Self-Worth

I got offered a writing gig last week. The payout was major.

Mmm-hmm. $5.40 an hour.

Let that sink in for a second.

For comparative purposes, the minimum wage in Rhode Island is $7.40 an hour. Twelve-year-old babysitters, the kid who shovels your driveway and fast food attendants at McDonald's all make more than what I was offered. Me--a professional wordsmith with nearly twenty years of writing experience--in addition to a Newsweek by-line.

I'm not bitter.

The latest in underpaying job offers was for a website, which shall remain nameless, to write 30 hotel reviews: 25 in Providence and 5 in Newport. The write-ups, which did not require an overnight stay, would bank me $15 apiece, with an additional $75 for travel expenses.

This put the grand total of my contract at $525. Pre-taxes. Another perk of freelancing is that I'm responsible for paying my own. So once Uncle Sam gets his twenty-five percent cut off the top, the starting point for this lucrative contract rolled down to $393.

For this assignment, I calculated I'd physically have to hit the road 6 times: 5 trips to Providence and one to Newport. And, because there are not 25 hotels in Providence proper, it's a fair guess that some of the properties were in neighboring communities.

Considering all of these factors, I conservatively estimated travel time for the whole project at 7 hours. The actual reviewing/writing time per hotel? I pegged that at roughly 1.25 hours each, bringing the estimated total for the whole project to 51.5 hours.

And then I needed to consider expenses, including parking and gas, which I tallied at a minimum of $10 per local outing. The Newport trip would be a bit more: $20 gas, $10 parking, $25 lunch and $8 in tolls. The grand expense total: $113.

For those who suck at math, I arrived at the proposed hourly rate by taking the starting contract amount of $393, subtracting the expenses of $113, then dividing the remaining amount of $280 by the total hours worked, 51.5 hours. And there you have it: $5.43 per hour.

The saddest part? There's no doubt someone took this assignment after I turned it down.

And this is far from the first time I've either declined, or even lost jobs, because of rate disagreements.

I certainly didn't become a writer for the money. And trust, while I well understand the importance of generating clips for your portfolio, taking assignments at truly pathetic rates, just makes it worse for everyone. Writers, are you listening?

WE. ARE. NOT. GETTING. PAID. WHAT. WE. ARE. WORTH.  

There is this twisted perception among those in charge of editorial budgeting, that writers are not skilled professionals. That any writer will work out just fine, because, well, technically, everyone can write. Blek. I suppose if you're defining writing as the act of string words together, instead of a crafted art, that's true. But the end-product isn't going to be anywhere close to the same.

I wish that more writers would join me in standing up for ourselves and stop taking assignments that are downright insulting. Or put more plainly: Writers, how 'bout we f'n stop selling each other (and ourselves) short? Ask for what you deserve. And walk if you don't get it.

In the meantime, to all of the publications that believe price is more important than content, here's my wish for you:  I sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, hope you get what you paid for.  

Adios SoundSession: A Fan Says Good-Bye

I sent this to the Providence Journal last week as an Op Ed piece. But the good thing about having your own platform is you never have to wait for someone else to print your words...

Providence Journal Op Ed

Adios SoundSession:  A fan says good-bye

by Dawn Keable

I never thought I'd be having this conversation.

"Hey, did you just come from SoundSession?" asked the woman in a fedora.

My eleven-year-old niece and I were downtown Saturday night, waiting for the light at the corner of Weybosset and Chestnut streets, when the woman and her party approached from the opposite direction. They were buzzing with excitement.

Their giddy anticipation? Something I understood perfectly. For the past eight summers, I also looked forward to SoundSession. What was not to love? This incredible celebration of music from around the world, described as Providence's own Mardi Gras, had introduced me to some damn fine musicians: Trombone Shorty, Plena Libra, the Youngblood Brass Band.

SoundSession had been a highlight on our July calendar since, 2004, when my husband Andre and I wandered into the inaugural festival. Granted, the crowd was a bit sparse that first year, it was drizzling, after all, but even with the spotty attendance and sprinkles, there was still a unique energy in the air. We understood we were witnessing the birth of something truly special--something that our small city had been long overdue in receiving.

And as we sipped mojitos, bought from one of the fold-up tables lining the street, I remember feeling sad that so few people were there to experience this with us.

I didn't feel a bit of sadness--for another eight years.

"Yeah," I answered, without any enthusiasm in my voice.

"And you're leaving?" she asked clearly puzzled. "Why? 'Cause you got a kid?"

"No. No. It's not that," I said, trying to choose my words carefully. "It's just not the same. No one's there."

"Oh. But it's still early," she said, still trying to make sense of the situation. The reality, I began to piece together for her? Clearly, it was something that she did not want to believe. And I didn't blame her. But the truth was, while it was technically early in the evening, I was doubtful that the passing of time would greatly impact the size of the crowd.

I could tell she too was a SoundSession veteran. And was familiar with the vibe that magically transformed Westminster Street for a couple of days each summer. I understood that she, like me, desperately wanted to believe that SoundSession, like all of the other tried and true Rhode Island institutions, from the Bristol 4th of July celebration to Del's lemonade, was the same.

But it wasn't. And it will never be again.

The politics of how we got here? The hows and whos and whys? Fans don't know much. We all knew that last year was a transitional year for the festival. That another entity, Roots Cafe, had taken over the reins of SoundSession, from Providence Black Rep, the creative founding vision, who was responsible for the festival's incredible growth.

And, as with any new 'owner', whether it be of a music festival or a house, they were free to put their stamp on what didn't originally start out as their vision. No matter who agreed with them. Or who didn't.

"We're leaving because they canceled the procession," I said.

"Oh. But that's not until later--around ten," she said.

"Yeah. Usually. But this year, they canceled it," I said.

I thought the procession would always be part of SoundSession. It was written up as a highlight of the weekend in the Providence Journal (Music fest SoundSession stays close to its Roots, Providence Journal, July 12, 2012) two days prior to the festival. There were changes: a new route, a new time, but the marchers were the same. Or so it said in the official program. A festival volunteer gave us the bad news, when we inquired about the route, gesturing in the direction of the Hotel Providence, saying that tenants complained.

Canceled?! Wow. Aren't we forgetting that innovators like SoundSession were not only here first, but are a big part of the reason there's life downtown to enjoy.

I could tell that the woman in the fedora understood what this meant.

The procession was, to me, the soul of SoundSession. It lead concert goers from Waterplace Park, where an evening of free music typically kicked off the Saturday night festivities, through the streets of the city, to the heart of the celebration: a block party on Westminster Street, where the evening really started to get magical.

Here, under the white lights strung above the street, folks, of all races, ages and economic means, came together to literally dance in the streets. If you've lived in Providence for any piece of time, or the state of Rhode Island for that matter, you know this does not happen here.

Every year I was in awe of this collective spirit. As well as incredibly proud to be part of it.

But last weekend, something big shifted, because, as Lisa Champagne, of the host venue, The Roots, explained in the same Thursday, July 12th article in the Providence Journal, "the dancing-in-the-street aspect of SoundSession was getting uncontrollable. "

I'm sorry. I thought that was the point.

So streets were blocked off. And admission was charged. And so many people who once came out in droves, stayed home.

"And no one's there," I told the woman in the fedora. "No one wants to pay $7 to get in."

"Oh, but it's still early." I could tell that she was still holding out hope that my assessment was all wrong.

And then her friend pipped up. "There's a great saxophonist on at 9pm."

I knew what they were doing. How they were trying to find the positive in the situation. But I didn't have a bit of brightness to give them.

Then the woman with the fedora, decided we had chatted enough and it was time for them to move on. To see, and judge, the situation for themselves. She said, "Okay, then. Well, you have a blessed day, anyways."

I thanked her, wished her the same, then crossed to the other side of the street where my husband was waiting.

And I wondered. When the women retraced their path later in the evening, what were they feeling? Were they content with how their night played out, or had they decided the same thing as me?

That it was time to thank SoundSession for the memories--and then say good-bye.

Proud To Be An American

"I just looked and it don't say nothin' about no shirt collars," he drawled in a Southern accent to the other three people in his party, while proceeding to strip off his t-shirt.

At a fine dining restaurant. In a foreign country.

It took three full days before I got the show I'd been half expecting since our arrival in the Dominican Republic, courtesy of Ruston from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I was able to learn his name, because that's what his dining mates were calling him, as he continued, for at least half a hour, to attempt to disrupt our dinner.

And you wonder why people around the globe hate Americans.

At that moment, you could count me in.

Ruston was upset because he was initially denied service for wearing open-toed shoes. Apparently, he was not aware of the dress code, even though it was posted in multiple locations, including inside the room, and everyone else in the restaurant seemed to have gotten the memo.

His friend, clearly the Ruston whisperer, spoke to him quietly, requesting, in hushed tones, that he just go put some tennis shoes on because this was the only place they could eat.

"Yeah, but we're not going to give them a tip. We're not going to give them a tip if I have to walk two miles back to the room. No tip. No tip," Ruston said before storming off.

Like this was the end.

Ruston returned--even more agitated than before. His mood was no match for even his whisperer, who tried, unsuccessfully, to diffuse the situation with a hug. "I just caused $9,000 worth of damage to the landscaping between here and my room," he said, boasting to his friends about his vandalization spree.

And then, just in case, there were any doubts that he had already shown his ass, he opted to do it again.

In the form of his bare chest.

Why, Ruston? Why?

Oh, I know why.  Because you're from the greatest country in the world. A member of the military. You are the shit. And who tells you what to do and how to dress for dinner? No one. Especially these brown skinned people, who don't look like you and don't speak YOUR language.

Yes, Ruston, I too, am a citizen of the good 'ole US of A. I may speak your language. I may even be dressed in the clothing from an American mall. But, trust, Ruston, we are not the same.

The flan that I was eating for dessert? Delicious. My lack of enthusiasm from your inquiry had nothing to do with the quality of the treat, but from my complete disgust with how you chose to represent my people. And, Ruston, if you're somehow thinking that we share some sort of bond because we both call the US home, I can assure you, my man, we have nothing in common.

The kind of American that I want to be? The kind like my husband Andre, who took the Dominican waiter aside while we were leaving, to shake his hand. And tell him what an outstanding job he did.

In dealing with you.

Here She Is...

Did you happen to catch the Miss USA pageant on Sunday night? You know, the one that Miss Rhode Island--MISS RHODE ISLAND--won? Woot. Woot. Indeed, that was shocking enough 'round these parts, but more interesting to me was the final question posed to Miss Ohio, Audrey Bolte, by Judge Marilu Henner.

Henner asked, "Do you think women are depicted in movies and on television in an accurate and positive way? And please give us an example."

Miss Ohio, I got this one.

Granted, I'm not dealing with the high pressure stakes of live tv, but the answer seems real easy. An accurate or positive portrayal? Hell to the no. The no-brainer example: 'The Real Housewives' series on Bravo. When was the last time that you had screaming fests with your 'girlfriends', then continued to invite them over for a glass of wine, week after week?

Miss Ohio's take? Slightly different. Her reply:

"I think it depends on the movie. I think there are some movies that depict women in a very positive role and then some movies that put them in a little bit more of a negative role. But by the end of the movie, they show that woman power, that I know we all have. Such as the movie Pretty Woman. We had a wonderful, beautiful woman Julia Roberts, and she was having a rough time, but you know what, she came out on top and she didn't let anybody stay in her path."

Hmmm.

Initially, when I was alerted to this controversy, by my man on the pop culture scene, otherwise known as my husband, Andre, I was shocked and awed. And not in a good way. But the more I thought about it, the more that I realized that it wasn't Miss Ohio's fault that she chose this fairy tale of a streetwalker to illustrate the positive portrayal of women in film. At all.

It's ours.

My epiphany came courtesy of a recently viewed documentary called Miss Representation. Writer/director Jennifer Siebel Newsom sets out to examine and expose how mainstream media not only works as the most persuasive force in our country, but also contributes to shaping our cultural norms.

And not in a good way.

The overriding message that's being showcased over the airwaves? That a woman's value and power lie in her youth, beauty and sex appeal. Not her intelligence. Not her drive. Not her problem solving ability. Not her independence. And certainly not in her ability to work out of whatever her current predicament may be.

Without the help. Of Richard Gere.

There's a whole lot of reasons for this, but one, as explained by Miss Representation, is that only three percent of clout positions in mainstream media are held by women. So those Hollywood stories marketed as stories of female empowerment, aren't really stories of female empowerment after all. The same way that Pretty Woman, well, isn't.

And on a national stage, you, Miss Ohio just proved a powerful point. Only it wasn't the one that you were aiming for.

And Now A Word For The Graduates...

Watch out Class of 2012---I may just wander onto a podium near you. And read this:

Congratulations Class of 2012.

Yay! You did it.

Now savor it for a second. Okay, a weekend even, but for the love of god, please don't cap it off here. Go forth. Work on improving your bad-ass eighteen year or twenty-two-year-old self. Because if these are the best years of your life--forever--you're doing something wrong.

No seriously. Boo-hoo for you. Trust. You don't want to live in the past. There's a huge difference between reflecting back on your accomplishments and pining for your lost youth. Whatever your biggest achievement has been to date, you need to up it. Once, twice, three times shoot.

You don't want to be that forty-five-year-old dude, still basking in those glory days of high school. Go on, do the math. That's more than thirty years since said guy actually made some memories worth remembering. And is there any reason that depression is at an all time high?

The truth is, you don't have to lose your youthful spirit. Really. No, really. Those rules of adulthood? They'll try to creep in. The shoulds. The musts. But the truth is, outside of paying your mortgage on time, there really isn't a whole lot that's important. The other stuff? Just lame. Keep being curious. And enthusiastic. And wear a bikini as long as you can rock one.

You get the drill.

But the real secret? Always walk the path that's right for you. Easy enough? Eventually, maybe. But here's the thing. At the beginning, those who think they know what's best, for not only you, but for everyone else in this whole wide world, will be shouting the virtues of that traditional roadmap.

Yup. More of those shoulds. And musts.

Go ahead. Blame that genius, who once upon a time, decided that life doesn't fall oh so neatly in line when you're allowed to just play it out as an adventure. You need a guide. Or a series of carefully crafted benchmarks that generations before you, and generations after, have used to help them find their way. And gauge success. What's up next? Well, it all depends where you are on that timeline. You've got your education, or at least part of it. So it's on to a great job. Then marriage? Of course. House? Naturally. Kids? Why the hell not.

Keep to the plan and you can bet there will be no trouble. No conflict. No contest. It makes folks feel better when you're doing things at the same pace that you're 'supposed to.' It's when you start to deviate that you'll really start to shake people up. And make them feel uncomfortable. They'll start wondering what the hell is wrong with you. And why 'you' are not more like 'us.'

Take comfort in the discomfort, my friend, because that's how you'll know you're on the right track. That you're living life authentically. Going against the grain will make you stronger, for the simple reason that you'll have to define who you are. And own it. And shake off all of the people who just want you to be easy. And predictable. And 'normal.'

Because, really, where's the fun in that?