The VISTA Way
Jason Crow
Yawn.
I wake up just past 8AM, ready to head off to work. Another day another
dollar, literally, I mean, I make approximately $3.43/hour, take home.
But then, what Americorps*VISTA doesn't already know just how painful
payday is, no need to remind anyone.
The coffee’s on in the kitchen and I am reusing yesterday's filter.
I fill the decanter with fresh ground beans I bartered from the Common
Ground, a local coffee house on the East Side of Grand Rapids, a third
tier city that struggles to keep its coffee shops profitable. After
reading in the TIME magazine from January 2001 (my Mom steals old magazines
from her the dentist office where she works) that coffee has absolutely
no nutritional value, I slip back into my fake leather lounge chair
and stare out the living room windows at the next door neighbor as he
puts his child in his car seat and gently lifts him into his minivan.
I sip the dark water slowly, satisfied.
I put on my robe and step outside to grab my neighbor’s daily newspaper.
I slide the “employment” section out from the thick stack
of papers and begin to read. My VISTA term is about to end. I am looking
for a job, one that pays. As a novice documentary video maker (with
a socially conscious bent), I quickly search the help wanted ads under
three sections: video production, communications, and finally (the most
useful section for an aspiring videographer) restaurant help needed.
Nothing. And I have spent the past two years gathering employable skills,
transferable skills. I swear.
As I lay there in my off-white robe reading the help wanted ads, I see
my girlfriend’s car roll up into my driveway that sits just below
my living room windows. Still naked, despite the discolored white robe
that should probably cover more, I run into my room to grab my VISTA
handbag, (including the VISTA handbook), some jeans, a t-shirt, and
I am off. As “The Faint” pulses its smooth, electronic beats
through the car that smells like early morning vinyl, I suddenly feel
inspired to roll my window down and bob my head gently back and forth
while watching downtown Grand Rapids wake up from behind the sunglasses
I just picked up off the car floor. I am boyfriend. I am young. I suppose,
I am happy too.
She drops me behind a bakery across the street from my place of employment.
I open the lid to the bakery’s trash receptacle and chose the cleanest
looking bunch of long-johns among the dozens of donuts freshly tossed
away. They’re still warm. VISTA life is good…long-john good.
With a handful of long-johns, I walk into the Grand Rapids Community
Media Center, a community technology center that provides low-cost,
no-cost access to video, Internet, and radio equipment. The brightly
colored walls and the original 1912 incandescent lamps greet me as I
pass by Lillie the cheery receptionist who sits typing today’s
memos.
Taking a seat at my computer workstation, I see a long list emails yet
to be read. Let’s see, 3 from some Melissa Daigle, 2 from a Matthew
Crichton, 2 from Peter Miller, 2 from Karen Zgoda, 4 from a Liz Barnes.
Who are these people? And why do they keep emailing me? I read through
them, anyway, just to see what those Boston folks are up to. The stillness
of the office before my CTC open its doors to the public is priceless.
Then PLOW! The doors swing open and here comes the public, arms waving,
computers crashing, cameras breaking, normal folks clashing with the
high technology. My VISTA training suddenly sets in and 4 years of film/video
schooling begins to pay off. I am restarting computers, recovering lost
footage, locating lost files, rescanning images at the proper resolution,
showing people the restroom, directing folks to other office areas,
listening to stories about lost jobs, lay-offs, promotions, families
and marriages gone awry, divorces, medications (or lack thereof), camera
accidents, computer fritzes, deadlines, mishaps, successes and failures.
I am IT man. I am counselor. I am professional public relations man.
I am non-gender bias. So, I am professional public relations person.
I am an Americorps*VISTA volunteer.
Brown bag lunch comes and goes. More lost footage, more audio tracks
missing from the final video, more stories of discontent and triumph
fill my afternoon at the Grand Rapids Community Media Center. I have
yet to clear my inbox of VISTA listserv emails, when I receive a couple
more requesting I get to work on my VISTA website. I mark it “unread”
and move it to my “to do” folder and begin working on updating
the CMC’s website. I create a .PDF here, write a blurb there, respond
to a “feedback” email, and scan a couple photos to be posted
for all to see. Then I start feverishly sorting out and editing stories
that will be placed in our quarterly newsletter “Catalyst,”
weeding out those that will end up in our more timely electronic newsletter
“e-Catalyst.” I reschedule appointments, tours, and speaking
engagements for my Executive Director, pretending to be well dressed
on the phone with other ED’s and their Administrative Assistants.
I am print editor. I am desktop publisher. I am graphic designer. I
am writer. I am a poorly dressed Executive Assistant. I am an Americorps*VISTA
volunteer.
Closing time comes. I grab my VISTA sack and hit the streets, leaving
8 emails, three video projects, and some stale chips (and a cup of warm
water) for tomorrow. I walk past the new 150 million dollar DeVos Convention
Center under construction, noticing the picketing construction worker
whose sign on a pole reads, “better wages, more benefits, less
hours!” We snicker at each other because yesterday I walked the
beat with him, waving the sign at the disinterested passing cars. I
felt some sort of solidarity with him.
I put my headphones on to help the time pass on the hour walk home,
stopping by Kinko’s to pick up some free coffee. I yank the long-john
out of my VISTA sack, take a healthy bite, and watch the world go by
as I walk. I am young. I make poverty wages. I am rich. I am an Americorps*VISTA
volunteer.
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