice little old lady who's too old to volunteer now, but who always got every last detail absolutely perfect.
Yeah. My cat box stinks, and I'm volunteering to work for this guy.
Never is the volunteer drudgery heaped on you more than at this joyous Holiday time. Call the holiday whatever you want, you're gonna be expected to bake 12 dozen cookies, plan two parties (one of them for loud, destructive, furniture-staining kids), and --- here's the hardest part --- keep your regular damned life moving along at its regular manic clip.
I'll be the first to admit that the award for selfless slavery volunteerism goes to church ladies. Set foot in any church and say hello, and the next thing you know you're up to the neck in volunteer quicksand, making 15 lamb hats and 27 shepherd costumes while baking those 12 dozen cookies and five casseroles for the congregational dinner. Then rushing off to choir practice. But oooops! You forgot the holiday acolyte run-through for Xmas Eve! Now you're in trouble.
I'm not a church lady anymore, but I'm still loaded to the plimsol line with volunteer duties, which weigh all the heavier now that I'm out of the goat pasture and into a 10-hour-a-day paid position.
Please don't tell me I can "Just Say No." How can you Just Say No when your 12-year-old wants to be president of the local chapter of Children of the American Revolution? Even if that means planning not one, but two big parties? Parties that will be attended by D.A.R. Poobahs who know how a finger sandwich ought to look. And taste. And be displayed on a platter.
Have you ever heard of a caterer who knows what a finger sandwich is? If they do, they know how to charge top dollar for the skimpiest of nourishments.
Now let's ratchet this rant up one more notch.
Volunteering reaches its peak of need at the darkest time of the year, when every sane person is suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder.
So now you're doing your job, keeping your house, watching your kids' faces fall when you tell them you can't take them to the Macy's Christmas Display downtown because you have to buy groceries, and you're rushing off for five hours of volunteering at the museum, because hey, it's Christmas, and that's the time for a extra festive Open House! And Oh Holy Night, you didn't notice your prescription for Quaaludes has run dry!!!!!!
NOTE TO READERS: ANNE WILL NOT BE ABLE TO POST AS OFTEN, SO HER POSTS WILL BE LONGER. STOP HERE AND COME BACK TOMORROW IF YOU'RE LATE FOR THAT VOLUNTEER JOB.
I know this post is meaner than my usual meanness. Because without volunteers, homeless people wouldn't have blankets and hot soup, scientists wouldn't have the money for breast cancer research, and every single community everywhere would be a bleaker, darker place. It's not pretty to conceive of a world run by Ebenezer Scrooges.
That's the trouble, though. The Scrooges are in the ascendant. They're expecting more work for less pay, and no pensions or health insurance. What does that mean to the future of volunteering?
Just this: No one will be able to retire with enough pulse, energy, and extra gas money to hand out blankets. The golden days of little old lady volunteers who got every detail right is over. This is the end, my friend.
Oh yes, there will always be legions of high schoolers trying to pad their college aps by tutoring and picking up litter. And there will always be church ladies. Yes, there will always be church ladies. Especially in churches where it's considered a sin for women to work outside the home. But overall, the level of volunteerism in America is dropping at about the same rate that the global temperature is rising. People just don't have the time.
Don't believe me? Attend a meeting at your local Masonic Lodge and find a man under the age of 65. The Masons helped found this nation and have rocked on with charity work ever since, but in 30 years they'll be gone. Gone.
The D.A.R. might last a bit longer, but it too will eventually sag into the sea. Who has time to spend four days in Washington every year, marching in formation with badges on shoulders and listening to national Treasurer's Reports? Who's available to attend that local luncheon on a Wednesday? Who wants to spend a weekend driving to the other end of the state for a convention?
Squeezed by Scrooge, new generations will volunteer no more. Don't believe me? Try picturing a Ladies' Auxilliary for the Veterans of the Iraq War. Trust me, these vets' wives will be working two jobs, and the vets will too. Until they drop dead, victims of illnesses they had no insurance to cover.
In summary:
1. If you have time to volunteer, you must have a nice pension.
2. If your volunteer assignment is worse than your job, cut bait.
3. If all your volunteer duties climax in this darkest of months, and are tied to your place of worship, think hard about your religious choices.
4. If you're that little old lady who knows how to get every last detail right, you'd better dive into the bunker. The world will be clamoring for you, and you've already proven you don't know how to say no.
Now you must excuse me. I'm late for my appointment with the speech therapist. She's going to teach me how to say "NO!"
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
There's a dirty little word out there that sounds all noble and high-minded but is really just a synonym for slave.
That word is volunteer.
Everyone from popes to presidents lauds the work of volunteers. But aye, that's the rub. Volunteers work. They work their babyfat off, and for what? The State of New Jersey has given me a coffee mug, two t-shirts, and a plastic lunchbox for my volunteer work at a local museum. (Oh, yeah, I forgot the annual Certificate of Appreciation and Volunteer Brunch that I never have time to attend because it's hell and gone in Hoboken.)
In order to earn those certificates, uneaten bagels, and trinkets, I've had to deal with a "Here's Johnny" museum director who loves his volunteers one minute and treats them like chattel the next. If you say, "I just bought a wreath for the front door," he says, "Great! But you know, it has to be absolutely authentic to 1777, or, well, oh, em, well, we just can't use it, but you know it's your call." And then he'll spend 30 minutes telling you about the nice little old lady who's too old to volunteer now, but who always got every last detail absolutely perfect.
Yeah. My cat box stinks, and I'm volunteering to work for this guy.
Never is the volunteer drudgery heaped on you more than at this joyous Holiday time. Call the holiday whatever you want, you're gonna be expected to bake 12 dozen cookies, plan two parties (one of them for loud, destructive, furniture-staining kids), and --- here's the hardest part --- keep your regular damned life moving along at its regular manic clip.
I'll be the first to admit that the award for selfless slavery volunteerism goes to church ladies. Set foot in any church and say hello, and the next thing you know you're up to the neck in volunteer quicksand, making 15 lamb hats and 27 shepherd costumes while baking those 12 dozen cookies and five casseroles for the congregational dinner. Then rushing off to choir practice. But oooops! You forgot the holiday acolyte run-through for Xmas Eve! Now you're in trouble.
I'm not a church lady anymore, but I'm still loaded to the plimsol line with volunteer duties, which weigh all the heavier now that I'm out of the goat pasture and into a 10-hour-a-day paid position.
Please don't tell me I can "Just Say No." How can you Just Say No when your 12-year-old wants to be president of the local chapter of Children of the American Revolution? Even if that means planning not one, but two big parties? Parties that will be attended by D.A.R. Poobahs who know how a finger sandwich ought to look. And taste. And be displayed on a platter.
Have you ever heard of a caterer who knows what a finger sandwich is? If they do, they know how to charge top dollar for the skimpiest of nourishments.
Now let's ratchet this rant up one more notch.
Volunteering reaches its peak of need at the darkest time of the year, when every sane person is suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder.
So now you're doing your job, keeping your house, watching your kids' faces fall when you tell them you can't take them to the Macy's Christmas Display downtown because you have to buy groceries, and you're rushing off for five hours of volunteering at the museum, because hey, it's Christmas, and that's the time for a extra festive Open House! And Oh Holy Night, you didn't notice your prescription for Quaaludes has run dry!!!!!!
NOTE TO READERS: ANNE WILL NOT BE ABLE TO POST AS OFTEN, SO HER POSTS WILL BE LONGER. STOP HERE AND COME BACK TOMORROW IF YOU'RE LATE FOR THAT VOLUNTEER JOB.
I know this post is meaner than my usual meanness. Because without volunteers, homeless people wouldn't have blankets and hot soup, scientists wouldn't have the money for breast cancer research, and every single community everywhere would be a bleaker, darker place. It's not pretty to conceive of a world run by Ebenezer Scrooges.
That's the trouble, though. The Scrooges are in the ascendant. They're expecting more work for less pay, and no pensions or health insurance. What does that mean to the future of volunteering?
Just this: No one will be able to retire with enough pulse, energy, and extra gas money to hand out blankets. The golden days of little old lady volunteers who got every detail right is over. This is the end, my friend.
Oh yes, there will always be legions of high schoolers trying to pad their college aps by tutoring and picking up litter. And there will always be church ladies. Yes, there will always be church ladies. Especially in churches where it's considered a sin for women to work outside the home. But overall, the level of volunteerism in America is dropping at about the same rate that the global temperature is rising. People just don't have the time.
Don't believe me? Attend a meeting at your local Masonic Lodge and find a man under the age of 65. The Masons helped found this nation and have rocked on with charity work ever since, but in 30 years they'll be gone. Gone.
The D.A.R. might last a bit longer, but it too will eventually sag into the sea. Who has time to spend four days in Washington every year, marching in formation with badges on shoulders and listening to national Treasurer's Reports? Who's available to attend that local luncheon on a Wednesday? Who wants to spend a weekend driving to the other end of the state for a convention?
Squeezed by Scrooge, new generations will volunteer no more. Don't believe me? Try picturing a Ladies' Auxilliary for the Veterans of the Iraq War. Trust me, these vets' wives will be working two jobs, and the vets will too. Until they drop dead, victims of illnesses they had no insurance to cover.
In summary:
1. If you have time to volunteer, you must have a nice pension.
2. If your volunteer assignment is worse than your job, cut bait.
3. If all your volunteer duties climax in this darkest of months, and are tied to your place of worship, think hard about your religious choices.
4. If you're that little old lady who knows how to get every last detail right, you'd better dive into the bunker. The world will be clamoring for you, and you've already proven you don't know how to say no.
Now you must excuse me. I'm late for my appointment with the speech therapist. She's going to teach me how to say "NO!"
FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
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