CINSES TAYKUR KNEEDED

I spend a lot of time looking at census records. I also spend a lot of time alternately cursing or blessing the enumerators who interviewed our ancestors so many years ago. There are many times when I just know that I could have done a better job recording this data for future genealogists. So a few months ago I decided to apply for a job with the U.S. Census Bureau. My thinking was, why merely look at these documents when I could actually be creating them? And who knows, maybe I'll have an inside advantage and get to view the 1940 U.S. census before it's released to the public in 2012. Hey---that background check they put me through should be worth something!


Before I filled out an application I decided that I better do my own background check on the U.S. Census Bureau. Their website is colorful and alluring. I was promised "flexible hours, paid training, and the chance to work within your own community. You'll earn a place in history, as well as work experience you can add to your resume."

I really liked the part about being a part of history. Wow! Seventy-two years from now someone just like me will see my name at the top of some census form! They will praise my beautiful elementary school teacher's penmanship and the uncanny way that I inserted maiden name, birth city, and port of entry into this oft-insufficient instrument.

The website also informed me that as a census taker I'll play "a vital role" in helping to determine my representation in government. If there ever was a time that I felt misrepresented by my government, this is the time. Being told that "your community is counting on you!" and "opportunities like this don't happen every day!" was the final push I needed.



I showed up at Goodyear City Hall at the advertised time, only to be turned away (with many others) because I didn't have an appointment. Undeterred, I phoned the Phoenix office and after enduring some jokes about being "a Goodrich living in Goodyear" I was given a new testing date in Tolleson. I was told that I would be evaluated on my map skills. So I was very surprised to open up the test and find only a few questions in that category. I was tested on reading comprehension, organizational abilities, clerical skills and supervisor strategies. I was asked to define words like transcribe and controversial. Most of the math problems were basic operations with decimals, though some questions were a little more involved:

Your new cell phone battery needs to be charged for three hours and 45 minutes before using it. If you plugged the battery into the charger at 8:20 a.m., you should wait until what time before using it?

I was stunned that we were not tested on our handwriting legibility, our hearing acuity, our spelling accuracy, or our ability to know when a woman is lying about her age.

Richard, the Recruiting Assistant who was administering the test that day, kept reading something he called The Verbatim. I've never been read my Miranda Rights, but I imagine it sounding a lot like The Verbatim. We were told that we had to climb stairs, work in all kinds of neighborhoods, and had to be able to ask personal questions of strangers. He said that preference for jobs would be given to veterans, high test scorers, those that lived in neighborhoods that needed census takers, and those with bilingual abilities. I looked around the room and decided that the odds were against me. The only category I thought I had a chance at was to do well on the test. However, many people that afternoon were retaking the test, trying to get a higher score. I know as a teacher that each time you take a test you will do better.



After the Field Employee Selection Aid (i.e. test) was over and everyone else had left the room, I hung around to ask Richard some questions about the 2010 census itself. When he told me that it was going to be a very brief questionnaire, I just about decided that I did NOT want to be an enumerator. It made me irritated that there was going to be very little genealogical value to the 2010 census.

Then I noticed that he was stuffing his papers and things into this very unique bag. I paused for a moment: Had I ever seen a bag like that, even in a government surplus store? I realized that the only way to get that cool bag was to swallow my concerns and get the census job! I asked for my application back so I could make a few changes. I put down my availability to work as every day and night, even Sunday. Hopefully, I rationalized, the Lord will view census taking on the sabbath as a form of family history. I marked each box under the question How will you travel? (car, ATV, boat, plane or bicycle.) I let Richard know that I was a genealogist and that it was very important to me that the census was taken seriously.

This strategy (and the fact that I scored 100% on the test) seems to have paid off. Thursday, while on the road travelling to California, Michael from the U.S. Census Bureau phoned to ask me if I could start training on Tuesday! He read something that sounded a lot like The Verbatim that Richard had read to me last December. He told me to report to the Avondale DES office at 9:00 a.m. Being the consummate researcher that I am, I asked for the exact address. "Just a minute," Michael replied. "No one else has ever asked for that. I'll have to get it for you." I could tell by the admiration in his voice that I was practically supervisor material already.

When we got home I looked up the Department of Economic Security address on their website and compared it to the one Michael had given me. It was NOT a match! Not even close! Now I'm wondering if this misinformation is really a deliberate attempt to test my problem-solving abilities at finding a location. I'm convinced that locating Tuesday's training site is just the first challenge, of many more to come, that I will experience as an employee of the United States Census Bureau.



copyright 2009 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

I CANNOT CARE (conclusion)

As Mom began her litany of complaints against the Orange County females who attend AA meetings, it was soon apparent that when she told me, "I have added two young women who are very helpful," she wasn't talking about hiring someone to help her with daily living concerns. The two young women she was referring to are Janet and Jennie, AA members who have volunteered to give her rides home from meetings. Her collective loathing towards most of the women in AA is based on their reluctance to be her personal chauffeur. Not only does she expect a ride home from the meetings, but she finds it perfectly reasonable to assume that the driver will stop along the way and let her run errands.

My mother and me on a trip to the Grand Canyon the year I turned two

"I have some very nice gentlemen who take me home from the Saturday meeting," she eagerly informed me. "One night they dropped me off at the market and said 'take as long as you like.' But I came into the program when men worked with men and women worked with women and I don't understand why I cannot get rides home from the women. When I first went to the Friday morning meeting I looked around and there were about forty women. I said to myself, 'I will not have trouble getting a ride home here.'"

"And that's another thing, Kathleen," she suddenly veered off-topic without missing a beat. "I would like to have the car working, in case of an emergency."

"I looked around the room when the meeting started," she continued, "and I announced that I had taken a taxi and I would appreciate a ride home and I told them how close I lived. And do you know that NOT ONE woman came up to me! NOT ONE!" Her voice expressed a perfect mix of indignation and hurt. "One woman said, 'we are going to lunch first and you are welcome to join us, and then I would be glad to drop you off.' But I said, 'not at this time.' I didn't want to go into the fact that I had my heat going off, and I had had an argument with my granddaughter and an argument with my son, and it was time to get home."

If she expected me to make a comment she left no opening. Mom didn't even pause to breathe. "And after the meeting, one by one, as everyone left the room, I saw three women by the coffee, besides the one who had invited me to join them for lunch. And I went up to them and said, 'could one of you take me home?'"

"Only Mom can make a question sound like an order," I thought to myself as I heard her imitate the tone of voice she used with the other women.

"They all said 'no' except Janice," Mom said in disgust. "I am telling you that it is something I am still working on, Kathleen. I accept it intellectually but I have not accepted it where I need to. It is no small thing. I know now that it is not me. It is not me." She repeated the last sentence emotionally, like an actress concluding a crucial monologue. Using language to convey drama is her signature.

My mother and me at my sister's wedding, Los Angeles, California

I was twenty-three years old.

Suddenly her voice turned upbeat. "You still haven't said if you can come, if you can just be with me for awhile." I wasn't swayed by her playful tone. She reminded me of a spoiled child: 'I know I'm getting that toy anyway, so stop teasing me.'

"I cannot come," I responded. My voice was flat, but I secretly enjoyed the alliteration. "I have a conference in Yuma this Saturday, and next week I'm starting two new classes." It felt good to have a real excuse.

"Would you come if I was in the hospital?" Her voice was suddenly frosty, her words biting. Her abrupt metamorphosis was straight off an index card for a Joan Crawford recipe: mix two parts accusation with equal parts disdain. Sprinkle liberally with self-pity.

I couldn't help but laugh out-loud. "I came last time you were in the hospital." I was almost daring her to talk about the unmentionable topic she warned me to never talk about. She backed down. "I just do not have the feeling that you care about me. You do not understand why I stay here. I stay here because I have a doctor."

That elicited another impulsive laugh. "Oh, that's right. You have to stay by your doctor!" My tone was actually humorous, not sarcastic. I couldn't believe how funny not caring was.

"You're right. It's never perfect." Mom was choosing her words carefully now. Her icy voice was dropping in degrees by the second. She was working herself up to a double batch of that Joan Crawford recipe. All she needed was some wire coat hangers. "I just wish I could hear from you occasionally."

"Didn't I just call you last week?"

"I would set a timer if some in my family would call me regularly. All I am really asking for is a very brief call. All I am really asking for is to know that you are thinking about me. Do you check it off your calendar? I haven't talked to her for two weeks, so I need to phone now?"

"Mom, I need to say something."

"NO! YOU DON'T WANT TO LISTEN TO THIS!" She shrieked into my ear.

"I cannot care that you are having a hissy fit, I thought wearily. I continued pacing the hallway without missing a step. I cannot care shouldn't mean that I cannot set limits, I reasoned. I decided to try again to get her attention.

"Mom, I've listened to you talk for over fifteen minutes without saying anything," I interjected in my reasonable counselor voice. She became abruptly silent. I knew it wasn't out of respect. She was a commanding officer, regrouping for another attack.

I took a deep breath and started talking. I tried to keep it simple and unemotional. I pointed out that her own mother had relocated to northern California to be closer to Mom's sister. Eventually Milt and Marlene cared for Grandma in their home for nine years before she died. It was a sacrifice for everyone, but Grandma never fought the family over anything.

Mom with her younger sister Marlene and their mother, 1975. Marlene took care of Grandma and Grandma's sister Mayme in her home for many years.

I asked Mom if she knew anyone in a similar situation to hers---living alone and hundreds of miles from family, not driving, not cooking, lots of medical problems and the need for frequent trips to doctors; unable to take care of basic home maintenance. I said that I didn't know anyone in the same situation, but if she did, I wanted to talk to that person. I explained how difficult and frustrating her phone calls were for both me and my brother.

"Mom, you won't move closer to family so we can help you do things. You aren't even willing to try any kind of different living arrangement so you aren't such a burden on your family," I stated, trying to keep it real. "When you tell us that you won't make any changes because of your doctor, then you are telling us that you are putting your relationship with your doctor above that of your family."

"I cannot care that I questioned her insane devotion to Doctor," I told myself. I was in no mood for tip-toeing on eggshells. I was more than ready to take on her I-can't-possibly-leave-the-one-man-who-has-kept-me-alive-all-these-years argument.

"You need to let me talk," Mom suddenly cut-in. I knew she wouldn't let that comment about her doctor be the last word. "Maybe it is something that I learned with the 12 Steps and all the years that I helped others," she stated like she was presenting her resume. "I needed to just talk."

She said the last sentence without fanfare, but I knew it was major. With just five little words she had taken a squeegee to anything incriminating she might have said earlier. She wanted to make sure there was not one drop of evidence that her behavior was anything but rational. "And now what I will do, when I feel the way that I do, I will talk to somebody else," she said gallantly.

"Thank you, Mom, I appreciate that."

She didn't acknowledge my response. Gratitude wasn't what she expected to hear. We both knew she wasn't trying to help me by offering to confide in someone else. She was trying to punish me.

"But I would still appreciate just a very brief call," she said coldly. "Having lost Peter would have been humongous, but I have had two or three other things as serious to deal with, and I have dealt with it. And I will tell you one thing," her voice was becoming Joan-Crawford-like again. "Mom told me at one time that she would never live with her children. When she moved up North, Bob and I did not hear about it until we drove out the day she was packing up. It was not a sacrifice for Marlene."

"It wasn't a sacrifice?" I asked incredulously, before I realized that I had broken my own rule about asking for clarification.

"No. It was not a sacrifice because they did not have to take her into their home." By now she was fairly hissing out each word.

My mother with me and my oldest daughters, about 1982. Shortly after this picture was taken Mom decided to cut-off all contact with us for nearly 20 years.

"I have not yet found another woman," she continued with less anger, but with no less intensity, "who has lost her husband, and nobody in her family came to hold her and nobody in her family was there to hold her and to console her." She paused dramatically. "So I too have a situation that I have not found a si-mi-lar-i-ty." She emphasized each syllable of the last word like a snooty scrabble player. "So I think this is a good time to say that I am glad that we shared and I will not call you again with problems." Her mood was triumphant as she hung up the phone.

"Love you, Mom! Talk to you soon!" My voice was casual and pleasant. It was like I was dropping off my dry cleaning. I couldn't believe how insincere my voice sounded and how little it bothered me that it sounded that way. I realized that I must truly be at the point where I cannot care.

copyright 2009 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich