January 10th, 2012

Dear Jeremy,

2012 has arrived! All fearing the Aztecs should start packing up their gear for the ominous apocalypse that undoubtedly is going to drop upon our heads some 11 months hence. Until then though, we gotta keep living in the here and now. I must apologize for my lack of full length and regular correspondence with you, as I have been under quite a bit of hectic stress these past six months.

I started a position at a charter school in Brooklyn in mid august, which incidentally, you might notice is about the time these letters fell short of the usually sporadic delivery. The commute to the school was laborious and the rigors of the job proved to be quite an undertaking.

During that time I was under quite a bit of duress, and found that the expectations set for me were often shifty, unclear, or impossible. I can only speak for myself of course, as I had a number of colleagues who were able to get along swimmingly there. While there was a tension beneath the surface, many of the other teachers were able to make a go of it under in a situation that supervised by fear in an environment that appeared to be invented on a week-by-week basis.

As I’m sure you can gather from the context, we are here in 2012 and I am not longer at that school. Through a series of abusive entanglements I met an end of employment there that has been, on paper, described as “no fault”; I myself have been describing that end as “philosophical differences”. Regardless of the nature of the change, in the end I would not allow myself to be bullied, tortured, and made to feel inferior. Unfortunately this means we have fallen on some tough economic tides. The bright spot is that I have found some work in a beautiful school district in Long Island. It is a wonderful opportunity, however the function I am in is not equal to the function I was filling and, as is fitting, I am not compensated at the same rate.

On that note I was able to secure an adjunct professorship at Metropolitan College of New York for the spring semester. This is a dream come true because, believe it or not your father has lofty aspirations of being a stodgy old professor. One step at a time and slowly we’ll achieve. While our home situation is tighter than a noose, I have faith in our ability as a family to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and do what we have to. In a bad market for teaching I was able to secure two jobs in the field—and while they don’t quite make the difference of the money I was making before it just goes to illustrate what your mother and I will no doubt be telling you all your life: there is always work if you are willing to find it.

This brings me to an interesting point. When my employment at the charter school ended, I reluctantly went to sign up for unemployment benefits. I was fairly certain that I would be able to collect because, here I was: unemployed, actively looking for work, with a mortgage to pay, and mouths to feed. Imagine my surprise and horror to find that I was ineligible. Luckily, I was able to find work within a few days of that news. This made me think terribly though. I was in a distraught position…I couldn’t fathom how an educated person with responsibilities, who made all the right choices in life, and always paid his taxes could find himself in such a situation. I wasn’t looking to unduly abuse the system, nor was I looking for a hand out. What criteria did I actually have to fit in order to collect? I couldn’t say for certain.

I went to the library shortly after being released from my position and took out Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta. The imagery of Guy Fawkes masks in confluence of my sudden drop into the 99% seemed very appealing to me. I felt, not a complete kindred awareness with the Occupy Wall Street Movement, but certainly many of the factors that contributed to their genesis. Guy Fawkes masks abound and all that.

In addition to the position at the school I was able to secure a paying gig at one of the better High Schools in the country, only not as a head teacher. While this is a little discouraging I prefer to look at it as an amazing opportunity. Not to sound cliché but when one door closes, another opens—albeit slowly. So here I was, a man who was out of work in a bad economy, with hiring freezes on, and through quick networking and searching was able to find two jobs.

I started wondering about the different factors that contributed to this—in such a bad market, a bad economy, the Great Recession. Without a doubt, my education played a role. I wouldn’t have the credentials to work in a school—excessively qualified or not—without my Master’s Degree. Secondly, having good relationships in school and work helped me because I was able to tap those networks in order to speak with administrators who were able to help me. Something nagged me in the back of my mind though. Something that my background in American Urban Studies and experiences growing up could let me over look.

Passing as white.

Even though my last name is Melendez, I often wonder how far “passing as white” gets me. As you well know I do not consider myself to be white. As a Jew I would never have been traditionally considered white, and the blanching of Jews in American culture—while still only mostly concrete in developed urban areas—really only came about in the past 80 years in the United States with the increased number of collegiate Americans. As Puerto Ricans, our family is brown but not dark; and if the plot of West Side Story is any indication of the general feeling of Americans that doesn’t make me white either. I do, however, present as some kind of white ethnic person—most often I am mistaken for or presumed Italian until my last name comes up.

I have been wondering if perhaps my education in balance with my ethnic last name and my passing-white-visage created something of a perfect storm for my relatively quick re-employment. It certainly didn’t help me any with the social services offices that seemed to almost demand by their formulaic questions that I be uneducated, destitute, and darkly hued. It mattered little that we were on the brink of defaulting on the mortgage, teetering on a zero balance, and on the threshold of hunger. We walked in that social services office and they told us our cars were too new for our kids to be hungry. So, I can only wonder if the same first glance helped me to attain a job. It begs the question about the justifications of affirmative action. I’ve never taken much of a stance on affirmative action because I have never experienced the issue that it seeks to remedy.

I’ve had conversations with highly education African Americans about the topic, and its justifications; about the rally to create and equal playing field. I always wonder how equitable a quota is. In abstraction of race issues, I think most would agree that the best suited for a job is the one best qualified, but what criterion allow for the best qualified to become so accredited? What obstacles lie in the way of those who may have better abilities, but not proper support and motivation? What role does the society play to leverage that out? Is it proper to stack decks in one direction or the other or should the world assign itself to a more Ayn Rand kind of “cream rising to the top” libertarian view?

Logic, in abstraction of the human conditions of fear, xenophobia, racism, and prejudice do dictate to me that the best credentialed should be given work. That logic, when complicated by the downfall of humanity makes it difficult to ascertain if credential is, in fact, equal to skill, talent, and ability. I think not—but what else can an employer judge by in the hiring process? It’s all very tricky, very slippery, very controversial. Regardless, we didn’t get food stamps, welfare, unemployment, or any kind of assistance but I was able to find two jobs that don’t nearly make the difference of the money I was making before. It’s for the best. I don’t want to get caught in the trap of being on assistance and getting complacent (not that everyone on assistance does, I’m just saying I don’t want to get caught in it). I’m not afraid to work, and luck and perseverance had it that I am privileged enough to continue doing so.

So we will struggle. But we will make it. Our family is strong. Our love is strong. And my back is strong. People may say that situations like these are why we should have waited to start a family and buy a house but I say to that “Fuck you”. Its best for my kids and my ability to raise them, emotionally, that I am young. I don’t want to be the grandpa-looking guy who is actually not a grandpa on the playground. I don’t want to be winded chasing after my kids at the park. I’m out of shape at 27…I can’t imagine doing this at 47. We will persevere.

But still…I wonder about those who don’t have the advantages we have; the opportunities for education that we had; the opportunities for supportive families that we have; the luck that we have. I wonder about those and I consider how far we’ve come and how far we still have to go. I’ve often considered myself as post-racial, but not in the buzzword sense of the term. Being as mixed a family as we are, I don’t judge people by their race (but then again of course I do). I like to define it as acknowledging differences with out betraying humanity. At times I’m racist, xenophobic, homophobic, prejudiced, everything. That's the human condition—its irrational and emotional. Logically I try to overcome it with self-awareness, and logical thinking. (Unconsciously I comfort myself saying that these thoughts have a sociological point of view, that I am academically breaking down our systems---its bullshit. I’m working on it).

I can only tell you, once again, that your mother, your sister, your dog, your father, and you will be fine. By the time you are 25 and I am 50 and you are reading this on the terraformed moon beach by the Sea of Tranquility, you’ll know the story of how we made it. You’ll have lived it. And maybe all the other bullshit will be resolved as well. We can only hope. Until then…

Love,

Your Father

P.S. You are a dynamo! Your vocabulary is growing every minute. You say ELMO, CookA (cookie or cookie monster), you say AY-LA, Sissa (sister), Dada, Papa, Nana, Gamma (both grandma), and SAM or Mama (mostly Sam). You say about a million other things too. You play as nicely as you think can with Ayla and try to help her by giving her a bottle or pacifier…even though you cram them in her face, and you torture Chewy at every turn. We love to watch you grow---and grow you do!!!