A Nomad's Journey: Lessons learned from a eclectic soul, is for anyone who ever hated working for someone else! It delves into the author's early adolescence growing up under the guidance of an extremely strict yet loving Cherokee ancestry grandmother, and a fiery and free spirited Scottish national mother. Professional experiences are shared as the author recounts lessons learned in a variety of short careers. The book concludes with the author realizing his passion to write and finally finishing the long awaited memoirs.

A Nomad's Journey

Lessons learned from an eclectic soulBy Alexander Amani

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Alexander Amani
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-8566-7

Contents

Foreword..........................................................viiPreface...........................................................ixChapter One: Twelfth Street.......................................1Chapter Two: High School Memories.................................9Chapter Three: America's Finest ... for free!.....................23Chapter Four: True Calling........................................47Chapter Five: Doing Time..........................................55Epilogue: The Journey Continues...................................87References........................................................91

Chapter One

Twelfth Street

My father was a US Naval Officer when he met my biological mother. A young cocky African-American naval officer, sporting a red 1970 Jaguar. Dating a white woman was an attention-getter in the sixties; even in California. Needless to say their marriage didn't last. I'm not sure if it had anything to do with the fact that when I was born in 1971, my dad was celebrating in a bar in Saigon (where coincidentally he met my stepmother). Or if it had to do with the fact that my mother wasn't physically or mentally ready to care for me. Either way, I believe in miracles and karma, which is why Twelfth Street is so prominent in my life. It was there that I grew up-Imperial Beach, California

James and Joann Arnold answered the door when that same cocky African-American Lieutenant came knocking. The way my grandma tells the story, my dad actually contacted a woman up the street who initially had started to baby-sit me. My father was going through the divorce with my biological mother and was attempting to balance naval commitments with raising a son. He was stationed in San Diego at the Oak Wood apartments. In any event, the woman, after watching me only once, told my father that she would no longer be able to do it.

She recommended a lady down the street named Mrs. Arnold. Anchors aweigh; I received my marching orders and away we went, as my dad negotiated a new arrangement. According to my grandma, the very first time he dropped me off he didn't return for a couple of days. Upon returning, an agreement was reached and Mrs. Arnold began formally watching me. It was a baby-sitting assignment that lasted from the time I was six months old until the time of her death, when I was fifteen.

I could easily write an entire book about my formative years with the Arnolds. For the purposes of this book, I will simply highlight some of the many, many remarkable memories of events that shaped some life lessons.

The best description I can use to describe my grandma, as she seemed to me, is: Cherokee Indian with the temper of a pit bull, the strength of a Lion and-most importantly-the soul of an angel. She was truly one in a million. I came to her physically and emotionally abused thanks to my biological mother's care. Promptly, my grandmother began God's work, caring for a little mulatto baby not her own. One of her favorite stories, she often told me, was that when she first started combing my hair she didn't know how or what to use. In a manner that was all her own, she grabbed the house vacuum and began to shape her grandson's hair.

Trust me when I say this story was told at every Tupperware party, wine get-together and any other event where my place in the Arnold clan was questioned by outsiders.

And it is this point that is one of the most meaningful for me. My grandma, grandpa, my sisters Phyllis, Alice and brothers Doug and Jim were 100% on board with me as one of their own. I make this point, because of the essential importance of self-identity in an individual's character; especially for young people. My first experiences with my biological mother could have shaped my personality in a way that scarred and embittered me. But my grandma made sure I couldn't use my early experiences as an excuse for failure.

She taught me three of the most important lessons in life. First, at all times to accord the proper respect compassion and decency to others regardless of: race, culture, sexual preference, and so on. It is their right as a member of the human race! Second, she drilled the ethic of hard work into my psyche. Both my grandparents set forth abundant examples.

My grandpa worked thirty-four years at Rohr Industries in Chula Vista, California as a supervisor. I can recall so vividly the sound of him getting up early in the morning. I listened as I stayed huddled under my warm blankets while he prepared for his long day. The last distinct sound I would always listen for was the unmistakable start of his little Toyota truck. I loved riding with him in that truck; although I didn't like many of his usual destinations.

My grandpa worked five days a week and then scheduled various side jobs. These side jobs consisted of just about anything. Once it involved building a custom bar for a customer and friend. Grandpa would take me to lay sod or build a chain link fence. Some of the longest days came underneath our very house, working on a plumbing joint or pipe. Whatever the job, my grandpa could do it all. And his customers knew it. Most customers were charged half price. For him, just like grandma, they were doing what they loved. They had found their passions!

The third lesson: education. My grandma's delivery method most certainly was not for the meek. And her learning strategies were not as fine-tuned and polite as Robert Marzano's Essential Nine elements for classroom instruction. She was, however, a pioneer in her time. She would encourage me to read by threatening that I'd grow up an illiterate. I trusted and hung on her every word. So for a while, I really thought that would be my fate. Fortunately, my step mother's lighter touch convinced and encouraged me to explore the world through books.

These three lessons, more than any other would become reoccurring themes as I grew up on Twelfth Street. I often watched as my brothers and sisters carried on with their daily lives, all the while including me in their activities. Sometimes, stories I shouldn't have overheard became exciting news I would inevitably surrender to my grandmother's all-knowing intuition and unyielding gaze.

A favorite story from my sister Phyllis, was how, as an elementary school student, I would come home bragging about something I did really well at school. Ironically however, on those days there would often be an unfortunate incident that would come through the door soon after I did. On these occasions, my grandma always sensed there would be a second, less uplifting sequel, to my fantastic news.

My elementary years were a foundation of corporal discipline and hard work. Mr. and Mrs. Arnold were very clear in their expectations of me to become a well-mannered, hard-working citizen. At the risk of writing an autobiography, rather than a short and straight memoir, I think it is important to lay an accurate foundation. In attempting to answer my friend Dave's earlier question about being competitive I have to acknowledge the furnace from which my personality was forged.

I remember one incident when my sister stayed out late one evening. She had been warned and yet did the unthinkable: she disobeyed grandma! Phyllis was in her early twenties and still lived at home. She worked at the Bank of America and was generally very responsible. However, on this particular occasion, she tested the old...