February 28, 2022
I think at one point in time or another we all make a New Year’s Resolution to become better organized in one or more aspect of our lives. Being the overly, obsessively organized person I am, my colleagues jokingly tell others, I am so organized, I probably know exactly where George Williams’ first timesheet is somewhere in my files. For those of you don’t know, George Williams was the founder of the YMCA movement back in 1844 and being the payroll administrator for the YMCA of South Florida, I imagine you see the irony. Being organized at work is a necessity when you take on payroll for over 1200 employees who 90% are part-time and work multiple jobs at different pay rates and often work at various locations.
I also like to keep my household organized; I like to have everything I file find it’s home in a properly labeled folder in the drawer it’s best suited. Structure keeps for my mental health well-being and sanity. Like my Mom, I believe if you go in to the new year messy, unorganized or not clean – your whole year will be a reflection of how you left the previous year. Yes, I know, a horrible old wives’ tale, but it works for me. I start before the year ends by making a list of the labels I know I will need for the upcoming new year and then progress to getting the label maker out and get prepared to make the labels. In fashion of my CDO, (same as OCD – but you know I have to put the letters in alphabetical order) I would rather make the list and do all my labels in one sitting rather than piece by piece. I review the labels from the previous year, assess what new ones I need and then get to producing the labels and then I methodically place the labels on the various colored folders I have for the varied and different things I chose to keep and file.
“Where did I put the receipt for my new computer?” I ask myself while I file away various other papers related to my new computer in the freshly labeled folder.
Does this sound familiar or am I the odd ball one here?
I often ponder philosophical conjecture with no right or wrong answers, just more questions awaiting to be answered by those wishing to have the conversation with me. As I started labeling folders, I began relating them to current events happening not only in my community but communities throughout the world. I feel as global passengers on spaceship Earth we are on course for, in my opinion, a global disaster. It just becomes all too real and frightening when subtle yet notable changes begin to happen in my backyard of the United States. As a first-generation American, both my parents immigrated from Hungary around the time of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution to seek a life better than the impending communist takeover of their beloved country by what was Russia and soon to become the USSR. My parents immigrated first to Canada than to the United States and eventually became American citizens and remained here since.
My parents assimilated into their new homeland and proudly adopted many American customs before they actually became American citizens. With their heavy accents learned to speak English, albeit American English by watching early television shows like “I Love Lucy”, “The Honeymooners” and other programs. During their weekly gathering with friends, they enjoyed a meal and drinks over television shows and the ability to practice their English within a kindred group of friends. Every time I watch an episode of I Love Lucy, with Lucy Ricardo saying with each syllable accentuated, “How do you do?”, something like “H ooow dooo uuu dooo?” when being introduced to one of Ricky’s, her husband’s many celebrity friends. Even though I watched these shows hundreds of times, I still laugh and can picture my Mom and Dad learning English watching television programs like this. Like many immigrants they were culture rich yet they were income poor and often found ways to save and still live the American dream. They were often asked where they were from and more often answered in terms of where they were living, until the question was clarified as where their accent is from. I too, often reply when asked where am I from as opposed to where my family is from.
“I was born in California.” Or when they ask where is my family from, I clarify, “Oh you mean my ancestorial national origin, I am a first generation proud American born to my two Hungarian born parents.”
The diversity of people in our country and the cliched melting pot our country is known for is what makes our country uniquely beautiful and rich in countless ways. The blending hues of people with different nationalities, religious, ethnic, and other differences is what makes our country not only unique but inviting as a result creating the proverbial melting pot. People from all ends of our planet strive to become part of our country. If you don’t believe me, look at the volumes of people escaping their homelands to claim political asylum or leap at a chance to take up residency here albeit illegally than wait for the legal process to let them in. Another way to see it is peek into most of the larger cities in the United States you can find just about any type of foods, cultural events, social clubs, etc to reflect a good number of the countries on Earth, regardless of its population or geographic size.
In the not-so-distant past, the majority of those electing to make the United States their home shared the same vision of freedom and opportunity as my parents. As time progressed, each new generation brings subtle yet notable changes to our American culture. Over time, little by little, the reasons generations before mine came to this country are being eroded. The feeling of becoming and being an American no longer carries the same excitement and pride as it once did. Each new generation crossing into our country now brings more than a fair share of their homeland to plant here in the United States. It’s no longer just about carrying on traditions, but now planting roots of the previous homeland in their new country, bringing what they left behind to recreate the nostalgic memories of what once was. I get there is an importance of our heritage, traditions, culture and other ethno-religious identifiers needs to be celebrated and passed down to each generation to have a line of continuity. However, I do not believe the feeling the need to gentrify our communities to create smaller microcosms of the country they just left.
Living in South Florida, a good number of communities have become such microcosms of countries from South America and Central America with a handful of other countries from Europe and the Middle East. Driving for a short time around various parts of South Florida, you will pass through the “Little Havana”, Little Haiti”, “Little Moscow”, “El Portal”, “Little Israel”, “Little Romania”, “Little Quebec” (though not a country) and other countries. These communities have become popular with large populations settling in these neighborhoods and is easily identifiable by the flag of the nation they represent, proudly waiving in the yards of their residential communities and in front of local small businesses they started. These flags, waving in the wind, represent welcoming gestures for nationals from these homelands to come in, feel welcomed as if they are back in their homeland. Over some conversation in their native language and shared food and drink, they reminisce nostalgically of the good old days. If you were to close your eyes, your remaining senses may fool you into believing you were in their native home country.
While attending grad school and working part-time on the university campus, I was friendly with many of the department’s faculty. There was one particular professor who I really enjoyed listening to his lectures and learning from. He regularly invited me to join him for lunch. Often we just ate together in his office and discussed current events or his interest in my job at the YMCA. He always complimented me on how I incorporated real life examples into my lectures and bring academia to life and not just reiterate the textbook examples. A couple times a month, we would adventure to do something different, either on campus or off campus. It was still a long walk or a moment’s drive to do a non-brown bag lunch day.
I recall this one lunch date as if it were yesterday, with more time than usual available for lunch, but not long enough to go to a restaurant. We decided to go to a large chain-based grocery store which had a large hot and cold lunch offering. This allowed us to dodge the fast-food court at the campus rathskeller. From the moment we literally crossed the street from the university’s east entrance, we both felt as if we were transported not only to a different country, but back in time. The store’s décor seemed to be thriving in the 1970s faux wood paneling and peel and stick vinyl flooring with oddly bright decorated furnishings and employee uniforms lacking any fashion sense, made from polyester. In reality, the year was 1995, I lived in south Florida for a few years over ten and my professor about the same maybe a little more. We walked over to the deli department took a number and glanced in the hot foods counter and debated what to order as we drooled over the many delicious smells. Before we even finalized our choices, the next deli employee called on us to be served. I don’t recall her even calling our number, but she spoke only in her native tongue as if she knew we were “gringos” and didn’t speak Spanish, I remember what I heard was,
“hablamos espanol solamente, no ingles”, which I knew from my high school Spanish classes as “I speak only Spanish and no English.”
As she walked away from us to the back of the customer serving area, we hoped it was to get someone to assist us. We stood there, for what seemed like an hour (probably was a short 15 minutes), watching each passing employee help the next customer and pass us over. We tried to remain positive the next employee would return and would help us, however; each passing one cheerfully assisted other customers and we continued to be passed over as if we were not even present. When we finally realized, we were not going to get anyone to help us, we just looked at each other dumbfounded as to what just transpired and ended up going back to campus and getting lunch at the very place we tried to avoid in the first place, the campus rathskeller. We felt as if we were outsiders visiting another country as we were lacking a common language, culture and knowledge of food to have the basic survival tools to live amongst our fellow neighbors who took this part of Miami over. Suddenly, we realize we were strangers in our own land as the transformation of this community became a footprint of the very country they fled to seek a better life and more opportunity.
I digress, back to the label analogy…
Sometimes I think is it just me who feels this certain way?
Initially, the label seemed like a good starting place to compartmentalize, separate, and organize the common items. It helped organizing and quickly find things as opposed to the randomly throwing everything into one folder for the entire year. Each year I find some of the older tattered ones with no specific label are being replaced with new folders with bold new labels. Yet, some of them do survive another year and maybe given a fresh label to keep up the consistent look of the new ones being created. The old folder becomes a home for those odd outdated forms not ready to retire. Many survive by virtue of remaining not necessarily because they are important, but in good way and are often overlooked and not discarded regardless of being timeworn and irrelevant and some have even lost their useful purpose but not quite ready to be discarded.
As I compare the labels to our communities, we have labeled people to the minutia of every ethnicity. national origin. race, religion, sexual orientation, or other groupings. The United States of America has lost its “proverbial united we stand, divided we fall” and the analogy of melting pot. The simmering stew that once blended its rich flavors together to make a great tasting dish has become nothing more than a plate filled for a person with sensory issues who intentionally doesn’t like their food to commingle together. You immediately notice, the individually separated items on the plate, are not quite as tasty as if the same items were cooked together and allowed for the rich flavors come together.
Consequentially, the change in our population becomes more evident with each succeeding generation. Each losing a part of their past as well as more of their present being. We no longer fully have the richness of culture of our ancestral past, yet we seem to identify more with a memory which never existed in our own life, but thrives in a nostalgic homeland being passed down to us. It’s like they are torn between living off the benefits of living the American dream life yet trying to fully keep their past equally planted in who they’ve become. Do you recall how after 9/11 how we were no longer African-Americans or Latino-Americans or even Republicans or Democrats, we became united as Americans. Everyone graciously waived the American flag with pride and patriotism? No other time in my lifetime did I ever recollect seeing politicians, celebrity influencers, community leaders and everyday neighbors become simply, just Americans. There was not a division nor a question of whom we were, we just kept reiterating to all those within shouting distance our patriotism of being proud Americans.
As I carefully get to my last file folder, I realize the very thought each piece has a proper home with its label clearly identifying it as to what the contents are. This folder with it tattered creases and worn corners made it’s rounds, it definitely has seen better days. This folder has and always was the odd one holding those without a home, those waiting to find their home and assume those like me are often set apart with my assumed similarities yet have subtle differences and then hurried to place in a folder of similar items. Much like my folders, the labels on commonalities keep things together, similar to what segregation done historically and as today’s people reacclimate by their choice to live within their comforts of their own communities. When those amongst us chose to be the new folder with a new label, they fail to realize the more folders and labels created, the more divisive division begins. As I put a fresh new label over the old one, I find my life parallels the contents of the folder I just labeled Odds and Ends, not by the hundreds of other labels which could be either positively negative or doubtfully biased by those who know the real me, Robert W Kovacs, an American.
I also like to keep my household organized; I like to have everything I file find it’s home in a properly labeled folder in the drawer it’s best suited. Structure keeps for my mental health well-being and sanity. Like my Mom, I believe if you go in to the new year messy, unorganized or not clean – your whole year will be a reflection of how you left the previous year. Yes, I know, a horrible old wives’ tale, but it works for me. I start before the year ends by making a list of the labels I know I will need for the upcoming new year and then progress to getting the label maker out and get prepared to make the labels. In fashion of my CDO, (same as OCD – but you know I have to put the letters in alphabetical order) I would rather make the list and do all my labels in one sitting rather than piece by piece. I review the labels from the previous year, assess what new ones I need and then get to producing the labels and then I methodically place the labels on the various colored folders I have for the varied and different things I chose to keep and file.
“Where did I put the receipt for my new computer?” I ask myself while I file away various other papers related to my new computer in the freshly labeled folder.
Does this sound familiar or am I the odd ball one here?
I often ponder philosophical conjecture with no right or wrong answers, just more questions awaiting to be answered by those wishing to have the conversation with me. As I started labeling folders, I began relating them to current events happening not only in my community but communities throughout the world. I feel as global passengers on spaceship Earth we are on course for, in my opinion, a global disaster. It just becomes all too real and frightening when subtle yet notable changes begin to happen in my backyard of the United States. As a first-generation American, both my parents immigrated from Hungary around the time of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution to seek a life better than the impending communist takeover of their beloved country by what was Russia and soon to become the USSR. My parents immigrated first to Canada than to the United States and eventually became American citizens and remained here since.
My parents assimilated into their new homeland and proudly adopted many American customs before they actually became American citizens. With their heavy accents learned to speak English, albeit American English by watching early television shows like “I Love Lucy”, “The Honeymooners” and other programs. During their weekly gathering with friends, they enjoyed a meal and drinks over television shows and the ability to practice their English within a kindred group of friends. Every time I watch an episode of I Love Lucy, with Lucy Ricardo saying with each syllable accentuated, “How do you do?”, something like “H ooow dooo uuu dooo?” when being introduced to one of Ricky’s, her husband’s many celebrity friends. Even though I watched these shows hundreds of times, I still laugh and can picture my Mom and Dad learning English watching television programs like this. Like many immigrants they were culture rich yet they were income poor and often found ways to save and still live the American dream. They were often asked where they were from and more often answered in terms of where they were living, until the question was clarified as where their accent is from. I too, often reply when asked where am I from as opposed to where my family is from.
“I was born in California.” Or when they ask where is my family from, I clarify, “Oh you mean my ancestorial national origin, I am a first generation proud American born to my two Hungarian born parents.”
The diversity of people in our country and the cliched melting pot our country is known for is what makes our country uniquely beautiful and rich in countless ways. The blending hues of people with different nationalities, religious, ethnic, and other differences is what makes our country not only unique but inviting as a result creating the proverbial melting pot. People from all ends of our planet strive to become part of our country. If you don’t believe me, look at the volumes of people escaping their homelands to claim political asylum or leap at a chance to take up residency here albeit illegally than wait for the legal process to let them in. Another way to see it is peek into most of the larger cities in the United States you can find just about any type of foods, cultural events, social clubs, etc to reflect a good number of the countries on Earth, regardless of its population or geographic size.
In the not-so-distant past, the majority of those electing to make the United States their home shared the same vision of freedom and opportunity as my parents. As time progressed, each new generation brings subtle yet notable changes to our American culture. Over time, little by little, the reasons generations before mine came to this country are being eroded. The feeling of becoming and being an American no longer carries the same excitement and pride as it once did. Each new generation crossing into our country now brings more than a fair share of their homeland to plant here in the United States. It’s no longer just about carrying on traditions, but now planting roots of the previous homeland in their new country, bringing what they left behind to recreate the nostalgic memories of what once was. I get there is an importance of our heritage, traditions, culture and other ethno-religious identifiers needs to be celebrated and passed down to each generation to have a line of continuity. However, I do not believe the feeling the need to gentrify our communities to create smaller microcosms of the country they just left.
Living in South Florida, a good number of communities have become such microcosms of countries from South America and Central America with a handful of other countries from Europe and the Middle East. Driving for a short time around various parts of South Florida, you will pass through the “Little Havana”, Little Haiti”, “Little Moscow”, “El Portal”, “Little Israel”, “Little Romania”, “Little Quebec” (though not a country) and other countries. These communities have become popular with large populations settling in these neighborhoods and is easily identifiable by the flag of the nation they represent, proudly waiving in the yards of their residential communities and in front of local small businesses they started. These flags, waving in the wind, represent welcoming gestures for nationals from these homelands to come in, feel welcomed as if they are back in their homeland. Over some conversation in their native language and shared food and drink, they reminisce nostalgically of the good old days. If you were to close your eyes, your remaining senses may fool you into believing you were in their native home country.
While attending grad school and working part-time on the university campus, I was friendly with many of the department’s faculty. There was one particular professor who I really enjoyed listening to his lectures and learning from. He regularly invited me to join him for lunch. Often we just ate together in his office and discussed current events or his interest in my job at the YMCA. He always complimented me on how I incorporated real life examples into my lectures and bring academia to life and not just reiterate the textbook examples. A couple times a month, we would adventure to do something different, either on campus or off campus. It was still a long walk or a moment’s drive to do a non-brown bag lunch day.
I recall this one lunch date as if it were yesterday, with more time than usual available for lunch, but not long enough to go to a restaurant. We decided to go to a large chain-based grocery store which had a large hot and cold lunch offering. This allowed us to dodge the fast-food court at the campus rathskeller. From the moment we literally crossed the street from the university’s east entrance, we both felt as if we were transported not only to a different country, but back in time. The store’s décor seemed to be thriving in the 1970s faux wood paneling and peel and stick vinyl flooring with oddly bright decorated furnishings and employee uniforms lacking any fashion sense, made from polyester. In reality, the year was 1995, I lived in south Florida for a few years over ten and my professor about the same maybe a little more. We walked over to the deli department took a number and glanced in the hot foods counter and debated what to order as we drooled over the many delicious smells. Before we even finalized our choices, the next deli employee called on us to be served. I don’t recall her even calling our number, but she spoke only in her native tongue as if she knew we were “gringos” and didn’t speak Spanish, I remember what I heard was,
“hablamos espanol solamente, no ingles”, which I knew from my high school Spanish classes as “I speak only Spanish and no English.”
As she walked away from us to the back of the customer serving area, we hoped it was to get someone to assist us. We stood there, for what seemed like an hour (probably was a short 15 minutes), watching each passing employee help the next customer and pass us over. We tried to remain positive the next employee would return and would help us, however; each passing one cheerfully assisted other customers and we continued to be passed over as if we were not even present. When we finally realized, we were not going to get anyone to help us, we just looked at each other dumbfounded as to what just transpired and ended up going back to campus and getting lunch at the very place we tried to avoid in the first place, the campus rathskeller. We felt as if we were outsiders visiting another country as we were lacking a common language, culture and knowledge of food to have the basic survival tools to live amongst our fellow neighbors who took this part of Miami over. Suddenly, we realize we were strangers in our own land as the transformation of this community became a footprint of the very country they fled to seek a better life and more opportunity.
I digress, back to the label analogy…
Sometimes I think is it just me who feels this certain way?
Initially, the label seemed like a good starting place to compartmentalize, separate, and organize the common items. It helped organizing and quickly find things as opposed to the randomly throwing everything into one folder for the entire year. Each year I find some of the older tattered ones with no specific label are being replaced with new folders with bold new labels. Yet, some of them do survive another year and maybe given a fresh label to keep up the consistent look of the new ones being created. The old folder becomes a home for those odd outdated forms not ready to retire. Many survive by virtue of remaining not necessarily because they are important, but in good way and are often overlooked and not discarded regardless of being timeworn and irrelevant and some have even lost their useful purpose but not quite ready to be discarded.
As I compare the labels to our communities, we have labeled people to the minutia of every ethnicity. national origin. race, religion, sexual orientation, or other groupings. The United States of America has lost its “proverbial united we stand, divided we fall” and the analogy of melting pot. The simmering stew that once blended its rich flavors together to make a great tasting dish has become nothing more than a plate filled for a person with sensory issues who intentionally doesn’t like their food to commingle together. You immediately notice, the individually separated items on the plate, are not quite as tasty as if the same items were cooked together and allowed for the rich flavors come together.
Consequentially, the change in our population becomes more evident with each succeeding generation. Each losing a part of their past as well as more of their present being. We no longer fully have the richness of culture of our ancestral past, yet we seem to identify more with a memory which never existed in our own life, but thrives in a nostalgic homeland being passed down to us. It’s like they are torn between living off the benefits of living the American dream life yet trying to fully keep their past equally planted in who they’ve become. Do you recall how after 9/11 how we were no longer African-Americans or Latino-Americans or even Republicans or Democrats, we became united as Americans. Everyone graciously waived the American flag with pride and patriotism? No other time in my lifetime did I ever recollect seeing politicians, celebrity influencers, community leaders and everyday neighbors become simply, just Americans. There was not a division nor a question of whom we were, we just kept reiterating to all those within shouting distance our patriotism of being proud Americans.
As I carefully get to my last file folder, I realize the very thought each piece has a proper home with its label clearly identifying it as to what the contents are. This folder with it tattered creases and worn corners made it’s rounds, it definitely has seen better days. This folder has and always was the odd one holding those without a home, those waiting to find their home and assume those like me are often set apart with my assumed similarities yet have subtle differences and then hurried to place in a folder of similar items. Much like my folders, the labels on commonalities keep things together, similar to what segregation done historically and as today’s people reacclimate by their choice to live within their comforts of their own communities. When those amongst us chose to be the new folder with a new label, they fail to realize the more folders and labels created, the more divisive division begins. As I put a fresh new label over the old one, I find my life parallels the contents of the folder I just labeled Odds and Ends, not by the hundreds of other labels which could be either positively negative or doubtfully biased by those who know the real me, Robert W Kovacs, an American.
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