My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie If I hadn't lost my job, I wouldn't be in this situation right now, trying to figure out how I ended up working at the same drugstore I had dawdled at for so many years as a kid and beyond. The same drugstore that was owned by the same Schmidt Randall - or the guy with the reversed name, as my friends called - and he was still alive and grunting and dragging his leg behind him and letting his cane do the work. I was a bagger, a shelver, a stocker, and a driver, depending on the week. This week was another bagging week, and I had to endure the constant bright smiles and questions from my former teachers, neighbors, and classmates' parents as they recognized me and welcomed me back to my hometown and wanted to know every single, solitary thing about me and how was it that I looked somewhat different these days. I just answered in brief sentences, shoved bottles of ibuprofen and giant jugs of Pepsi into paper bags, and waved halfheartedly as they walked...

I found three of my least impressive artworks hanging in the large gallery, and everyone seemed to adore them. Of course, as they flocked around the rope separating them from the glaring, sloppy canvasses, they all had something different to say about it. For one of my lackluster paintings, one man thought it was a portrayal of a dystopian America. His friend had sharply scoffed, "Oh, you mean like the America we live in now?" They could think all they wanted about the paintings. I was blissfully indifferent.

Christ. Talk about a week. I'm sure everyone and her grandma knows how shitty the U.S. government situation is. It's enough to make you want to throw a brick through the Capitol Building windows. And of course, it's driven my anxiety levels up quite a bit, realizing that my Congress isn't even capable of doing the most mundane tasks in office because they're so bitterly divided and polarized. But this is politics, and as much as I'm involved in politics...I hate politics. So moving on. My anxiety has been worse the past few days, not helped by my country's dilemma. And of course, it's lowered my mood substantially and made me feel sort of hopeless. I finished up my temporary job, and I was really sad to leave that office because the people working there were extraordinary despite the repetitive and demanding nature of the work. Now I have been offered a job at a large retail store...basically doing what I did for three months back in 2008. I don...

Shortly after coming out as a lesbian to my family and friends, I was encouraged by a university colleague to submit a guest article to Chapman University's newspaper, The Panther. The following was published on February 19th, 2011. I still have the actual newspaper with this article in it. Rainbow On My Sleeve by Belinda Roddie Members of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer or questioning, intersex and ally (LGBTQIA) community have a lot of heavy tales to tell. Most revolve around the pressure of exposing one’s true sexuality, usually in front of disapproving peers or family members. We hear a lot about abuse, murders and suicides when it comes to LGBTQIA issues. These are very real problems that need addressing. It took me nine years to come out, but I can safely say I have no sob stories to tell except my own inner turmoil. But does that mean I’m one of only a lucky few? Not necessarily. There are a lot more happy homosexuals and transgenders around than yo...

"These are the Halloween decorations?" asked my manager, wrinkling her nose as she folded her arms across her green polo. "Er, yeah," I replied, gesturing at the orange and black streamers accompanied by paper Jack-o-Lanterns and stringy spider webs. "It's all I found in the stock room." "Yeah, they're not as festive as I hoped," my manager replied. She exhaled. "Yep, we need an upgrade. Scott! Gregory! We've got an emergency situation!"

The Tailor's Wife Had Measles by Belinda Roddie The tailor's wife had measles while he worked feverishly on the earl's new but long coat. The earl was rather diminutive, so he did not like it when his tails dragged across the pavement as he walked. So as his poor wife stayed in bed, a rash across her perspiring face, the tailor cut, trimmed, and hemmed all night, sewing up the new ends of the fine coat. He did not come up to the bedroom with a pot of tea, nor sing a crooner's tune to comfort his wife so ill. But then he found the earl sitting next to the poor girl next morning. "Why?" he cried. "She needed attention!" the earl replied.

Here's to hoping, really. Hoping that the country will get back on its feet. Hoping that some of its leaders will learn that compassion is stronger than determination and stubbornness. Hoping that a discount beer goes a long way to help those crumpled like paper under a pretty fragile system of governing. Really, hope is the only thing we can cling to. With hope, we can progress individually. Even if we have to leave the limping politicians by the side of the road.