Fast Food Lessons

I admit that I was a little aggravated last Friday as I stood in line to place my order at McDonald’s in Indio, California. I had stopped by the fast food restaurant on my way to Laughlin, Nevada, which is about a three-hour drive from my home in Palm Desert, California. I had a simple plan. I would leave my apartment at 8 am and be in Laughlin around 11:30. I decided to stop for breakfast along the way.

Instead of sitting in the long line at the drive-thru, I decided to go inside the restaurant. I was third in line behind a family of five and two elderly gentlemen. I didn’t think this would be a problem. It shouldn’t take me long to get my food and then I could be on my way. There were a few problems though. First, the three children in the family couldn’t decide what they wanted to eat. I tried to keep myself calm but I couldn’t help emitting a few dramatic sighs. My right foot began to tap in a steady loud beat upon the floor. After a few minutes of deliberation, the family finally came to an agreement and placed their order.

Finally, the two elderly men stepped up to the counter. The cashier, who looked to be about seventeen-years-old, took their order and then told the men the price of their meal. “That’s not right,” one of the men started screaming. “You’re over charging me. There’s no way in hell that can be more than 10 dollars.” When my rolling eyes finally settled back down into my face, I looked at the young clerk, and suddenly felt tears threatening to fall. I watched the young girl’s hands shake and heard her voice quiver as she went back over the order with the two men. It all became rather confusing as the two men continued to yell and berate the young woman as she tried to help them.

I suddenly saw myself so many years ago. My first job was at a McDonald’s in Kansas City, Kansas. I remember days when I went home in tears because of the vicious words and hateful attitudes of some of the customers. Now, my heart was breaking for this young woman who was just trying to do her job. I felt really ashamed of my own impatience then and took deep breaths to adjust my own attitude as I watched the young cashier bravely try to work with the two men. Finally, one of the managers came up to help and the situation was settled.

I walked up to the counter then and said hello before placing my order. Then as I paid for my food, I whispered to the cashier that she was doing a great job. She smiled at me for just a moment and then bit her lip as shook her head. I stepped away then and stood off to the side as I waited for my food to arrive.

The two elderly men’s order was ready first. I watched as they stepped back up to the counter and then yelled at the young clerk because the order wasn’t correct. The two men laughed to each other and whispered loudly words like “idiot” and “stupid.”

As one of the men walked by me, he stated, “Stupid people here don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Well, you could have a better attitude!” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I had shocked myself by answering back to him.

“What did you say?” the man suddenly leaned towards me menacingly. “What did you say to me?”

And I said it again. “You could have a better attitude!”

He stared at me for just a moment before shouting, “You try standing in line for 15 minutes and see how you feel.”

He turned to walk away from me as I stated, “I just did. I was standing behind you! I heard every mean word you said. You didn’t have to be so hateful!”

I don’t know if he had heard me because he was already walking to a table as I stepped up to the counter to get my order. I grabbed the bag, said thank you to the clerk, and walked away. I had to pass by the table where the two elderly men were sitting to get to the door. As I walked by I heard one of them muttering, “Damn stupid woman telling me I should have a better attitude.”

I didn’t say anything then, but I walked out of the restaurant with my head held high. A strange sort of energy suddenly filled me. In the past, I never would have said anything to anyone who was so abusive. I would have kept my head down. I would have run for cover. But, now…I am happy that I am beginning to find my own voice…not just for myself but for other people.

Advertisement

Angel In the Mirror

Because I felt the need to laugh
I bought myself a mirror
And every time I looked inside
An angel would appear

She had a halo of endless gold
And wings that shimmered with spring
And with every prayer I would say
She would start to sing

She sang to me of the universe
And blessings soon to come
And when I needed comfort
She would start to hum

She was my tender spirit
The other part of me
And I knew without a single word
That God has always loved me

And then one day to my dismay
My mirror began to crack
My angel flew out of the glass
I didn’t know if she’d be back

I cried that night because I thought
That I was all alone
But then I heard angelic voices
A choir of angels was in my home

The angels sang with all their might
And gave God’s word to me
“God is forever by your side
And shall always be

So don’t be sad if your mirror
Should suddenly fall apart
It had been just a reflection
Of what is in your heart

Travel with God by your side
And learn to have no fear
And when you need to have a laugh
Remember…
You are the angel in the mirror”

–Jamie Zunick

Finding Meaning in Las Vegas

Even though I’ve enjoyed traveling around the world, I have been thinking lately that it is time for me to settle down. I need to get married, have a family, own a home and, perhaps, a dog. I’ve never been married and, honestly, I don’t have a lot of faith that it’s a possibility for me. I’m not good at flirting. I am awkward and shy. I’ve always been an outsider. I don’t do well with social games. I always tend to lose.

But last weekend, I was determined to change all of that. I was taking a few days off to go to Las Vegas. I just knew that this was going to be a great weekend for me. I had fantasies that I was going to meet someone very special. I tend to attract more people when I go out of town than when I’m at home. That’s easy to understand though. When I’m in my home city, I run around in sweats, with no make-up and my hair is unkempt. It’s different when I go out of town. I tend to make an effort to make myself more attractive.

So last Saturday, while I was in Vegas, I woke up early and took my time fixing my hair and make-up. I put on a long skirt that makes me look taller. My 5’5” frame looked slimmed and stretched to at least 5’7. I felt great and attractive as I walked down the Vegas strip. I’ll admit I did a few tosses of my long curled copper red hair as I smiled beguilingly at the people walking around me. I even caught myself glancing every now and then at my reflection in the windows of the shops and restaurants as I passed by. I laughed and took pictures and just felt happy and attractive… until I reached one of the overhead pedestrian walkways that crossed over South Las Vegas Boulevard.

I decided not to take the escalator or elevator. I felt strong and healthy so I went bounding up the twelve concrete steps. I was near the top of the stairs when suddenly the front tip of the sandal on my right foot caught on the edge of the top step and I felt myself pitching forward.

I put out my hands but wasn’t able to stop myself. I fell forward onto my face but that wasn’t the end of this escapade. By the time it registered in my brain that I was always falling, I was already rolling down the steps. Within seconds, I found myself sprawled in a tangle of limbs and long full skirt on the corner of Aria and South Las Vegas Boulevard. I laid there for a moment burning with embarrassment in front of all of the people. Yet, I felt strangely alone. No one helped me up. No one asked me if I was okay. Then I opened my eyes to find a group of men standing on the corner pointing at me and laughing hysterically.

I looked down at the palms of my hands that were scrapped raw. My left foot felt twisted and bruised. My biggest concern though was my camera. The little bottom door of the camera laid open and the batteries were falling out. Amid the sounds of loud laughter and chattering voices, I pulled myself up from the ground and snapped my camera back together. Then, with as much dignity as I could muster, I began to walk back up the steps, moving slowly but with my head held high. I reached the top and continued my journey down the strip still feeling my body tingling with embarrassment. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have been strutting. I shouldn’t have been feeling so proud and pleased with myself. I should have known I was going to crash for being so…

“Hey, hey, Red,” I suddenly heard a voice call. “Hey, Red!” I looked away from my thoughts now and noticed a homeless man standing directly in front of me. He was wearing torn denim shorts and a stained brown plaid button door shirt that was hanging open to display his thin bony chest. His long hair was clumped together with dirt and his long goatee was braided to a point at his chin. “Oh, God,” I groaned inwardly as my body still ached from the fall, “what now?”
“This is for you, Red,” the man said as he suddenly turned and jumped onto a short concrete pillar. He sat on the pillar as the fountains of the Bellagio Hotel suddenly burst into action. Large streams of water suddenly sprayed up and danced in time to the music from Phantom of the Opera.

The homeless man didn’t miss a single movement or beat as he waved his hands around in time to the music. I was suddenly captivated by this man, drawn helplessly into his fantasy. As I watched his movements, I truly believed he was conducting a massive water orchestra. Every few seconds, the man turned around and smiled at me as I stood on the sidewalk. At the end of the performance, he jumped down off the pillar and bowed elegantly to me before taking his place again on the sidewalk with the rest of the people who were begging for handouts. I smiled then as I walked down the strip to the Mirage Hotel.

Once inside the Secret Garden, I stood before the cage of the white tigers. Two of the tigers were perched up on a low tree branch as they lazily passed away the sunny afternoon. One of the tigers was staring directly at me. I was so mesmerized by this creature, I couldn’t turn away. I felt so connected to this amazing animal as we continued to make direct contact. The whole universe existed within his round dark eyes. “It’s the hair,” I suddenly heard a voice say. I turned around to look at the trainer who was standing next to me. The young man smiled at me and said, “The tiger is fascinated with your red hair.” I smiled then and felt a light blush tinge my cheeks as I slowly pulled myself away from the front of the cage.

I walked over to the dolphin habitat then. While most people were crowded around the large tank where several trainers were working with three dolphins, I stood next to the second smaller tank, playing with two young dolphins. I watched in awe as the animals jumped out of the water and spun in the air. Several times, the dolphins pushed their gray shiny bodies up on the dock directly in front of me. “See,” a trainer whispered from behind me, “they like you. They’re showing off for you.”

I was actually deeply happy then. I smiled with my heart because now I truly understood the purpose of this day. Maybe I was never meant to get married and settle down. Maybe I was never meant to have a husband and family. Maybe the dog and the house were out of my reach. My life consists instead of jumping dolphins, mesmerizing white tigers, and a homeless man who conducts water symphonies for me. My life is pure and joyful. I am truly blessed.

You’ve Got Hate Mail

I would be lying if I said it didn’t bother me.

A few weeks ago, I opened up my Twitter account and looked at the trending topics. One of the top three was the Miss America pageant that had just taken place the night before. I didn’t watch all of the pageant. Honestly, the production bored me so I flipped between channels for a while before finally deciding to watch the pageant’s talent portion and final crowning. The whole process seemed outdated and just plain sad.

But now, here I was on Twitter reading through some of the tweets that had already been posted. I “favorited” the comments that complained that the pageant did not represent minorities. I completely agreed. Maybe that’s why the pageant had seemed so tedious and obsolete to me. I decided to leave a post of my own.

I quickly wrote, “What year is this? Is America still really doing this? Pageant needs some serious updating! Lack of diversity is disturbing.”

I posted the tweet and didn’t think anything more about it. Though I was sincere in my words, it was just the Miss America pageant, after all. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what would happen next.

About a half hour after my tweet, I received a direct message. “Are you Jewish?”

What?! I was completely confused by this message. “No. Why do you ask?” I answered.

I was shocked by the answer I received. “@JamieZunick Can’t understand why you hate White people and are White.”

What?! I took a closer look now at the profile picture. Oh, no! It was an emblem for a white supremacy group! I didn’t want to get any more involved in this. I ignored the message and refused to answer. Over that afternoon, three more messages, each getting progressively more aggressive, showed up on my Twitter account.

“@JamieZunick The Preamble to the US Constitution says: “for ourselves and OUR Posterity”. This means USA is for Whites People!”

“@JamieZunick Diversity is a code word for White geNOcide”

“@JamieZunick Anti-White piece of shit! The USA is for Whites The Preamble to the US Constitution says: “for ourselves and OUR Posterity”.

I ignored all of the messages. How could an innocent comment about a pageant inspire so much hate? I now understood the purpose of the “Are You Jewish” message. This person must have seen my picture on my account, and assumed, since I am white, my comment about diversity must be due to religion.

Though the messages made me angry, I again choose to ignore the situation. Again, I was probably just naïve. I didn’t predict what would happen next. Over the next few days, more direct messages appeared on my Twitter account.

“@JamieZunick must stick up for minorities no matter what the circumstances”

“@JamieZunick typical liberal white woman. Can’t think for herself.”

“@JamieZunick shut the fuck up”

“@JamieZunick man you’se a cracka! You ain’t BLAK !”

“Coloreds and Marxist Filth in Rabid Rage Over White Miss America… hey @JamieZunick hating UR White race is DISTURBING”

I began to realize what happened then. The original “conversation” had been retweeted among other extremist groups. The whole thing seemed ridiculously bizarre. I would open up my Twitter account to find the little “twitter bird” happily proclaiming, “You’ve been retweeted!” “You just got favorited!” “You have a direct message!” I would then open my page to find incredibly hateful messages.

It was a little upsetting but I knew that extreme people were always looking for extreme responses. Be calm, I told myself. Don’t add more fuel to this situation. I made no response. I didn’t even move to block or report the messages. I was not going to show any weakness…but maybe, I wasn’t showing any strength either.

The next day, in my classes at the college I shared the situation with my students. I thought this would be a great learning experience for all of us. As I described the situation, some of my students began to laugh. “Why are you laughing?” I asked them. “Why is this so funny?”

“People are weird” was the overall comment. “Just one simple comment you made created this whole mess?” they questioned.

One student responded with, “I can’t believe that you didn’t respond to them. I would have answered every one of those comments. I would have loved to argue and fight with them. But that’s just me. Believe me, I wouldn’t have walked away from this fight.”

One student told the class, “A few months ago, I had someone send me a series of hateful messages calling me all kinds of filthy names. It was really mean.”

I asked her who had sent the messages and why.

“You know that show Catfish?” the student replied. Well, they had one woman on there who was really cruel and hateful. She was ripping people off. I sent her a message asking her how she could be so mean to everyone. And she responded by calling me all kinds of horrible names.”

“Were you upset by her response?” I asked her.

“Oh, no,” my student answered as she smiled, “I was just excited to get a message from someone who had been on TV!”

The whole room was silent for a moment before dissolving into laughter. Ah, the power of the media!

Though the situation finally began to dissipate over the next few days, I still felt dirty, disgusted, and confused. Did I do the right thing by not responding? How could I argue against people so filled with hate? But by not engaging, did I make a mockery of my own beliefs? Did I deny the power of my own convictions? But if I did respond, what would it have proven? What would have been accomplished? I would have just gotten caught up in an endless web of hate. Would I be able to keep my own sense of fairness and compassion? Or would I have been just as detestable and cruel as those who harassed me?

That’s when a thought occurred to me. I don’t need to fight anyone to testify to my beliefs. If I want to prove my convictions, I must live my convictions. I need to continually treat all people with respect and kindness. Violence doesn’t stop with more violence. The only thing that stops violence is love. Instead of fighting, I hoped that this experience would help me love more, have more patience, and see each person as an individual worthy of respect and kindness.

So, to all of my “haters”, the ones who have told me to shut the fuck up and identified me as a Anti-white piece of shit….thank you. Thank you for showing me that I will always choose kindness and consideration. Thank you for showing me that my life is filled with goodness, respect, and compassion. God bless you.

My Amazing Journey

Two years ago, I was in a classroom with 24 students discussing goals, challenges, and life in general. College Prep is my favorite class to teach. Every semester, I have the opportunity to guide anxious new college students on a new direction in their lives. In this class, I have heard many amazing stories that make up the lives of these hopeful, eager adults. The students talk about overcoming addictions, illnesses, abandonment, alienation, and violence. The experience is life changing for all of us.

One day, some of the students asked me to tell my story. I was hesitant at first. As the teacher for this course, how much information should I reveal? Would it be appropriate for me to show any vulnerability? Could I talk objectively about my life in a professional, positive manner? Then a thought occurred to me. Maybe my story can help other people.

With a deep breath, I began. When I was a child I had a horrible speech impediment, which was so bad my first grade teacher called my mother and told her I was “retarded.” The teacher demanded that I be immediately removed from the classroom. My mother refused. I was then challenged with intense psychological and intellectual exams. My mother was venerated when she was told I scored close to the genius level. When I returned to my first grade class my shocked teacher decided that I just must be lazy. With this in mind, she would hit me for every word I mispronounced.

The abuse continued at home as well. My father agreed with my teacher’s assessment and method of discipline. At home, I was verbally and physically punished for every clumsy word and movement. The experience left me mute for years. Not a single word would I speak to anyone, except my mother. After a year of speech therapy and a lifetime of experiences, I slowly began to regain my voice. Today, I am a teacher and public speaker.

At the end of my story, my students were quiet for a moment as they assimilated the details of my story. Then, from the back of the room, one of the students raised her hand and asked this question: “Then how come you’re always so happy? You went through all that and yet you’re always here smiling.” She sincerely and anxiously asked me, “How do you do that? How do you get to that level?”

Before I could think about it, this word came out of my mouth, “Faith.” The word even stunned me for a moment. Then I continued, “I just always had faith that life would get better.”

As the class ended and the students filed out of the room, I was shocked to hear some of them say that my story was inspirational. What?!? I had never thought of it that way. It was just my life. Me? Inspiring? No.

I then asked myself this question: “Who is the most inspiring person I know?” I immediately thought about my mother. My mother was a small, delicate, graceful woman. She was barely five feet tall, 90 pounds, with dark hair and brilliant green eyes. She was a tender, passionate daydreamer too sensitive for this world. She would spend the majority of her life bravely battling depression and forty years of domestic abuse.

That night, I began to read all of the journals I had kept over the years. My main focus was the journey my mother and I had taken together through America. We had set a goal to drive through every state. It was an amazing experience as we explored together the golden expanse of the country and our own lives. Could this be inspirational?

Slowly a book idea developed. The book would detail our journey. There would be three parts. The first part would focus on the abuse my mother and I experienced. The second part would be our adventurous tour of America as we searched for peace and tranquility. The last part would present my mother’s diagnosis and subsequent death. I would lose my mother to complications of colon cancer. This shared experience of death was as bonding for us as our journey through abuse and salvation. Death was another part of our journey together.

I completed the manuscript for The Sweetness of Life in August of 2013. The book was published in March, 2014, by Balboa Press.

My mother always used to say to me, “My life would make a great book.” I believe my mother still traveled with me as I wrote and published this book. It has been another one of our great adventures.

So, now, here it is. Our story. The Sweetness of Life—one more stop on an amazing journey that has more adventures to come.

My International Voice

My childhood fears have ebbed over the years, though every now and then my early experiences visit me in strange ways. Whenever I talk, it’s not unusual for people to ask me where I’m from. People usually claim I have an accent. It’s actually not an accent, but a scar left over from my speech impediment. I have been placed all over the world though. Constant questions about my heritage always come racing at me from strangers. People are always asking me if I’m from Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland…

One day, I was working in a department store in Kansas and this older man and woman approached me. After answering their questions, the man repeated my answers back to me. I nodded, thinking he was doing nothing more than confirming what I had said. But as they turned to walk away, the man grabbed the woman’s arm and whispered loud enough for me to hear, “If these foreigners want to stay in this country, they better learn to speak the language!” At the time, I was shocked by his words. Now, I find it funny. I’m proud of my international voice. Though I am still naturally shy and socially awkward, darkness and loneliness no longer consume me. I no longer need anyone to take care of me, hold my hand, fight my battles for me, or watch over me while I sleep.

One evening, I stood on the balcony of my apartment in California staring out at the San Jacinto mountains as the sun set behind them turning the peaks to a dark gentle brown. I knew at that time that I didn’t want this existence to end. Even with all of the struggles I have known, I don’t want to leave this life. Why is it that I have lived without a home before, not knowing where I was going or how I was going to survive…how was it that I lived off just a bowl of rice every day for several months and still believe, within myself, that I have always had the best of everything? I continue to behave like a young girl, dreaming of castles and princes, even though life has tried many times to convince me there are no such things for me. Sometimes I believe I am incurably optimistic. My greatest accomplishment in life is knowing how to always remain in a state of gratitude. I have always known how to count my blessings.

My experiences have been so different from the many people I have known. My experiences continually pull me from this world and yet hold me to this life. I travel alone and free not knowing where it will lead me. I live traveling aimlessly on the roads that bring me closer to God than any religious following ever could. I say my prayers when I am traveling. When I get scared of being lost and alone, I pray and feel a presence in the empty seat beside me in the car, guiding my path. I am surprised that there are people in my life who still see this as a defect in me, but it’s okay. I know what’s real.