Every day I go to work I feel blessed because I love my job. I don’t keep my job — it keeps me happy. Finding work is hard enough with an advanced degree and a decent resume, imagine trying to pound the pavement looking for a job with over fifteen felonies, visible tattoos, and no employment history. It’s no wonder my students end up in telemarketing or, worse, back taking rather than making money. So it’s always a good thing to see a student get a job.
One of the oddest jobs my students have ever done is count cars. A few of them were hired to sit on certain corners and observe automobile traffic. They loved it. Others are such skilled tattoo artists they are snapped up by tattoo shop owners as soon as they are free. We’ve also had semi-pro athletes at the rehab who fell from grace; no going back there. Many of my students have made more money in an hour dealing drugs than they could make at a tax-paying job in a month. The majority have never held a real job for more than six months. When I see one of my students get all dressed up and go out for a job interview, it gives me a surge of pride. They’ve gone from handcuffs to cufflinks.
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