Successful?
What does that even mean?
Family myth had it that Great Grampa Nick, Dominic Salvatore Scalfaro, was the illegitimate son of a wealthy land-owner back in Italy.
According the story we were told as kids, Grampa Nick’s rich daddy had a number of children outside of the bonds of holy matrimony, not an uncommon occurrence in the 19th century. Rich Daddy was probably considered enlightened, generous, and smart by his peers since he paid for his illegitimate progeny (presumably only the males, of course) to attend a trade school and he then bought them a one way ticket to America.
Problem solved.
Supposedly young Nick arrived at Ellis Island at the tender age of 16 with less than $20 in his pockets, took one look at the New York City of nineteen-oh-something, and got the hell out of town. The story gets a little muddled here. According to ships’ manifests he came back to New York City again from Italy two years later. Most of his story died when he did at the age of 104 up in Silver Creek, New York, attended to by his young bride (she was 65 and he was 98 when they wed without saying anything to the family. Surprise!).
Who knows how much of the story is true?
It sure sounds good, though, right? Most of human history is the endless, convulsive story of movement, emigration, refugees, adventurers, and new arrivals and the resistance that usually greets them. The very word “immigration” has become a flash point in today’s larger conversation with images of desperate brown people fleeing from every direction of the globe to several perceived havens. And here we are, living in what used to be the Big Daddy of perceived havens: The United States of America.
Until I sold out and became a corporate wage slave a year ago I drafted and revised letters of recommendation for Aliens of Extraordinary Ability seeking work in the United States for three years on an O-1 visa. I would write the actual cover letter, or legal argument, pulling together all the evidence of extraordinary abilities (press is always good; lots and lots of clippings) into a compelling narrative argument that would wow some poor, worn out Immigration Agent sitting in Vermont. And this is how I’d get some deserving young film director, sculptor, photographer, editor, actor, dancer, musician, comedian, magician, stylist or graphic designer the highly prized visa. I marveled at the hoops these hungry young people were willing to jump through (and the scads of money they’re ready to pay) in order to have their shot at the Big Time.
And I just happened to be born here; easy peasy.
We’re all hungry to hit the Big Time; we just have different ideas of what that looks like and how to get there.
I grew up with visions of taking the New York City art scene by storm although by the time I was painting murals of the Cleveland skyline (three, count ’em, three skyscrapers!) on a series of barroom walls, my ambitions were deflating. And, thinking about it, I have jumped through some pretty tight and even pricey hoops myself to get where I am today. Just ask Sallie Mae.
Today I consider myself successful, even wildly successful. For a number of years I was able to support myself writing and now I get to pick up a decent enough haul of mad money each month here on Medium writing whatever I feel like writing.
I have fantastic friends and am no slouch myself in that department. My partner and I share life and art and sex and adventures and creativity and good food and afternoon naps and great films and, yes, long walks on Coney Island.
Until October I’ve got a 9 to 5 situation that doesn’t suck my soul dry and pays me what I consider a decent salary. Quite the coup for a former panhandler and petty thief.
And I got to use my talent to possibly open doors for other people who just wanted successful lives………..lives and definitions of success that are probably very different from my own.
What is success to you?
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