You're Never Too Good For Anything

Yesterday, I read this post from the group Humans of Salt Lake City:

As I was reading it, it made me think of a very similar situation I went through in 2009 and a lesson my dad taught me that has stuck with me since then.

In January of 2009, I became a full-time reporter for my college newspaper. I didn't make a lot of money, but it was enough to get by. I had returned home from my LDS mission the previous October and had never worked for the newspaper before, which is why, in May 2009, I was shocked to learn we didn't print over the summer and I would, thus, not be paid for three months. My girlfriend (now wife) and I had been talking about getting married in the fall, and zero income doesn't pay for a ring and wedding expenses. I was planning on going to law school right after college, so I applied to at least 20 law firms in Salt Lake City for a runner/secretarial position just to get something on my resume.

At the time, I had served a mission to Italy, I had a good GPA, I was a reporter for a newspaper, I was president of my fraternity, and was involved in lots of groups on campus. At the time, I thought I was a shoo-in for any of these jobs. I was arrogant. After applying, I started setting up interviews. I interviewed with at least five firms; I interviewed with one three times, and even met with a couple partners. I thought for sure I would get the job. I didn't. At this point, it was a week before my paychecks would stop and I needed to find something. I began applying everywhere and couldn't get anything. I was shocked that nobody would hire a perfect candidate like me.

My dad's friend had, as a side job, aerated lawns for years, but was too busy at his regular job to do it, so my dad convinced him to let me do it and keep 60% of the profits. It wasn't a lot, but it was something. Finally, I wasn't going to be able to pay my rent, so I had to do something. A friend recommended that I apply to be a security guard for the Real Salt Lake games, where he worked. Initially, I scoffed at that idea because, thanks to generous family friends, I usually was able to sit in very nice seats at RSL games. If I took that job, it would have been a demotion. But, I figured that was flexible and would hold me over until I found a "real job." The company e-mailed me and invited me to an interview at Rio Tinto Stadium. As with all interviews, I dressed in a suit and had extra resumes on hand just in case.

When I arrived, I was the only person not wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I had been bearing the stress of the situation pretty well until this point, but something inside me snapped. I was too good for this. I was better than all these other people. I was too good for minimum wage. They called my name and instead of the conference room where all my other interviews took place, this was in a big room where 15 or 20 interviews were simultaneously taking place. My interviewer looked at my resume and complimented me on how impressive it was. "Thanks, but it hasn't done my any good," I thought. I remember he asked me all the stupid interview questions that assess nothing, like what is my greatest weakness. "I just care too much." "I'm a perfectionist." "I'm lying to you, sir." At the end of the interview, I remember him saying, "Well, I think you're pretty qualified. So, we're going to offer you the position."

That hit me hard. I wanted to say to him, "You're damn right I'm qualified. I'm too qualified. I shouldn't even be here." He offered me minimum wage. I had never worked for minimum wage, even as a teenager. It was insulting. I thanked him for his time and told him I'd look forward to his e-mail. As I walked out past the denim-wearing masses, I was angry. I was pissed. I didn't deserve this. I was too good for this. I got into my car and drove away, embarrassed. I met my girlfriend to eat. As we were sitting in the restaurant (a fast-casual place, so no wait staff), I became more and more emotional about the situation. Finally, I felt like I was going to have a breakdown, so I bolted out of the restaurant. My girlfriend followed me and we went and sat in her car. I lost it completely. My wife will tell you that I never cry - not for lack of trying, I just think I'm broken. I cried. I ugly cried. I cried so hard I heaved.

I was angry at the situation. I was angry at myself. I was angry that I had to take a job that was below me. I was angry that I couldn't afford to buy her an engagement ring. I was angry that life wasn't working out how I planned. I was just angry.

After I calmed down, I got into my car and headed home. On the way, I called my dad and told him that I got the job. I told him it was minimum wage. I told him I was embarrassed. I told him I was better than that. He then asked me, "Are you going to take the job?" I told him I had to, because I didn't have any other options. He then said something to me that I haven't forgotten: "Son, I'm proud of you because you're willing to do whatever it takes to support your new family, even if that means making minimum wage."

I was immediately embarrassed for how I had acted. I had been arrogant, selfish, and self-pitying. I should have been grateful that I had found a job, but instead I was angry that it was below me. I was acting like a child.

As luck would have it, a fraternity brother's mom managed an Applebee's, so I was able to leverage that into a job. People laugh when I say it, but I loved that job. At the end of the summer, I was promoted to Assistant News Editor and was able to earn more money and a scholarship at the newspaper. It all worked out in the end.

I never worked a single shift as a security guard for minimum wage, but it taught me an invaluable lesson about life: that nobody is too good for anything. I'm grateful that my dad a perspective much wiser than mine and was able to expose my arrogance and knock me down a couple notches.

Dad Would Agree

Double Feature!

I LOVE MOVIES. It's a fact. I love going to movies. I love watching movies. I love being in the theater. I love the stupid factoids you see before the previews start. I love the atmosphere. I love putting my feet on the seat in front of me and kicking back. I love the previews. I really love the previews.

I'm pretty sure this can all be traced back to how much fun I had going to the movies with my family when I was younger, but especially when I went to the movies with my dad, just him and me. When I was younger, 11 years old to be exact, they built the Century 16 theater in Salt Lake City, and it was magnificent. Back then, pretty much all theaters had a few screens (most less than 10) and were very small in scale, but Century 16 blew that open. It was like Disneyland for the moviegoer. There were tons of screens and the concession stand was bigger and more vast than most third-world countries; to an 11-year-old, it was cinematic Mecca.

I distinctly remember one Saturday, my dad took me to see a movie in the morning. I don't remember what we saw, but it must have been something really awesome because, being really awesome ourselves, we only saw really awesome movies. I digress. We loaded up on our concessions and took in a movie. The best part of Century 16 was that the armrests went up, so during the movie, my dad would rub my neck and back and the experience would become exponentially better.

As we were leaving the theater, my dad looked at his phone and saw that my mom had called. He listened to her voicemail and his face dropped. She informed him that she had a "to-do list" waiting for us at home. Now, it's important to note that this is around the time my mom was in charge of Primary during church - where the kids aging from 2 to 12 went during Sunday School, i.e. hell on earth - because her "to-do" lists were actually disguised "I'm-gonna-want-to-punch-myself-in-the-neck-by-the-end-of-this" lists that included a myriad of projects ranging from setting up hundreds of chairs to crafts to gluing crap to just about everything you don't want to do on a Saturday.

So, after listening to the voicemail, my dad looked at me in the lobby of the theater and asked if I wanted to see another movie. Of course, upon hearing of the unfortunate fate awaiting me at home, I kindly obliged his request. We got our tickets, went to concessions for Round #2, and went and saw "The Siege" with Denzel Washington. I remember not understanding a whole lot - it was about terrorist cells, but the whole time I thought they were talking about literal prison cells, so it didn't make sense when they talked about the insurgents moving their cells - but I do remember that it was the BEST.MOVIE.EVER. To this day, it's the only double-feature I've ever experienced in a regular theater - the drive-in shows two movies together, but the environment's completely different - but I might have to encore it pretty soon.

The last movie I ever saw with my dad was on Christmas Eve in 2010. We went to Century 16 for old times' sake, but the movie was sold out, so we hustled to another theater to make the show time. We saw the re-make of "True Grit" and it was awesome. The movie was alright, but it was like I was 12 again, just hanging out with dad.

Happy Birthday

Today is my dad's birthday, and it's the first one since he passed away. It's a bit tough to concentrate today, especially since it's the third day of school and my students are going a million miles a minute.

In 2006, I left for my religious mission to Italy on August 9, which was the day after his 46th birthday. I remember sitting in the Missionary Training Center when I realized that, in preparing for my two-year departure, my whole family had been so focused on my needs, that my dad's birthday was pushed to the wayside and nearly, if not entirely, forgotten.

As we stood up to say our goodbyes, I gave him a hug and apologized that I had taken up all of the day and we hadn't focused on his birthday. He hugged me tighter and said to me, "This is the best birthday present I could have ever received. I'm the proudest dad in the world and would give up all my birthdays for this."

It may seem inconsequential to most, but it meant the world to me. Now, I'd give up all my birthdays just to have him back.

Happy 51st Pops.

Trent.

Got Jesus?

When I was 16 years old, my sister, Christi, was 20 and was going through an atheist or agnostic period of her life and wanted absolutely nothing to do with any religion, God, Jesus, or anything of the sort. This info will come in handy later.

Along with her dislike of religious things, apparently she hated WD-40, oil changes, car washes and windshield wipers, too. Her Jeep Wrangler, purchased less than two years prior, was in a sad, pathetic state because Christi is notorious for running her cars into their early graves.

She was having trouble with something in her steering mechanism, so she asked if my dad and I would take a look and help her out. We agreed. Saturday morning arrived and Christi showed up at the house with her friend, Chance, driving behind her in his car. She walked in, gave us the keys and said, "Thanks guys, I'll be back later to pick it up."

"What?" my dad responded, irritated but not surprised. "You're not staying to help us fix your car?"

"Why would I stay?" she asked.

"Because it's your car!"

"But we already made plans. Sorry. See ya!"

And off she went, leaving us with her mess to clean up. Like I mentioned before, she never used to take care of her cars, so of course nothing went according to plan. We tried to get her tire off, but it was so rusted on from years of neglect that not even our most powerful tools could get it off. We ended up taking it to a tire store to try their luck. After 20 minutes, they determined the lugnuts would have to be cut off and the studs replaced. Figures. We then went to Autozone to buy new studs. While we were standing in line, I decided to rummage through the 99-cent bin that's filled with crap they can't otherwise sell.

And then I spotted my sweet revenge for my sister's abandonment. The perfect bumper sticker.

I showed my dad and you could tell we were thinking the exact same thing. When we finally finished her car seven hours later, we added the finishing touch. We attached the sticker to her bumper to inquire of those driving behind her if they, too, "had jesus." We drove it back home and Christi never noticed.

Until three days later.

I remember it was a sunny day and I was standing in the kitchen getting a drink. That's when I heard Christi barrel into the driveway going 30 mph and I saw her slam her door with a hellish scowl  on her face. I looked immediately at her bumper and the sticker was gone.

"Oh. No. Here. It. Comes."

Quickly, I thought of escaping, but it was too late, she had already seen me. She threw open the door.

"What in the HELL is this?!" She held up the sticker. I felt the obligation to stand my ground, to take responsibility for my prank, to be a man. But my heart didn't communicate with my mouth quickly enough.

"I don't even know. Dad did it."

Betrayer! Traitor! Saboteur!

But my treason may have saved my life that day. She stormed downstairs to my dad's office and I heard my dad start laughing. Then I saw Christi fly up the stairs.

"You blame him! He blames you! I guess it magically showed up then!"

And with that, she was gone. Apparently, she didn't find the joke as funny as we did.

The Guys' Spot

If I learned anything from my dad, it was a love for cars - all types. When we would drive together, he would always point out cool cars and tell me some interesting fact or tidbit he knew about it. I remember one Sunday, when I was really young, he took me up to the Concours d'Elegance car show at the University of Utah. I had no idea what it was, but I remembered the cool posters from past car shows my dad had hung up in our garage. Plus, I got out of going to church, so life was good.

Anyway, that love of cars stuck with me as I grew older and could finally work on them with my dad. We rented out a double storage unit and converted it into an auto shop. It was somewhere we could go to hang out and get away from the girls. It was definitely a man zone - we'd work on cars and get greasy, then stop for dinner and eat with greasy hands. We didn't care, we were men!

My dad and I would go there often just to spend time together. We would work on cars, but, more importantly, it gave us a chance to talk and really know each other during my teenage years when it's so easy to drift apart. It was there that we talked about high school and its ups and downs. It was there that he prodded me for details about my first kiss. It was there that we talked about college and my future and girls and dating and love and cars and people we hate and people we love and how can I listen to crappy music nowadays and how hot Kate Beckinsale was and how hot Olivia Newton John wasn't (much to my father's shagrin). I took girlfriends there, I spent time alone there, I studied for AP exams there.

It was a special place and I miss it. And I miss him.

No Football For This Guy

My parents never allowed me to play football, much to the shagrin of myself and my uncle, who protested strongly and made every case for its ultimate benefit in my life. Every year, the arguments would begin anew with the additional evidence that I was then a year older than the last discussion. Yet, year after year, my parents displayed a unified front against the pigskin and I was never placed in pads.

At the time, it seemed as though both my mom and dad were conspiring against me, both with an eye toward ruining my entire childhood experience, or so I thought. I could not understand it. "Dad," I would plead internally, "what about the 'man code?' Why are you siding with a girl over me?" Albeit that girl was my mother and his wife. In my 8-year-old world of mutual exclusivity where boys ruled and girls drooled, I couldn't understand my father's treason. What did Cindy - my mother who lost that title of respect when she decided to start destroying my paternal alliances - have on him? What didn't I know? There had to be more to the story. My world was collapsing around me. If the "man code" was no longer applicable, what else wasn't true? Is my name really Trent? Am I even your son?! Do I even exist?!!

"We don't want you to get hurt."

And there it was: the eternal parent's response. I felt just like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" when his parents deny him a Red Ryder BB Gun because they fear that he'll "shoot his eye out." What fatalists. That's a quitter's attitude. Yes, I could get hurt playing football, but I could also contract pneumonia and have my toes turn black and crash into the Andes Mountains and have the entire Argentinian Rugby team eat me, too. It's true. I read it. In a book. Look it up. Their reasoning was severely flawed, so I decided it was my job, no, it was my duty to set them straight. In that I was the smartest 8-year-old I knew, I decided to present them with reasoning so sound that nobody could deny it.

"No."

Well, they didn't have to be so brutal about it.

"We signed you up for soccer."

"Soccer? But I want to hit people."

Apparently, my motives weren't pure enough for them. Their move proved very wise because soccer became my life and I'm grateful they signed me up despite my protestations. As I grew older, it became clear that my dad wasn't a sworn enemy of football. He played football in high school. He loved football. He even snuck me out of church one Sunday per year just so I could watch the pre-game show for the Superbowl.

I wondered for years why my dad was against me playing football, but I think I've begun to understand now that I'm married: my mom was against me playing football. I'm sure my mom had serious reservations about my participation in football because she had seen too many injuries and didn't want me to get hurt. Understandable. I wonder if my dad wanted me to play, or at least was not opposed to it. Either way, one thing was clear: he loved my mom. He loved her enough to betray the "man code" he so cherished; he stuck by my mom unconditionally so that it wasn't my mom who appeared to be the bad guy.*

And that's the kind of person he was: unceasingly loyal. It was one of his greatest traits, even if it meant I never played football.

60DL12

*this conclusion is purely my opinion of events; none of this has been verified or corroborated by my mother, nor will it ever be because I refuse to fraternize with unreasonable opponents of brute violence and inflicted pain - who does she think she is to sabotage the "man code"?