Vivid

This has been a rough few weeks. I received the news that the budget passed without saving my facility. A day or so later, I learned that killing us was an intentional act by the people who were meant to fight to keep us open. The unions prostrate themselves to Governor Cuomo, offering us up. They gave him the ax to execute most Community Multi-Services Offices, a girls' facility, and my facility for vulnerable youth. In response, he did not close two facilities nearer to the city -- Cuomo's true locus of interest. He would not close them anyway, as that would irritate people in the city, the only people for whom he cares.

One of the facilities saved has been repeatedly rocked by sex scandals, most famously when the commissioner had the guards pick up sex workers for the boys as a reward for behaving -- resulting in firings and arrests. The commissioner suffering no consequences. Asbestos falls like snow from the ceiling, a condition that cannot be remediated. And -- as though these were not enough -- after the press conference where they boasted that they had been saved, that facility immediately turned around and said that they no longer wanted to house boys with seuxally harmful behaviors. They are shipping them to the high-security boy's facility. Since New York is closing the girls' facility, they are also shipping them to the high-security boys' facility. Everyone I tell this is agog, seeing the apparent calamity ahead, but it does not seem to have occurred to anyone much above my pay grade.

For bending over backward for Cuomo, my union received money for a family picnic in Albany and acted as though they had really pulled one over. The governor is like Lucy Van Pelt with the football, promising he isn't going to yank it away this time. Except, no. Since it is Cuomo, he instead holds it in the air, glares at them, and says he isn't even going to bother holding it so Charlie Brown can kick it. They end up on their backs anyway, sure that he will let them kick it one of these days despite all evidence to the contrary.

In a call with my union, they talked about how the state legalization of sports betting and cannabis, in addition to the billions in federal aid, should mean that nothing needs to close. But they wouldn't dare to say this to Cuomo. They backed down and got a picnic out of it.

I mourn because I know how effective my facility is. Shortly after hearing about the initial proposal to close us, we received the announcement that we had earned the prestigious Sanctuary Certification for trauma-informed care. We do so much for our residents. All of that will be lost for a picnic and a facility that cannot function on any level.

That same day, I learned that what I thought would be a minor repair on my car would, in fact, be intense and involved, costing at least four times the original estimate. Even with that, the mechanic couldn't guarantee that it would be enough to save my car. Though I have only had my car for three years, its previous owners put around ninety thousand miles on it.

I could not stomach the idea that I would have to keep being nickel and dimed to keep my car on the road. In the Hudson Valley, particularly when one's wife has an electric car, one cannot survive without a reliable vehicle. Rather than pouring my savings into my car, it likely made financial sense to get one that would last.

I slept poorly, processing this all, and spent the day to follow feeling as though my innards were a stagnant swamp. I functioned, I worked on my next article for Grunge, I spent time with Amber, but I wanted to scream and cry -- and hadn't I good reason?

The next night, I slept soundly and felt spectacular. I was eloquent and lively. I felt bright, notably whenever I passed by the seventy-degree air and sunshine through my windows. My circumstances were unchanged. I had this week off, which was badly placed, given all that was occurring. I was incapable of getting substantial news. My car certainly did not heal overnight but should suffice long enough to be traded in (though I feel a sadness that I will lose this machine as a companion).

Yet, I feel like a different man in the sunlight, which would frustrate me if it didn't also feel good. I would like to believe this is more me than the depression -- which I am keenly aware when I am in the grip of it is aberrant. I've learned to tell self-destruction to shut its mouth and sit in the corner until the mood leaves me, but it feels so pressing when I am within it.

It is all so predictable, my solar-powered resilience. How dare it be so? Though I would not want to lose the bright moments.

I will have to live through circumstances I consider bureaucratically unfair or simply inconvenient. Cars break on occasion, and their doing so will not be at a time that favors us; I am not such a resistentialist that I attribute a breaking flex plate for vehicular malevolence. If my car could love, I assume we would have a more than cordial relationship.

I have lived through worse times, though I cannot help but be reminded that some of these came because I had lacked a proper job. The best days of my life came as a byproduct of teaching here. I don't think the state will leave me jobless -- I have shown myself to be too lippy. It would look bad that a state economy overflowing with federal largesse is firing workers because of a union that cares more about making the governor happy.

Driving to my first test drive, my car started whining. I did not know this sound. I did not care for it, nor do I want the people who will assess it for trade-in value to hear it.

Of course, the dealership acts as though I am trying to pull a scam on them and lowballs me. I almost don't want to deal with them again out of embarrassment. When I get home, it becomes evident that one of the mechanics I took it to drained most of my transmission fluid, likely to test something, and neglected to put it back. Or they just broke the transmission lines. When I call Monro to get documentation that my transmission fluid was fine so I can pursue this with the mechanics, the guy said they didn't check it and that he does not think that Nissans have transmission dipsticks. I pointed out that I was presently holding mine, so they very much do. He failed to backpedal on the fact that he was obviously lying to me.

A few quarts of fluid and my car ran as usual, plus or minus a bad starter.

I do not enjoy the notion of returning to work tomorrow. This has been a long and disappointing break. I don't know what I will be returning to, but I expect it will not be encouragement or answers. Having fought for months, I had built up this nacre of hope that gave my work a shine. Now I will be more akin to my coworkers, who immediately rolled over when they heard the initial threat. I won't be made to feel foolish because my efforts were manipulated and misused. It will be months of this until we are shipped off or unemployed by Cuomo's diktat. Spirits will not be high. I can keep myself busy with writing and what teaching I can. Others may be so cheerful. I will keep moving forward, but I will not blindly comply. I have too much I need to do, to write. I am suffering setbacks, but I am excelling in my writing career. It is no slight distinction.

I dreamed that I was working at the girls' facility -- or the unit in the high-security facility where the girls will be housed -- which I suppose is my best option now. It was not a bad dream, all things considered. I like teaching girls, though I've had a dearth of cis ones in my classrooms for the last decade. My supervisor has pushed for me to go with him to the girls' facility, as I am his English teacher. Nothing is set in stone, and nothing is promised to me, but it is not a small glimmer of hope.

I am choosing to tell myself that I can have some enjoyment of this novel experience, though I have for years carved out my classroom and teaching methods for my non-secure facility. I know what I am doing here and may bristle when contradicted by an administrator who has not shown themselves to be effective.

I try not to fixate on this loss. I did all I could to the extent that the higher-ups retaliated against me. That threat of punishment alone is an accomplishment. I got under the skin of influential people and had a senator call my mother (though not me) to ask after me. I now must focus on maintaining a job, likely in this system, as I have too much invested (over 500 hours of sick leave, for instance) and excel with this population. There are better outcomes even with this considerable setback. There are certainly a few worse ones. I don't want to drive an hour each way, as is one of the possibilities. I would rather not have to work with the worst boys in the system, those who have killed and who will never be released.

No amount of sunlight is going to put a shine on becoming unemployed for a political game. A warm spring day does not obviate the drain of a career behind two barbed wire fences with boys who have raped and murdered. I focus on my present and future, radically accepting that my efforts were considerable and noticed if abused by the bureaucracy.

Soon in Xenology: A new job and car.

last watched: Bob's Burgers
reading: No Boundary