The Definition of Happiness
A personal discovery on what happiness is NOT.
In 1994, I was 15 years old, skinny as hell, and broke. Up until that point, my friends and I ran the streets doing dumb teenage shit like walking up to Washington Square Mall on Halsted where Diana Theater was located.
There were four of us — but only one of us paid. That person would buy a ticket and head on over to the bathroom that was conveniently located next to the emergency exit. He’d open the door which would trigger the loud-ass emergency buzzer and we would all retreat into the adjacent bathroom like little roaches where we’d laugh like we got away with murder.
A few minutes later, we’d file out of the bathroom with straight faces like nothing ever happened and into the movie theater. After that movie ended and let out, we would just walk right into the next theater to see another movie. We’d do that all damn day — seeing three or four movies with only one of us having paid a lousy ass dollar.
It was fun.
When I wasn’t at the movie theater sneaking into the backdoor, I was walking down the street with my friends to nowhere in particular. We would do dumb shit like see a police squad car, then conspire to take off running when they got close enough even though we didn’t do anything wrong…but knowing they would give chase.
They’d catch us. And they’d be super-pissed that we made them run after us for no damn reason.
Other times, they had good reason to chase us our stupid asses.
On the way to Markham Skating Rink, one of us would push cars until their alarms went off. Before you know it, the whole damn neighborhood was beeping and honking with lights flashing. We’d turn the corner of the alley laughing our damn asses off — until we see the same police we tormented with meaningless chases pointing their guns at us and demanding we get on the ground.
I’m surprised our dumbasses didn’t get shot back then.
But in hindsight, it was still fun. 1994 was fun. 1994 was also a turning point in my life.
I was broke. And coming of age. After running the streets all day, I still returned to a home where the fridge was often empty because my mother struggled to make ends meet to take care of me and my two siblings. So in the summer of 1994, I walked a few miles to Calumet Country Club to see about a job.
No interview was necessary. Just a willingness to do the most with the opportunity. And so I was given a shot to train and become a golf caddy.
That I did.
My very first run on the course was on an extremely hot damn day in July. It was humid and I could feel the Sun smacking the shit outta me in the damn face. I remember feeling incredibly nervous and feeling like I was being judged. There I was, a caddy for a group of professional older white men. And I was just a Puerto Rican kid with a half-assed bald cut, thick glasses, and a complete look of cluelessness. I felt totally out of my element. It was enough to make me quit and try something else.
But I didn’t quit.
I needed cash.
So I pushed through the lack of comfort I was feeling mentally and physically and tried my damnedest to do the job to the best of my ability. I wish I could say my earnest dedication to the job led me to be the greatest caddy ever. But the truth is I sucked way hard and ended up doing shit like giving the golfers the wrong damn yardage, incorrect clubs, and losing the ball in the rough multiple times…it was a gawd awful shit show. And working for tips and tips only, I didn’t expect to receive much of anything at the end of our run. In fact, the only tip I expected to receive was, “Yeah, this isn’t for you, kid. Beat it…and stop shaving your head bald.”
Yet, after finishing up the 18th hole, one of the men asked me if I would mind staying on while they played their way back to the clubhouse. I was confused at why they would want me f*cking their game up any more than I already had — but hell, I accepted the offer.
And with that, they played an additional two holes and just like the first 18 holes, I managed to f*ck up yardage and lose the ball in the rough. I guess in the end, I didn’t do as bad as I thought because once we got back to the clubhouse — they each gave me money in tips. First one guy, then the next, then another. I left the course with $100 in my pocket.
I was beaming!
I never had that kind of money in my hand before. It’s almost laughable looking back at it now as a 44-year-old man. But then? It felt powerful. It felt strangely regal. Sure, the walk back home sucked after having worked for 4–5 hours in the hot ass July heat. But that money was a helluva distraction. And with each step I took, my destiny played a million times in my head on the way back to the house: What was I going to spend my fortune on first?
Walking into the door. Tired. Hot. I walked straight over to my mama and gave her like $20 to buy a couple of things to toss in the fridge.
And she did.
That night, while eating dinner, it hit me that on that particular night, we were eating it because of me. I’m sure my mama would have managed to make do like she always had to that point. But this time, she didn't have to worry herself with where our meal was gonna come from. Nor did she have to get clever with how she was gonna make rice and chicken wings stretch to feed herself and three growing kids.
That day. During that exact moment. I truly believe I became a man.
I associated happiness with working my ass off. And it’s something I’ve been doing and chasing ever since.
What I know now that I didn’t quite realize then is that happiness isn’t one definitive place of materialism in life that we all are trying to trip over ourselves to get to. It sure as f*ck isn’t $100 in tips from white men playing golf. It isn’t rice or chicken wings either.
Happiness is a feeling of personal euphoria where absolutely nothing else matters — even for a split second.
Every single damn day of our lives we are in hot pursuit of being able to feel happy. And to date, I’ve felt it on many occasions at varying levels. But you know what the wild part of all this is? Before I started writing and before I started working at my company…before I was in the Marines and before my children were born. Before I started working. Before I became the worst gawd damn golf caddy to make a hundred bucks…
…I was happy just living, dawg.
Nothing has never not mattered as much as it didn’t then. Going to the skating rink and hoopin’ and sneaking into movies on Halsted with my friends.
I miss that.
But right now, life just keeps getting in the damn way. So I say this to all of those people out there who can’t seem to find happiness no matter how hard they try: you work for tomorrow — but you live for today.
