Work Americans, Work!

For the last few months I have been evolving, the final stage of growing up. Gone are the carefree college days where my worries consisted of getting an A on a presentation, and kicking ass on my writing portfolios. Now, I'm only beginning to know fear and pressure. I was raised for this system of full time work, I had dreams of being a grant writer, a novelist, an activist. What do you want to be when you grow up? That question excited me as a child. I was told there were possibilities for someone like me; if I got a degree, any degree, I would succeed in the working world, afford to get married and raise a family, and continue on until retirement. After removing the rose colored glasses I've realized that every day is a struggle. For everyone. If money is not an obsession there is something wrong with you, if bills don't occupy your mind you're not a real adult with real adult problems.

Why would our parents and teachers tell us these lies? There are way too many college students and graduates disenchanted with this broken system like myself. We're questioning this monetary institution that requires us to scrape to get by. I can't afford to dream these days. But if I don't dream about something better I think I might lose myself in this transition process. So, these are some of the snippets of inspiration behind this poem.

Work Americans, Work! by Emily

We toil for twenty days of paid vacation a year

Holed away in a 4x4 cubicle

Of stifling tans and grays

A single family photograph on the carpeted divider

Effective motivation for a measly paycheck

We wait for Friday nights and pre-teen babysitters

To permit us to regress to the carefree age of 21

A time before mortgages, insurance, and daycare costs

Our escapism reflected in a full martini glass

We worry about fixed interest rates and credit ratings

Financial portfolios and mustard stains

On designer silk ties

About the wear and tear on our cars

After hour-long commutes and

Close call fender benders

We hope to stop working before

The grave creeps from six feet underground

And swallows us up

Washing down our weary bodies

With unfulfilled American dreams

We may end up lucky

Living to age 65

The age of golf and Florida condos

On sub-par courses

Reading large print pulp fiction

And finally getting admitted

To the shady sterilized nursing homes

The “greener” pastures

A hospital bed and blessed dementia