This Life of Hats

I have worn many a hat in my 27 years. Much like a child, I feel as though it is quite necessary to point out to you that I am, in fact, almost 28! In my, almost, three decades (GOOD GOD) of life, I have been blessed, and cursed, with the talents of a chameleon.

My first hat was dirty, void of proper language skills and quite prone to the dark side of the day. I speak, of course, of the restaurant industry. I waited tables at 16. I was privy to a million jokes and words that most 16 year olds would still attribute to a foreign language. I worked under chefs that would have been arrested were they not garbed in (formerly) white coats and tall, starched hats. The waitresses were of a completely different species of woman than any I had ever met and the preps were much more likely to be cutting up some random drug than the daily salad. I learned to be hard, to not take things so seriously, to laugh something off when every fiber within me cried out for retribution. I learned that hierarchy was more about how fun you were than how long you had worked or what your title was. One could own a business and still occupy the lowest rung on the "coolness" ladder. I picked up bad habits that will never serve me in the normal working world. Thank God I will never be in the normal working world. My short time in the restaurant industry opened up a world that one is better off knowing about. Some would say that it was a bit of a street education. I would say that it was one of the most fascinating times of my life. I decided then and there that I will forever love the human condition.

My second hat matched the sweater vest and green carpet that the stereotype carried along with it. To the outside world, I worked with freaks, weirdoes, murderers, drug addicts, alcoholics, the unwanted. To those that now inhabited my new world, I worked with what we were all a simple missed neuron fire away from becoming. I counseled the mentally ill. I began at the bottom, when I was 18, and I worked my way up. Through almost all of my future hats, I would still wear this one, be it secretly or out in the open. I saw crisis the likes of which I could never imagine. I held those that had no hope, trying my best to comfort the sobbing and troubled thoughts. With one hand I would stroke the back of the poor soul now leaning on me as their last shred of faith threatened to give way. With the other hand, I used every ounce of my strength to bear down on the bath towel, quickly soaking with blood, wrapped around the gaping wrist wound. My voice would be both calming and commanding as I assured them that everything would be OK in one breath and ordered an ambulance with the next. I watched as those without any care left in them came through our door, then two weeks later, they would leave, happy, healthy, ready to battle what life had to throw their way. I lost a few, those who chose to take a path without calling for help, but I saved so many. The human condition, of which I thought that I had learned so much, was on stark display during my decade of wearing this hat.

My third hat was tall, black and smelled of roses. My work with those in crisis caused my heart to turn to those that would need me most. My next hat brought me into the world of the bereaved. I worked for one year as an assistant funeral director. The beautiful home in which so many lives came and went became so familiar to me. I went to work with certain expectations, brought forth by TV, movies and books. I came home from work completely baffled, unsure of how the creators of those pieces of entertainment could have ever come up with those generalities. There was no pale, old, creepy skeleton of a man wringing his hands behind a dark window, sizing those up for coffins as they walked by. There was no crazy uncle who could put a lightbulb into his mouth and have it ignite; there was neither demonic horse nor ominous room full of unworldly instruments. There was simply a home, a mansion to be exact. Within this home worked six men and two women, none any scarier than the next. The owner was a warm and inviting individual, willing to give of the vast knowledge that life had brought his way. The mourning was real, but not unhealthy and the job was rather fun. I saw things that I am thankful for. I know the inner workings of a funeral home. I know that it is not as horrid as once believed. However, the car, I must say, is completely amazing.

My fourth hat was shaped as though it fell from a Picasso and it came with a set of wings. Throughout my life, I had marveled at the sky and at the steel birds that muscled through it. I had promised myself that one day, I too would fly. When I first entered the cockpit of a Cessna 172, I had never flown before in my life. Now, having never left the ground, I began the jog down the checklist, preparing to pilot this bird to over 1,000 feet. That checklist yet remains with me, hanging just there, upon my office wall. It is turned to its back, where the procedures for takeoff begin. Each time that I gaze upon it, I am reminded of the bolt of electricity that flowed through my being, striking my very core, as I gently pulled the stick back and felt myself escape the surly bonds of earth. I look at it and remember my first lesson in stalls and how much I loved them. Not engine stalls, mind you, those are supremely easy to handle as one simply becomes a glider. Wing stalls. A wing stall is when the plane is taking action that causes the wings to lose their lift and the plane comes falling out of the sky. We would do this on purpose, fighting the controls, forcing the plane to climb, climb, climb until the climbing stopped and it began to fall. Through a quick little set of movements, one is able to regain lift quite easily, but the feeling of free fall, however brief, is simply beyond description.

My fifth hat resembled my fourth in shape and shine, but this one came with a gun. As many young boys do, I toyed with the notion of being a cop. For two years in fact, I toyed. I saw humanity at its very worst. I fought, I arrested, I handed out tickets, I sped after, I crept up on and I was called every name in the book. For two years I dealt with the fact that whenever I arrived to work, no one, aside from my friends in blue, would want to see me, after all, does anyone ever want to see a cop? The job was exciting, tedious, nerve wracking and boring beyond all measure. I loved it and I hated it and I loved it some more. After a time, I began to grow weary of the fights, the names, the lies, the time wasted on hopeless cases. The novelty of being behind that big badge on the door and those flashing lights wore off and I moved on, unsure of where to go, but knowing that I was worlds stronger having spent that short time behind the star.

My sixth hat is one that I continue to shape daily. I draw upon all of my life experiences, some listed here, some not. I put pen to paper, the only thing that I seem to be good at, and went out in search of a story. Well, I found one. I was soon employed by three newspapers and a men´s magazine. My stories ranged from the local Christmas decoration competition to sitting down with John McCain and Mitt Romney. After a time that I thought would be spent picking up the pieces of a life shattered by chasing some damn fool dream, I continue to write, and I continue to put on new hats.

My story is not unique. I now wear the hat of freelancer and volunteer. At Safe Passage (safepassage.org) in Antigua and Guatemala City, Guatemala, every volunteer has a past that glistens with hope, opportunity and the vibrations of a good tale worth the telling. Life beckons us, be it from afar or screaming in our ear whilst twisting our arm. At Safe Passage, one can continue, or begin, their own story.

I imagine myself in a city. I am standing in my apartment high above the city streets. I am gazing out of my window at the night as the lights paint a canvas of perfect upon my retinas. I am old, not alone, loved and successful. I have my hands in my pockets and Sinatra on the stereo, or whatever music will be produced from then. I wear the wrinkles of a million miles and a billion adventures. My head seems a bit more shaped by the many hats it has worn since my days in Guatemala. My face is hard, but my eyes twinkle with anticipation. I still draw breath, I still control the road. I am thinking of Safe Passage, and the lessons that it has taught, the lives I have changed. I know that life is still out there, that many more hats have yet to be worn. I grab my coat from its post and head out to try one on.