Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
— The last lines of “New Colossus” the poem inscribed at the base of the Statue of Liberty, by Emma Lazarus

THE STATUE OF LIBERTY IS A SHINING SYMBOL of the American Dream — an idea that has its own meaning for each of us. For some it is the chance to better themselves. For others, it means owning a home or raising a family. For me, it starts with having a good job that pays the bills.

A few years ago I had a somewhat personal encounter with Lady Liberty and my pursuit of the American Dream. This is a tale of how she kicked me over one of life’s goalposts.

Over the years I have worked hard, played by the rules, and always felt the American Dream was within my grasp. When I faced obstacles I often relied on pithy observations containing general truths: “When one door closes, another opens,” or “Look for the silver lining” — and sometimes, “The harder I work, the luckier I get.”

An optimist, I believed that my next job was always just around the next corner, and often it was. That is, until I was laid off when I was in my fifties. As a seasoned teacher with many years of experience, the major hurdle I faced was the higher cost of hiring me compared with the much lower cost of selecting a newly credentialed teacher.

Even so, I gambled on beating the odds. I applied and got rejected from over 75 teaching positions.

Without a full-time teaching contract, I tried a collection of part-time jobs, including substitute teaching and evaluating student teachers. I rationalized that I was merely underemployed, not unemployed.

Among the beliefs I held was that a person who is out of work for a long time is not looking hard enough for their next job. As I approached two years of underemployment I finally ate my words. I took my own advice and geared up my job search efforts.

I started cold-calling possible employers and was soon offered a full-time job by the owner of several Liberty Tax Service offices. “You can be our business-to-business marketing person,” he said. I attended an orientation session where I was introduced as a “public relations” person. Next I was invited to report to work at one of the offices and was told that it opened at 10 a.m. So far, so good.

When I showed up exactly on time, the office manager pointed to a closet and said, “It’s over there.” And so it was. Peering inside, I found the green flowing robes and spiked foam headgear worn by Liberty Tax sign wavers.

As a former school teacher, I was conditioned to comply with directions first and then complain or file a grievance later. Besides, I’m a good sport. I donned the costume, picked up a rectangular sign, and marched outside where I joined my new co-worker, a young man dressed in the same costume.

As we waved our signs, we shared our life stories to pass the time. He was married with two young children and drove 30 miles to the job each day. I was grateful no one depended on me except myself.

I walked the sidewalks and waved my sign at the passing cars — some of which honked. For variety and relief from the car fumes, I walked through the strip mall and handed out Liberty Tax fliers to the shoppers. I smiled and some smiled back. Some avoided eye contact.

Two hours after starting this adventure I walked back to the tax office and said to the manager, “I have to go now. Thank you,” and fled out the door to the sanctuary of my car. Driving home, I nursed my wounded ego. A few weeks later a check for twenty dollars — ten dollars an hour — arrived in the mail. I didn’t call them, and they didn’t call me back, either.

I found no shortage of irony in briefly working for a firm whose image is the Statue of Liberty — the national icon symbolizing Americans’ aspirations for a better future. The morning I spent dressed as Lady Liberty inspired me to clarify what I didn’t want in a job. I surely didn’t want one that paid only ten dollars an hour.

In the weeks that followed, I doubled my efforts to find a “real job.” The more applications I made, the more interviews I got. It took several months, but eventually I became fully employed. One more time I caught the brass ring.

The late George Carlin once joked that it’s called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe in it. For me, however, I’m a believer. The American Dream is a good one, and I’m wide awake.

Kristine Mietzner organizes writing workshops and leads writing groups when she’s not out walking her golden retriever Max. “The Tideline” appears regularly in The Herald. She can be reached at kristine2770@yahoo.com.