Volume 1, Issue 3 & 4 - Diverse Voices Quarterly

When I was younger, I was always told that earning a bachelor’s degree would
grant me access to a world of success. I soon found out it did, though only to a certain
extent. And so, a little bit wiser, I thought a master’s degree ought to do the trick. How
does the old saying go?
Close, but no cigar.
In recent months I’ve learned the true meaning of living paycheck-to-paycheck.
I’ve adopted the fun, new pastime of having panic attacks (many of which occur, not
coincidentally, around the first of the month). I’ve begun to practice a new, daily
afternoon ritual, which includes me, the slats of my window shades, and the fear that
comes with the appearance of my local mail carrier (that barer of bad financial news).
I’ve started to have regular nightmares about my grocery clerk (WHY does the price of
cereal keep going up? Will it ever end? Is he the one behind this whole scandal?). For
the first time in my life, I’ve begun to take my vitamins each morning with the
methodic madness of an addict.
Because did I mention I recently lost my health insurance too?
Many of my friends still enjoy a lifestyle I once partook in: private yoga lessons,
regular manicures and pedicures, stress-free trips for franchised coffee; however, just
the thought of these activities, and their unavoidable costs, are now reason for my
chest to feel tight (one grande chai per weekday, times four weeks in a month, times
twelve months in a year equals…you’ve got to be kidding me).
And so, I’ve learned to make due by introducing myself to some new friends.
It had been a while since I’d spent time with any new friends, and, it turns out,
they’ve taught me a lot. They’re a diverse bunch, really. Though they all have one
thing in common. Even when I approach them with tears already in my eyes after
another day of job-search defeat, they make a point to remind me: it could be a lot
worse, Angela.
For instance, on a recent trip to Oz, I tried to enjoy all that the yellow brick road
had to offer. But despite its fascinating strangeness, I could not stop thinking about
the day’s circulars and the many coupons I really ought to clip. That was when one of
my new friends reminded me that my dwindling bank account was nothing. After all, I
could have half my town whispering behind my back about what a wicked woman I
was. A wicked witch, even. My new friend laughed as I stressed about all the two-forone
deals I was missing at the market. “Hey lady. Try having green skin,” she said to
me, “and then we’ll see who’s having a bad day.” I touched my face, thankful, and
then turned the page. Perhaps my new friend was right.
But it’s not all talk of clear complexions with my new friends. Many of them
have given me hope too. Take my friend, Eddie, for example. He’s an older guy. A good
guy, really, though he doesn’t see it. Recently, Eddie died. After his death, he took
himself a little journey up to heaven. And it turns out, there were a whole bunch of
people there waiting for him. Five, to be exact. After he met with each of them, Eddie
was certain to report back to let me know what he’d learned: “Kid, I’m telling you,”
Eddie said. “It might not seem like things are working out for you these days, but I
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