Where I Belong

Newly divorced and searching for direction.

         "Content" could never have described my circumstances. Twenty years ago, I had

ditched the benefits of higher education in favor of child rearing (Best decision of my life.) while my future-ex-husband worked his way up to a DWI and a totaled company truck. Starting over was not an ideal situation for a rather attractive, yet extreme introvert whose major accomplishments included stain removal and the bedtime narration of The Wind in the Willows.

 

I took a job frying gut-busters for minimum wage at a local convenience store. (I needed a car to drive to my job. I needed a job to pay for my car.) At daybreak, the first-of-a-hundred oil field workers strolled through the door with morning breath and lewd intentions. After siphoning the coffee urn – half on the floor, half in the thermos – this yawning roustabout returned to the counter with a creepy smile and stubbly chin. His teeth were crooked and yellowing, nearly the same color of his wedding band. 
 

He says, "Well hi, how are you?"
 

I return the smile and ring up his deli slop, "I'm good, you?"
 

He lowers his shades, scanning over my body and says, "Oh, I bet you are!" 
 

I was reminded of the first time I rode the Tilt-O-Whirl at the county fair. It left me in a cold sweat. My fingers trembled and the taste of bitter alkaline filled my mouth. This man made me feel the same way, and this was my introduction to interpersonal communications in the work place. Had I not been blessed with perpetual fortitude, or the loathing of scrubbing toilets for all eternity, I'd have slapped him upside the head.
 

I stuck it out for one year, paid off my s**t box car, and registered for fall classes at the junior college. Finally, I was taking control of my life! No more customer service bullshit. No more aches and pains. A rush of excitement purged my mind of all things greasy. 
 

Of course, my natural high didn't last long. I couldn't find my classes. I didn't blend in. Students asked for directions, assuming I was on the faculty staff. I felt like a giant retard surrounded by little kids in Special Ed class. One morning students were asked to "voluntarily" fill out a survey. I mindlessly checked off boxes and thought about what to have for lunch. Then my pencil stopped in midair. They had a name for it: Displaced Homemaker. 
 

I considered crawling under my desk.
 

After a week or so, my feelings of inadequacy subsided. I finally explained to the Hispanic chick across from me that, yes, my name is Bonita, and no, I don't understand a freaking word you're saying. I met interesting people, and managed to make a few friends – albeit, they were social rejects just like me. I even felt a small sense of pride in helping the younger students with their assignments. After all, we really were the same. We wanted to belong and feel accepted for who we were. Who doesn't? No matter our age, background, or talent, we were starting a new chapter in our lives.
 

My English professor pulled me aside after our first assignment and asked, "What is your major?" She shook her head before I could finish responding. "No," she said. "I don't think you understand – out of the two-hundred students I teach every semester, I come across one, maybe every two years, who has your kind of talent." My brow scrunched into a vee and my head tilted in confusion. No one had ever told me I could write.
 

I'm now majoring in English. It's nerdy, I know, but that's okay. I know where I belong now. I've found my place in a world ruled by time clocks and the magical dollar. It may not be the most lucrative choice, but it's one that I am content with. A love for literature and a life of hardship may have just been what I needed all along.