I have a bubble umbrella. It is big and clear and I love it.

The first time I saw a bubble umbrella I was nine years old and it was being wielded with incredible finesse and class by a hooker on Halsted Street in Chicago . I was immediately taken by it; It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It made such a statement. LOOK AT ME. I AM FIGHTING THE RAIN WITH STYLE AND ELEGANCE. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized a clear bubble umbrella was not the accoutrement of a classy lady. But I digress.

It was only a few weeks ago that I had taken shelter from an unrelenting rain in my local Urban Outfitters – a place  so wholly unlike any other store in that  I can blow my entire paycheck without quite realizing it along the way. At the Apple store? Shit, I know my paycheck is gone. Target? Most definitely. Williams-Sonoma? It’s as if my paycheck never existed. (Why yes, I did pay $8 for a stainless steel pastry scraper. And yes, it is as pointless a product as it sounds.) But everything at Urban Outfitters is always on sale, and yet I somehow still manage to spend like $140 every time I’m in there. On what? Things like bubble umbrellas, of course!

So, I’m perusing my local UO, and behind the register’s little counter area is a stash of bubble umbrellas. I ask if they’re on sale, and needlessly ask the cost. (I would have bought one had it been $430. See above) For $18 this little piece of style, elegance, and trashy hookerdom could be mine! By now, I’ve already accepted that bubble umbrellas are indeed a classless affair. Which is why I tell my friend Janel that owning one constitutes prostitution. But, again, I digress.

$18  and a one fulfilled childhood dream later,  I embarked on campus shielded from the cool rain under my precious bubble. Now, I’ve never been accused of being a small person. I am, in many respects, a big boy. I’ve never had a big (ha, wordplay!) problem with my size, but when a big, loud, gay man starts carrying a clear plastic bubble umbrella, you start to illicit some looks. Not that I mind. The bubble umbrella joins a tiny top hat, a checkered pink scarf, and knee-high Chuck Taylor boots in my ridiculous props collection. (Sidenote: Props = Accessories)

Like my other props, my bubble umbrella tends to make an announcement other than LOOK AT ME. I AM FIGHTING THE RAIN WITH STYLE AND ELEGANCE. No, it announces something along the lines of: LOOK AT THIS GIGANTIC RAGING HOMOSEXUAL. Not that I have a problem with that. If I did, I probably wouldn’t have bought a god damned bubble umbrella. Now, associating material objects with identity is a subject for an entirely different time, so we’ll talk more on that later.

I’m going to come back to the bubble umbrella in a moment but let’s take a moment to talk about my employment situation. At any given time, I have at least two jobs – usually three and sometimes four. During the school year I work as a Resident Advisor, caring for and nurturing fifty-your new college freshman and molding them into respectable, responsible young men.

ROFL LOL YEAH RIGHT

Mostly, I make sure they don’t choke on their own vomit after a particularly potent bender. This job takes care of my housing and the small stipend I receive covers what few bills I have. I have another job with a campus college, working in a technology office troubleshooting computers and peripherals for faculty, staff, and students. It’s a job that provides me with money to buy things like alcohol, props, and bubble umbrellas. I love my job there, because we are laid back and are generally “cool” with each other. Though it isn’t as honky-dory, open-arms, yay-omg-social-justice as my job with housing (and really, no job ever will be) I never have to feel like I need to tone down my appearance or altar who I am as a person to “fit in” or “be accepted” there. My knee-high boots do garner some looks from the faculty, but I always feel comfortable there. Even though I work with and interact with a number of area residents, who have been incorrectly and unfairly labeled ignorant townies by campus elitists.

That being said, I recently started a new job that differs greatly in tone. I decided to stay in Urbana-Champaign for a number of reasons, most of them very, very stupid, but I’ve still enjoyed my time here thus far. Anyway, I found myself working part-time at my technology job, with not enough cash to cover my luxurious lifestyle (i.e. brand name cheese and air conditioning). I searched out another job, and landed one with our campus’ central technology office essentially doing the same thing I do at the campus college just on a broader scale. The people that work there can be categorized into two groups:

1. Pasty pale geeks. Very stereotypical when thinking of a computer nerds.

2. Douchey white guys that happen to know a thing or two about computers.

That’s it. There is no one else that works there. (Well, except for Alpha Gay. A gay boy who introduced himself to me as “the only gay guy working here.” I told him that was no longer the case and he scoffed. Thus his nickname: Alpha Gay) These two groups even sit divisively. I straddle the middle with the token Asian.

My point is that this place doesn’t feel very inclusive. Everyone is white. I’m the only person of color, and had Alpha Gay not introduced himself as such I would have assumed I was the only Queer person there as well. Alpha Gay dresses, talks, and acts like any typical frat boy crooked hat and all. But again, not feeling the inclusivity. I don’t think I would wear my knee-high boots, or rock the little top hat. Mostly because I think it would illicit a negative reaction from my coworkers. I think I would make them uncomfortable. Which is why when campus was struck with heavy rainfall the other day, I opted for my plain ol’ blue vinyl umbrella. Sure, it got the job done and I stayed dry, but it felt very un-Mykal. Un-me.

And it got me thinking. Why did I take that umbrella? I like the bubble umbrella so much better. Am I, on some level, closeting myself? Can an umbrella do that? Is that umbrella part of my identity? Am I over-thinking everything?

I don’t have the answers to most (shit, any) of those questions. But, the next time it rains, I’ve decided to take my bubble umbrella.

So, a few weeks ago I began my first internship. Truthishly (hopefully you’ve seen the Family Guy episode where this word originated, otherwise I just look like an illiterate idiot – which I’m not, I promise.) I’ve never been an intern, so I had absoltely no idea what to expect. Would I be getting coffee all day? Expected to contribute in meetings and generate new ideas? I guess I’ve seen one too many movies with interns to hold any sort of stable concept of what one should do. As it turns out, I’ve landed somewhere in the middle. I work for a television station in Chicago (the Nation’s third-largest market, I’ve been told repeatedly) for both Programming and Promotions. On most days. I’m fiddling with schedules and listings, poring over ratings and making sure we haven’t violated some horrifically-complicated syndication contract.  I’ve never been asked to fetch coffee (or file anything, praise Jesus), no one has ever given me his/her lunch order, everyone’s remembered my name, and no one’s referred to me as “the intern.” I’m simply Mykal, which is always nice.

Sadly, because I work in television, THE ECONOMY is an overbearing presence in my office. One of my favorite co-workers was recently laid off. (Not to mention, I now complete most of her duties). A slew of people in the newsroom and production were recently laid-off, as well; The office’s already-low morale has dropped even further. What I’m told was once a lively and bustling little community of co-workers is kind of dreary and quiet. My manager has taken an instant liking to me, and she shares with me the sordid office gossip that you just know a dramawhore such as myself lives off of. So that’s an obvious plus. Mostly, though, I enjoy being able to walk in the studio whenever I please, take a gander at the newsroom, take a gawk and whomever’s appearing on the news that morning. The perks, while they may seem small to you, send me into a tiny fit of excitement. Mainly because it makes me feel special.

Coupled with this most pleasant job, is a job that pays in cash money, as opposed to academic credit hours. For the third consecutive summer, I find myself empoyed by the Goodwill. It isn’t that I hate my job, or anything. I just don’t enjoy going. The customers are rude. Management displays heinous and blatant favoritism – which usually isn’t a problem, except one assistant manager doesn’t like me. 90% of my co-workers are apathetic and I end up working harder to balance them out. It’s just a shitty place to be employed. I think I applied at every retailer in my area, and NO ONE called me back. Asshelmets. I guess I should be glad to have a job, right? I guess.