Life as an oyster shucker (repost from Twenties Unscripted)

This blog was originally published here, as part of Twenties Unscripted's Guest Writers Week on November 4, 2013. 

My manager sent out an email to the whole department, congratulating me on my miniature promotion. There was a picture of me atop a brief bio that painted me as a very serious bookworm, and apparently it didn’t look like me at all, according to a coworker. “I didn’t choose the picture,” I told my coworker, a cute girl with long, curly hair. “He grabbed it off my LinkedIn page.”

“LinkedIn?” she asked. “What’s that?”

It was supposed to be a part-time job. I was fresh off of a break-up with what I considered to be the epitome of soulless adulthood: a very junior IT position within a very powerful government agency. So, maybe I overcompensated for my occupational lack of whimsy when I copped this new gig: part-time cashier at my favorite natural foods grocery store. But I was starting a graduate program (more or less an act of panic) and getting SAT tutoring and catering event gigs on the side (both of which paid more hourly than my “real” government job, by the way). Three months, a full-time offer and one promotion later, I found myself in the most curious position. What is the appropriate balance between tending to the now and tending to the future? I enjoy my job – but how much effort do I devote to something not contributory to my eventual career? And who defines “eventual”—what timelines exist other than socially generated ones? Am I rebelling, aiming too low, or just taking advantage of the unmarked roadmap we affectionately refer to as “life”?

My gay childhood best friend is a raging and back-flipping alcoholic, the type of friend you’ll love forever but sometimes need a yearlong break from. Very recently, he was laid off from his “eh”-paying job, just months after securing his own one-bedroom apartment that cost more than half of what he earned monthly. He was forced to his limits, texting me for advice on selling his Macbook Pro and even requesting via a Facebook status that 50 friends donate to him 20 dollars each. Just before eviction, his cell phone lit up in glimmering gold with a job offer – one paying nearly double his previous income. And not long after, he texted my roommate (and our mutual friend) to ask, “Dana went from contract editor to working at a grocery store?” He told her that I was needlessly being a renegade, and that “at this age, it’s crucial to establish stability.” By the way, “this age,” for the both of us, is 24. We’re old enough to admonish our peers for not yet achieving as much as we have, but apparently too young to catch the irony in it all. The twenties are not an excuse to do poorly. It just so happens that lots of twenty-somethings do poorly, whether in terms of their careers, finances, or relationships. But “poorly” is a matter of opinion, and age ain’t nothing but a number (thank you, Aaliyah).

It is pointless to make comparisons. The only standards we should be striving for are those set by ourselves. I recently came across an essay I wrote for my introductory Philisophy class, which I took during my freshman year of college. “Finding the cure for cancer or otherwise ‘saving mankind’ is not the sole path to having meaning in one’s life, and is rarely the case anyway,” I wrote. “Shucking oysters every day and playing the guitar by fireside can have just the same, if not more meaning.” Apparently, I’ve been the way I am at least since I was 19, and probably long before.

These types of short essays sometimes feel farcical, as if it’s really possible to outline a huge, vague problem and a corresponding brilliant realization in 600 words.  I don’t have a solution. Today, I sent off two very important applications. Later this month, I’ll send off a third. If the responses I receive aren’t good, then I’ll wait for the right opportunity to go for something else. And in the meantime, I’ll be working 8 hours a day, 5 days a week at a very nice grocery store in a very nice part of Maryland, enjoying myself and the good fortune of being able to wear jeans to work.

For Marylanders, Question 7 is about more than just education

Like most Marylanders, I've been unable to escape the onslaught of commercials and catchy jingles encouraging me to vote "yes" on Question 7 during the Nov. 6 election. In fact, I've encountered negligible advertising and coverage on the opposition of Question 7, aside from Rep. Donna Edwards standing firmly against the grain of other Maryland Democrats in Congress.

In between nearly every song I listen to on Pandora Internet radio, the following song plays to the tune of a country western guitar, with karaoke style lyrics across the bottom of my iPhone screen: 

"Maryland cash / bring it back / to the state / where it comes from / not West Virginia / don't let 'em spin ya / bring it back / our Maryland cash." 

What a convoluted way to spread the message of Question 7 to uninformed voters. How wary I am of advertisement that does not plainly address the most basic information. What is Question 7? Don't let 'em spin ya. The following is lifted directly from the state's Web site: 

"Do you favor the expansion of commercial gaming in the State of Maryland for the primary purpose of raising revenue for education to authorize video lottery operation licensees to operate “table games” as defined by law; to increase from 15,000 to 16,500 the maximum number of video lottery terminals that may be operated in the State; and to increase from 5 to 6 the maximum number of video lottery operation licenses that may be awarded in the State and allow a video lottery facility to operate in Prince George’s County?"

While the question will likely affect education funds in Maryland, the question is to what extent, and if it is misleading to chalk up the creation of casinos to helping the notorious underperformance of students in Prince George's County Public Schools. While the question clearly dictates that the expansion of commercial gaming in Maryland would be for "the primary purpose of raising revenue for education," only 24 percent of the revenue raised would go to the State Education Trust Fund, which is projected to be $174 million in fiscal year 2017. 

According to these calculations, 73 percent of revenue raised would go to casino operators, and the remaining revenue would go to local government and other funds. 

Though the projected $174 million is earmarked for state education, that is not to say that it is not possible, or even likely, that other education fund sources could be cut in the future. In short, casinos could generate revenue that replaces, not supplements, current education funds—leaving Maryland students in essentially the same predicament. The passing of Question 7 should not be seen as the end-all solution to education woes in Maryland. I want to vote "yes" on Question 7 if it means that my elementary school, Valley View—in Oxon Hill, Maryland, just minutes away from where the casino would be built at the National Harbor—can one day have a computer for every students, and updated textbooks to support an enriched curriculum. I don't want to vote "yes" on a question that will keep high schoolers' SAT scores twenty leagues under the national average, while seniors with fake IDs skip school to lose money from their part-time jobs playing Blackjack. 

While the gaming expansion is slated to create at least 12,000 "good-paying jobs in Maryland," there is a conflicting sentiment that expanding gambling will also expand social ills such as violent crime, automobile theft, and bankruptcy. Studies have shown that communities with casinos have higher levels of all three. To further complicate things, there is also the idea that people who like to gamble won't stop just because there are no casinos nearby. They'll take their money elsewhere—to West Virginia, perhaps—causing Maryland to lose out on millions in revenue. 

There is a trade-off to be made by voting either for or against Question 7 next Tuesday. It inevitably comes down to each voter's feelings about gambling, not about education. Just as there is no guarantee that education will truly benefit from the gaming expansion, it is also not guaranteed that the expansion couldn't move forward anyway, should the voters decide against it. 

Many proponents insist that opposition to Question 7 would mean that Maryland taxpayers would be paying more to fund education in the absence of casino generated revenue—if that's the case, at least I know my money is more likely to be directly funding education, instead of someone's slot machine payout. Question 7 does have the potential to create jobs and fund education, but it's important to remember that the issue is not as simple as a 30-second country jingle.