Mr. Miyagi and Me

In high school, I wasn’t allowed to work. “You take care of the grades, and I’ll pay the freight,” my dad told me. So it went. Working for a livin’ (I should have listened to Huey), allured me, the dollar signs dancing in my head.

What I couldn’t know then, I understood later. My early jobs, a hodgepodge of experiences, served me like the sensei from Karate Kid. You recall Mr. Miyagi, right? He was the mentor to young Daniel, the victim of bullies. He taught his young charge with unconventional methods. Paint the fence. Wax on, wax off. Breathe. The seemingly random tasks produced the core of skills Daniel needed. (Revisit the moment!)

During my time at Merced JC, I worked banquets at Rancho Del Rey. Some Fridays and Saturdays found me washing dishes in the back, sweeping, mopping, cleaning bits of prime rib from the meat slicer. I began working to earn money, but it’s not what kept me there. Beth was the waitress for the banquets. Young and energetic, we conversed about all aspects of life. She was newly married, the first friend I knew who crossed that river. I had wrongly believed jobs were all about making money. The people you work with are the most important thing.

Job #2 was at a Denny’s in Bloomingdale, IL. I washed dishes. Lots and lots of dishes. Waitresses brought me plastic bins stacked with plates, half-eaten food swimming in a pool of chocolate milk and Coke. I’d extract the dishes and utensils, spray scalding hot water to rinse them, and run them through the giant dishwasher. On the other side, I grabbed the white hot plates and glasses, returning them to the cooks. What did they do? They filled them with food and drink, so waitresses could bring them back so I could clean them again. It was Sisyphus and the rock. I worked one eight-hour shift, ate my free meal (which I didn’t clean), and resigned. Quitting doesn’t equal failure.

Later, as an impoverished college student in Fullerton, I subsisted mostly on Top Ramen, tuna, and leftover donuts from a friend who worked at Winchell’s. I knew a guy who worked odd jobs, random opportunities to earn ready money. What I didn’t understand then was the employer paid us under the table cash to avoid paying union workers. Several times, Jeff and I drove to downtown LA and, under the cover of darkness, climbed to the top of office buildings. We wrapped industrial air conditioners in wet cloths, a process called “airballing.” Then we snuck downstairs and ran back to his car. We also cleaned out apartments, again secretly, where tenants had been evicted or left suddenly. Though my dad sent me money to live, this was different. Money earned bring satisfaction; it’s better than money given.

Proving I can spend more than a day at a job, I worked a summer at Medinah Country Club. It’s a fancy pants place with three golf courses and members who pay buckets of money for a high-end golf experience. Maintaining the grounds is of supreme importance. To the Mexican laborers trusted with that task (and who lived on the back of the course for the entire golf season), I was the el novato, the rook with no experience. They were very kind to me. I learned how to cut cups and weed-eat around the edge of a pond, always keeping one eye out for stray golf shots. One day, I was finishing raking a bunker when a couple guys pulled up in a Cushman. Sweat-soaked and exhausted, I thought they were going to correct my technique. Instead, Jose sidled up to me and laid a hand on my shoulder. He said with a smile, “Slow down, kid. It’s a long day.” Then, they drove away. Work hard in the moment, but never lose sight of the big picture.

After graduating from CSU Fullerton in ’82, I needed a job. I found one at Insight For Living, laboring in the warehouse where the orders were filled and mailed out. At that time, IFL had a mailing list of over 500,000. At first the work was simple. We filled envelopes, bundled magazines, worked the conveyer belt kicking off the latest study guide. I was grunt labor. One day, Rick pulled me aside and told me he wanted to train me as a Machine Operator. To say I’m not mechanically inclined is a massive understatement. “Do you also teach penguins to be ballerinas?” I asked Rick. Neither amused nor deterred, he began to mentor me. By the time I left in ’85, I was a Machine Operator III, able to set up and run Pitney-Bowes labelers and inserters for everything in the warehouse. The pay raise was pretty sweet too. Getting outside my comfort zone takes me places I never imagined.

I had a thirty-three year run at Wheeling High School, teaching and coaching in large part because of the lessons I learned in my younger days. I didn’t know while working odd jobs that I was training for a career in education. When I began in 1985, I was raw but equipped with all I needed.

I remain friends with many former colleagues, fantastic folks, because The people you work with are the most important thing.

I coached Girl’s Golf for a few seasons and stopped to save my energy and sanity because Quitting doesn’t equal failure.

I’m enormously proud of providing for my family (along with Melanie’s income) because Money earned bring satisfaction; it’s better than money given.

For over three decades, I successfully navigated the marathon of a school year, 185 days of instruction remembering always to Work hard in the moment, but never lose sight of the big picture.

Despite never participating in the event as a student, I accepted a the role of Head Debate Coach at WHS, a position I held for my entire tenure. Later, I took on the challenge of AP Lit teacher, despite NOT having a degree in English. Both positions came with a massive learning curve. For both, I had tremendous mentors. Most importantly, both choices fundamentally changed me, all because Getting outside my comfort zone takes me places I never imagined.

In my mind’s eye, I can see Mr. Miyagi smiling.