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John Lennon once sang "Life is what happens to you when you're busy ignoring your blog."

Or, y'know, something like that.

In any case, it's been well over a month since I last wrote and you can generally assume that I haven't written because I've been busy.  First it was preparing for Passover (spring cleaning with a deadline, as my mom likes to describe it), complete with making my very first seder.  Then it was actually Passover, which was surprisingly busy. Then it was full-tilt concert preparation, hard core apartment hunting, New York State teacher's licencing tests, applying for graduate school, and a few other obligations.  Thankfully, most of the hard work of the last two months appears to be paying off.

Big news number 1: I made it through my first really, truly, honest-to-goodness, did-it-all-by-myself Pesach!  Passover is one of those holidays that requires so much work and has so many laws, traditions, and procedures associated with it that I avoided "making Pesach" whenever I could.  As a college student, I either went home for the holiday or stayed with my aunt and uncle. Even in my apartment last year I ate as many meals as I could elsewhere so I didn't actually have to buy new food, new dishes, or cover my countertops.  This year, however, I couldn't get out of it.  Not only that, but I was also making a small seder for three for the first night.  Thankfully I think I pulled it off, and it wasn't even quite as scary as I thought it might be.

Big news number 2: We found a new apartment!  Although our current apartment is a total steal in NYC and the hubby is a block away from work, the neighborhood leaves something to be desired. Since finding a synagogue and community that has yet to disappoint me, we started looking for an apartment closer to that neighborhood.  It was a long and arduous search, but I am happy to announce we found a place only a few blocks from shul and we're signing the lease on Tuesday.

Big news number 3: My spring concerts for the Pre-K through 3rd grade classes at my school has been a source of great stress for me the last few weeks, but after a few hours of very successful rehearsals on Friday, I'm actually looking quite forward to them.  The theme is "Music Through the Decades," and each class has a song to represent a particular genre and decade.  Early American folk, 30s swing, 60s R&B, 70s pop, 80s hard rock, you name it.  The kids have worked so hard, and after hearing them on stage I am extremely excited for the performances next week.  Admittedly, though, I'm not sure if I'm primarily excited for the concerts or for them to be done.  Either way, I'm looking forward to it.

Big news number 4: Applied for grad school.  Will hopefully get in.  Will keep you updated.

Tonight after Shabbat I had every intention of finally tackling some of the house chores that I have been putting off for the last two weeks, but somehow I'm sitting at the computer instead.  For the first time in two months I'm feeling like things are actually under control, and I am so chilled that even the piles of laundry on the floor aren't bothering me.  It'll all get done. The worst of it is over. And pretty soon, I'll be able to relax in a brand new place to call home.

The Optimism Challenge

A few weeks ago I found myself in the stressful and emotionally tumultuous trifecta that is school concert preparation, wedding planning, and not seeing enough of my fiance.  It seemed that everything had to be done right now! and if I couldn't get it done then surely entropy would ensue and the world would be over as we know it. Such stress was not uncommon for me, but this time it manifested itself in a single sentence, repeated mantra-like every time I stepped on the train, crossed unnoticed through bustling crowds, or dealt with indifferent and outright rude sales clerks:  I hate New York.

Most of my life has been regularly punctuated by these moments of severe stress nestled uncomfortably between moments of slightly less severe stress.  In fact, I distinctly remember a moment in elementary school (5th grade, to be precise) when I found myself stressed and unable to fall asleep well past midnight, trying to convince my parents that maybe I should call my classroom teacher so she could assuage my fears about whatever homework assignment or project was at hand.

I was a special child.

I was also never good at transitions.  The first year of junior high, freshman year of high school, and freshman year of college all featured extreme emotional instability that made it hard for me to cope with anything life had to offer.  I am forever indebted to the people who were closest to me during those years, and I suspect karma will make me pay for that some day.  Big time.

I always strove for success, though, and my need to be a scholastic perfectionist was only strengthened during my periods of self doubt.  I suppose I figured that if I could do well in school, it would be proof for everyone else that at least some of my stress was valid.  "See?" I could say to my parents, "I worked like crazy to get that A!  And if I hadn't worked that hard I definitely would've gotten an A-."

Like I said: special.

So with this insight into my neurotic need for perfection and my utter inability to manage major changes in my life, it is no surprise that from the moment I moved to New York I have been off-balance, and when I found myself surrounded by every obligation in the world a few weeks ago, I lost it.

And Tomm, the saint who for whatever reason will be publicly promising in less than four weeks to put up with this the rest of his life, finally called me out on it.

In no uncertain terms and with a good dose of tough love, he helped me realize that I needed to find a way to stop this vicious cycle of stress, anxiety, and discontent with everything around me.  I needed to pull it together and change something since New York was not going to change itself for me.  I was hurting - everyone could see it - and it simply wasn't healthy for me.

I thought a lot about what he said, and I instinctively knew he was right.  Just as in every other juncture in my life I had a choice about how to respond to it, and now was the moment of truth: How would I learn to love (or at the very least tolerate) a city I never imagined I'd call "home?"

I was reminded of when I was still in grade school and my mom introduced a new family bonding strategy at dinner.  Every night she would ask us "What is the best thing that happened to you today?"  My younger sister and I, being the sullen teenagers that we were, often rolled our eyes but we always found a response.  Sometimes it was "I did well on a test." Sometimes it was "I came home."  But whether we knew it or not, my mom's trick worked and slowly changed the tone of dinner; we began to look on the bright side a little more often.

The day after my stern talking-to from Tomm, I told him I'd like him to do me a favor.  "Every day, I'd like you to ask me: 'What was the best thing that happened to you in New York today?'  I want to start focusing on the good things about New York, and I need your help."

As the days went by, he was faithful to my request.  Most days my best part of New York was a kind stranger on the train, but even such a minor detail made a big difference in my outlook the moment I focused on it.  Suddenly, I noticed my attitude changing.  Instead of blindly muttering "I hate New York I hate New York I hate New York" in rhythmic unison with the train clattering over the tracks, I heard the toddler singing children's songs with his mom in a seat nearby. I saw the disgruntled teenager hold the door open for the old man.  I became more and more aware of the good people, the kindness that had previously been missing from my sights. 

There are still moments when some New York experience grates on my nerves, but it's a work in progress and that's okay.  In the meantime, I'm changing how I see this city, and it seems to be responding in kind.

Sun spots

Every so often, I happen upon Clara sitting in the kitchen in a pool of sunlight that has sneaked through the clouds, between the tall buildings, and into our window.  My first thought is always "Why is she sitting in the middle of the kitchen?" but I quickly notice the brightly lit rectangle in which she has placed herself and I dismiss my initially absurd question.

At home, my dog used to do the same thing around the house.  You could often find her curled up in splashes of warm afternoon sun, oblivious to the world.  I know that a lot of animals do this, and it makes sense.  If the sun is shining, go sit in it!  But sometimes I'm envious of the way Clara can just wander around until she finds the warmest part of the floor, hunker down, and enjoy it for as long as it lasts.  Wouldn't it be nice if we could all do that just as easily?

Well, after much searching and waiting, I think I have finally found my sun spot.

My last job as a music teacher ended in June and until last week I was unemployed.  Originally I had thought surely I would have a job by the beginning of the school year in September.  Throughout the spring and summer I applied for a multitude of teaching positions, hoping desperately that I might be able to use my music education degree to its full extent here in New York.  But the pickings were slim and, more frustrating than that, agonizingly slow to materialize.  At the very end of August I was finally offered a part time after school position.  Minimal hours, decent pay, challenging school environment, but teaching music nonetheless.  I knew I still needed something in addition to the 8.15 hours I would be paid there, but I was at least happy to have something.

A few days later, I got a call for a general music position that I had been pursuing for months.  I was ecstatic to finally have clinched that one, but I'd still have to wait nearly a month to do a demonstration lesson for the principal and the program directors.  In the meantime, I calculated that I would have less than 17 hours a week of classroom teaching, and I knew I'd need a little bit more.  Not even because of the money, but just to keep myself occupied.

So I sat around and twiddled my thumbs for a few weeks, waiting for one program to start and for the date of the demo lesson to arrive.  I was happy I'd have some work, but I was frustrated by both the lack of positions in my field (especially since I really wanted to teach in a string program) and the astonishingly slow pace with which everything was moving forward.  While I was sitting around, students had already started school and I wondered "Why aren't these music programs starting, too?"  Apparently this is one of those New York things.

Then, a week before my demonstration lesson, I got a call about a school that needed a string teacher twice a week for 10 hours total.  Oh my goodness, yes! I thought.  This is what I want!  And I could probably do this in addition to the other two programs, so long as we could organize the schedule correctly.  I immediately called for an interview, we set one up for the following Monday, and it went very well.  It looked like I was well on my way to having three jobs at three different schools, but doing what I love.  Hard work, to be sure, but I was excited nonetheless.

Two days later was the demonstration lesson.  It went swimmingly.  Afterward I was shooed away so the principal and the program coordinators could talk behind my back, and later that day I got an email from one of the coordinators.

"The principal wants you to teach 16 classes."

Twice what we had first discussed.

Crap.

Somehow in the span of a week, I went from worrying that I wouldn't have enough hours to being offered an overabundance of classes to teach.  I may have been pushing it thinking I could teach at three schools every week - an after school program for around 9 hours, 8 classes at one school during the day twice a week, and 10 classes at another twice a week - but add another 8 classes to that and I knew it was past my limit.  Thankfully, I had a few days of Jewish Holidays to think about it before any decisions had to be made.

Throughout the holidays on Thursday and Friday, plus Shabbat, I didn't know what to do.  And what's more, I felt frustrated.  Why was I told something at the last minute that would force me to decline something else that I so desperately wanted to do?  Why was this all happening at the same time?  Why wasn't it easier?!

But when I told people about my situation, many of them noted the overwhelmingly positive aspect of my circumstances.  Unlike a month prior, I had plenty to choose from!  I had options, and the people offering them to me really wanted me to work for them!  So shouldn't I be happy?

Well, today I talked with one of the program coordinators for the school that wanted 16 classes a week.  We spoke at length about the situation and he sympathized with my circumstances.  He knew what I wanted, he knows where my educational passions lie, and we figured it out.  By the time I made the decision to decline the string teaching position, I was confident I was making the right choice.

Once I made the decision, I immediately felt better.  I felt as if I had chosen the best option, not only for me but for the adults and students involved.  I'm confident that in the next few years I'll get other opportunities to teach strings, and I'm incredibly happy to be working for this particular organization for my first year in New York.  It took a while, but I think things finally settled in the way it's supposed to be.  I found my own little sunspot, and I'm going to enjoy it as long as I can.

Play on!

Last Monday I had the most wonderful, life-affirming, uplifting experience I have had since arriving in New York.  I attended the first rehearsal of the Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra, a local community orchestra now celebrating its 40th anniversary.  It is filled to the edges of the stage with humble musicians, some of whom use music to pay the rent and many more who don't.  They aren't payed to be there; in fact, there is a membership fee to play in the orchestra.  It just goes to show precisely how dedicated they are.

When I arrived, people were immediately friendly.  Hi!  How are you?  Are you new?  Welcome!  People welcomed me, pulled me into their conversations, allowed me to sit in the middle instead of on the outskirts, noticed me and wanted me there.

And then the music started.  Oh, what rapture!  We sight-read a Brahms symphony (replete, of course, with the kinds of melodies that only a cello section can pull off with affective grace and depth of feeling), the first major symphony I had performed in two years.  Through our instruments we sang, we hummed, we soared, we crawled, we lifted ourselves in rising, swelling melodies, forced ourselves through the cramped and jagged spaces of dissonance, then resolved with harmonious consonance upon the conductor's subtle cue.

Sometimes I forget I'm a musician.

In the world of music education, I have always considered myself as a teacher of music rather than a musician who teaches.  It is not that I doubt or downplay my musical talents, but rather that I put more emphasis on my talents as an educator who happens to use music to teach children.  Among the music education majors in college, though we started out with nearly identical musical course loads as those of the performance majors, by our senior years we had distanced ourselves from our musical peers.  Once we had completed the requirement for performance with the orchestra or band, many of us devoted our energies to learning pedagogy, methodology, conducting, and the basics of other instruments.  By our final semester we were rarely on campus, spending all our time instead in schools where we taught as student teachers.  There were plenty of education majors who continued to perform, but once I was out of the orchestra the only performances I cared about were those of my students.

I've never wanted to be a soloist.  I might have had fleeting dreams of such a life when I was younger, imagining myself sitting at a Steinway 9-foot grand on some stage, but I abandoned such flights of fancy once I realized how badly I wanted to be a teacher.  It wasn't an either-or situation, mind you.  It was simply a realization that a classroom is a far more exciting venue than a stage.  Besides, I never would have cut it as a professional performer.  When I was a young musician in a small town, I was pretty decent at my variety of instruments and didn't think much of it.  But once I started comparing myself to other musicians at statewide summer music camps and at college, I realized I just couldn't quite compete.  Conveniently, I had no interest in doing such a thing.

However, despite my aversion to performing a solo in the cello Master Class (the unsavory memories of which linger in the back of my mind like the smell of cigarettes in an old hotel room), I loved performing with the orchestra.  Loathed the audition process, despised the sectionals where, try as I might, I would inevitably be heard, but I loved the feeling of playing with so many other musicians.  I didn't care if I was last chair.  I just liked the experience of making music with a group of like-minded individuals.  It was like a group project that actually worked, and we all know the success rate of those in school.

The last time I played with the university's symphony orchestra, we played Tchaikovsky and I remember thinking as we neared the end of the piece I don't want this to end, because this may be my last opportunity to play such wonderful music with such talented musicians. I figured that any community orchestra wouldn't quite measure up to the caliber of music we performed regularly, because the only community orchestras I knew were good but still very amateur.  That performance, in December of 2010, was the last time I performed a concert with an orchestra.

There aren't many things I can say I absolutely love about New York, but one of the things I've discovered is that not only is there a community orchestra, but there are many.  And not only are they plentiful, but they're good!  

But the greatest part for me? That it is somewhere I am invited to belong.  Maybe it was just this particular ensemble, but I truly felt they were happy I was there.  People checked their personal bubbles at the door in favor of the more inclusive embrace of the orchestra, a refreshing change of pace from what I have experienced thus far.

I can't wait to go back.

Getting lost at the Da Capo

Rosh Hashanah (lit. "Head of the Year") has become one of my favorite holidays in the Jewish calendar.  It even beats out Hanukkah which, although fun, doesn't have quite the spiritual breadth and depth of Rosh Hashanah.  The Jewish New Year is celebrated as a two-day holiday which manages to encompass a wide variety of Jewish values: family, community, joy, prayer, and thanksgiving, as well as introspection, repentance, forgiveness, and humility.  And food.  Lots of food.  What kind of Jewish holiday would it be without food?

I've always enjoyed the spirit of the holiday and the symbols that are so ingrained in its celebration.  We eat apples dipped in honey to remind us that we should have a sweet new year, and we pour honey on our challah instead of dipping it in salt, for now is not a time for sadness.  The challah itself is shaped differently: Instead of being braided into a loaf, we make it into a round braid or spiral to emphasize the idea of continuity from one year to the next.  Traditionally we eat a new fruit on the holiday, and many people choose the pomegranate for this custom as it is rumored to have 613 seeds - equal to the number of commandments in the Torah.

And those are just the symbols at the dinner table!

Every year, I have celebrated Rosh Hashanah at home with my parents, my siblings, and whomever my mom invited to join us for either of the two festive meals.  Even as a college student, I always went home for the New Year.  There were some years where I debated, thinking maybe I would stay on campus instead of schlepping home, but ultimately I could never resist the comfort of spending this particular holiday with my family.  No matter where my roots were spreading, I always felt an unconscious desire, a need, to start the year at the beginning -- my beginning.

This year everything has turned topsy-turvy and my new home is some 800+ miles away, so I was faced with the opportunity to start a completely new beginning.  Yet another Da Capo moment!  But I realized about five hours too late that I wasn't prepared to "make Rosh Hashanah;" to account for the food, the timing, the traditional elements that always seemed to appear before me - like magic! - at home.  (Thanks, Mom!)  Realistically, I don't think there is any way I could have recreated any of my life's intimate experiences with this particular holiday even if I had tried.  For starters, Tomm is working a month of nights without any time off for the holidays, so big, festive meals in the evening were out of the question.  We did, however, do our best to make Wednesday night's dinner something worthy of the New Year, even if the holiday wasn't beginning until three hours later.  Pasta Primavera may not exactly be standard fare for such a meal, and unfortunately I completely forgot about the traditional pomegranate, but we blessed the grape juice, the round-ish challah, and the apples with honey, so it still counts, right?

After he left for work I went to shul for Maariv, the evening service.  I don't believe I have ever before attended the evening service before Rosh Hashanah.  Usually I was at home helping my mom prepare for guests.  I'm glad I went, though, because the small choir that supported the chazzan lent a great deal to my experience.  (For an orthodox synagogue to have anything resembling a choir is virtually unheard of to my knowledge.)  Yet despite the music - so grand and beautiful to behold and in stark contrast to my typical shul experience - it could not make up for what was lacking.  I didn't dwell on it, but in the back of my mind a thought, not fully-formed and more closely resembling a feeling, nagged at me.

The next two days I spent a great deal of time at the synagogue.  The services were about three hours longer than I would've anticipated, and the choir only sang for part of it.  But I was there, I recited the prayers, I heard the sounds of the shofar, and I sang along where I could.  Did I commune with G-d?  Not so sure.  Even less uncertain is the answer to the vexing question: Did I commune with the community?

Since moving here I've been feeling like I'm missing something in regards to the Jewish community.  I feel like more of an outsider than I really should be, and I can't help but contrast my largely uninspiring experiences here with the overwhelmingly positive experiences I grew up with.  With that in mind, I'd like to share an experience Tomm and I had on Friday night:

We had just arrived to the synagogue for the afternoon and evening prayers, quick services that would mark the end of Rosh Hashanah and the beginning of Shabbat.  It didn't seem the services had commenced so we dawdled outside the doors of the sanctuary for a minute.  An older gentleman with a long, straggly beard appeared and made some comment about the talk that was going on before the services.  Perhaps they were going longer than expected?  I asked him if they'd started the afternoon service yet and he said no, then - detecting either our accent or our uniquely Midwestern sense of kindness and civility - he asked us where we were from.  We told him about our respective hometowns and the city where we met.  "Oh! That's Twerskiville!" he announced, referencing the large Hasidic community on the West side of the city.  I attended shul there a couple times and I'm familiar with the rabbi, though I certainly wouldn't identify myself with him.  At any rate, this man had at least some idea of where I was from.

"Y'know," he said, "for people from out of town, meaning of course anywhere outside New York or Lakewood [NJ], it's different.  Jewish communities are more open, more welcoming out of town.  But in town, it's like there are too many people.  People don't notice you as much, it's not as much of a community.  When a place gets so big, it's easy for people to get--" and he reached over to point to a notice on the bulletin board.  LOST.

"But come, let's daven (pray)."  And with that he led us into the sanctuary.

Lost.  Precisely.  As this man spoke I looked at him and wondered how he had managed to so perfectly encapsulate my experiences up to this point.  He was an absolute stranger, but it was as if I was meant to cross his path so that he could give credence to the very feeling I had been trying to ignore.

The fact is, my presence in the synagogues around here has been largely ignored.  The mumbled "shana tova" (Happy New Year) or "gut shabbos" (a wish for a good Sabbath) exchanged with others are mere pleasantries said as quietly and unenthusiastically as we can.  I am not a part of this community and I am no closer to them than the black-hatted and bearded Hassids who breeze past me on the sidewalk with bristling indifference.

At both the congregations I've called home throughout my life, I went to shul to feel connected -- connected to others and by extension to G-d.  I went to shul to be counted, acknowledged, appreciated.  I went to feel part of something larger, holier than myself.  Singing out loud and saying the words that are so many hundreds of years old with my families - real or surrogate - surrounding me and singing with me was what made it a holy experience.

In music, especially when playing through a piece with an ensemble for the first time, reaching the words da capo at the end of the piece can be disabling.  Faced with the sudden change in direction, we may have to quickly turn a page or five only to reveal that the music's tempo, time signature, key signature, dynamics, and style have completely changed since the beginning.  Eventually we manage to get back on track, maybe even skipping a few measures of music between the da capo and the opening bars just to get our bearings.  But inevitably we catch our breath, return our focus to the music we make, and move forward.

This year, the da capo is certainly throwing me for a loop.  I seem to have lost the melody, and I'm looking at the conductor thinking Where the hell are you? but it's not too late to make something beautiful.  I just have to take a breath, pause for a moment, and find where I belong in the music.

L'Shana Tova u'metukah.  May you have a happy and sweet New Year.

Gainful Employment

After months of searching, resume submissions, cover letters, emails, and the occasional interview, I have finally landed a job!  Before you start getting too excited and congratulatory, I'd like to temper it by saying that this is a part time, after school job which will amount to fewer than 10 hours a week.  Still, it's a job in my field which will allow me to use my specific skill set with almost complete curricular freedom.

I'll be working in a public school in Manhattan which works with an outside organization to provide "extended day" school (a well-attended after-school program which extends the standard school day until 6:00 PM).  I was originally interviewed for the position of Community Educator, an entry-level position which would have placed me and a colleague with a specific classroom to work with them every day after school from 3:00 to 6:00.  After the final round of interviews I received a call from the organizer offering me a choice between the Community Educator position and that of an Activities Specialist: fewer hours a week, but greater pay per hour and would allow me to specifically teach music to students in grades K-2.  After some deliberation I decided that although I would not make as much per week as a specialist it was a far better career opportunity, so I took it.

I'm excited for this position for a variety of reasons.  One wonderful feature of the job is that I can pretty much teach whatever I'd like.  There is no curriculum set out, no specific objectives that the students must achieve, no expectations about concerts or other performances.  This freedom is exhilarating because it means that I can finally focus on musical concepts that I have, up until now, found very challenging to teach within the context of a standard school music program.  Namely composition and improvisation.  Without having a concert to prepare for (at least not one that's already scheduled), I can use this as a learning opportunity for me in addition to an exciting and fun class for the students.  Besides, the students already have a music teacher during the school day, so I want to be sure I'm not stepping on the other teacher's toes and focusing on exactly the same things she is.

The other reasons I'm excited for this position have much more to do with me than with the kids.  Call me selfish, but I'm excited to be getting out of the apartment, using my degree and experience in a productive way, making a little money, and hopefully making some friends.  Apparently there is research to support this kind of need for personal fulfillment, for when I looked up "gainfully employed" to make sure I was, in fact, spelling it correctly, I found a Wikipedia article all about it:

Gainful employment is a positive psychology concept that explores the benefits of work and employment. Second only to personal relationships, work is the most important determinant of quality of life.^[1][2] Over 7,855 articles were published on job satisfaction between the years of 1976-2000.

Turns out I'm not being selfish after all.  Upon reading this article, I learned that gainful employment is not just about making money; it's about job satisfaction, fulfillment, and all the other personal needs that a good occupation addresses.  While being employed might just mean "getting paid to do a job," gainful employment is about the kind of work that makes you want to go to work, the kind of job that makes you happy, and the kind of environment in which you enjoy growth, responsibility, empowerment, and positive relationships.

Thinking about my employment history it's easy for me to separate the jobs from the gainful employment.  Working at a grocery store part time?  A job.  I went, I worked, I got paid.  But every single time I had the opportunity to teach - whether I was making money or not - I felt that I was doing something worthwhile for my students, my colleagues, my superiors, and myself.

The Wikipedia article lists nine components of this particular brand of employment, and they are as follows:

1. Variety in duties performed
2. Safe working environment
3. Income for family and oneself
4. A purpose derived from providing a product or service
5. Happiness and satisfaction
6. Positive engagement and involvement
7. A sense of performing well and meeting goals
8. Friendships at work
9. An environment that respects and appreciates diversity

 I was surprised to read some of the items on this list.  For instance, the fact that the first component listed is "Variety in duties performed" seems odd to me from the perspective of an employee, especially one who has worked a number of jobs that had very few duties to perform.  Yet thinking about my best jobs, especially those in teaching, I realize that all of them included a wide variety of duties to perform, and instead of constantly feeling burdened or overwhelmed by the things I had to do, I was generally happy that going to work meant something a little different every day.  Or what about "Friendships at work"?  No wonder I've hated the summer jobs where I didn't get along well with my coworkers, even if my superiors and the customers were pleasant and enjoyable to work with.

Reading this list makes me consider not just my own employment history and career, but work in general.  In movies, television, media, and sitting at the bar on a Saturday night, people are often quick to complain about their jobs.  In college, my classmates working part-time jobs to pay for rent and tuition regularly groaned about their horrible bosses, the agonizingly mundane tasks they had to perform, the crappy hours, and all the other issues inherent in being at the bottom of the work ladder.  "But at least I have a job," they'd say, and it was true because without the money they made from that job, they couldn't have been studying to get the education necessary to ultimately make them gainfully employed.  Still, I have to wonder: is it worth it?

Is it worth it to work your tail off doing something you dislike as a means to an end?  Is it worth it to spend a third of your waking hours just waiting to leave?  Is it worth it to downright hate what you're doing and allow yourself to be unhappy and frustrated, even if the money made from that minimum wage job is an absolute necessity?

The fact of the matter is, sometimes we can't avoid working a job we don't like, which is rather sad when you consider how much of our lives are spent at our jobs and how desperately many of us need something, anything to pay for the other necessities in life.  So maybe the onus is on the higher ups, the bosses and supervisors and CEOs, to make sure their employees are, in fact, gainfully employed.  I don't know. I certainly can't provide a solution to the quagmire.  All I can do is ask questions.  So I ask...

Are you gainfully employed?