There was a darkness rising. One that had the normally unflappable angels nervous and flighty, something too strong to be ignored any longer or it would swallow everything good and pure whole.
Which is why Angela found herself in room 207 of the Sutton Place Behavioral Health Hospital, waiting for the return of its occupant. A former exorcist who had gone too far and damned a young girl, and with it, his own soul as well.
The door swings open, light switch clicks on and the angel is suddenly bathed in industrial florescent lighting. Between the holy fire in her piercing blue eyes to the large wings on her back, there was no question of what she was or who sent her.
Not all my restaurant co-workers are college dropouts, and none are failures. Many have bachelor’s degrees; others have real estate licenses, freelancing projects or extraordinary musical and artistic abilities. Others are nontraditional students, having entered the work force before attending college and making the wise decision not to “find themselves” and come out with $40,000 in debt, at 4.6 percent interest. Most of them are parents who have bought homes, raised children and made financial investments off their modest incomes. They are some of the kindest, hardest-working people I know, and after three years alongside them, I find it difficult to tell my students to avoid being like them.
From a brilliant New York Times op-ed about the “shame” of blue collar work. The essay is by a Las Vegas college professor who makes more money waiting tables than at her university job.