Stunemployment and The Luckiest Woman Alive
I am not a coal miner and I do not work at a manufacturing plant preparing to shut down. My job is not being taken by immigrants or made obsolete by technology. And yet, here I am, suddenly laid off after fifteen years with the organization I had come to think of as family. I am in shock — or, as I like to call it, “stunemployed.”
Yes, I am a white, middle aged, single mother with two teenage kids and a mortgage to pay, worried about my health insurance and impending college tuition. In that regard, I guess I fit the stereotype. But I do not live in the Rust Belt. In fact, I am part of the Washington, DC swamp that is now being drained. I have a master’s degree and — until next Friday — an office in sight of the Capitol dome.
No, I am not a high priced lobbyist or what we would call a “Beltway Bandit.” I have spent my career working in non-profit organizations for social causes. My salary has been paid, at times, by small checks from retirees and blue collar workers and other single moms like me, donating $10 a month to support their ideals. At other times, my salary has been paid by grants from the 1% — Bill Gates, George Soros, the Rockefellers and good old Uncle Sam, specifically the less than 1% of the federal budget that goes to foreign assistance.
I don’t come from money or from poverty. I just worked hard, obtained a good education and by most standards outside of our nation’s capital, I came to earn a very good income. In a sense, I have achieved the American dream — my children and I have never wanted for the basics in life and often are able to tack on some luxury items. But, I am the sole breadwinner in my family of three, with no child support and only modest savings. I have never been poor enough to qualify for state assistance, but am not of the income level to pay all my bills without a little juggling. I consider myself the face of America’s middle class.
So here I am now, staring off the edge of the cliff into potential financial doom. I have been given a generous severance package, but am keenly aware that I have limited time to find a job before the money runs out. I have never been in this position and it is scaring the hell out of me. What if I never find work? In more than thirty years, I have never been unemployed for more than a month at a time — brief periods of transition that were more like “funemployment.” This is decidedly not fun. I am older now, I have mouths to feed, and the job market here is highly competitive. What if the unthinkable happens?
And so I do not think of it. I am doggedly optimistic. I make a plan and begin to look for opportunities. I have an education and can always learn something new. I tell myself that this is a chance to step off that comfortable shore and explore new lands. Most of the time, with 3 am being the notable exception, I believe it.
The day I was told I would be among the dozen or so people in my office whose jobs were being eliminated, I was given the opportunity to take the day off or even the rest of the week. I chose to stay, as I have always believed that the way a person exits a job — or a relationship — speaks volumes about his character. I had work to do, a transition to begin, and I wanted to leave with grace, not slink from the building unnoticed — or as one fellow redundancy put it, “like an old dog being put out in the shed.” I wanted to maintain some dignity and control in a situation that was not at all of my choosing.
That afternoon, the president of the organization called a staff meeting to announce the reduction in forces, the shrinking budgets, the various measures being taken to cut costs. I stood among my colleagues somewhat anonymously as they wondered anxiously who was being laid off, hoped they weren’t among the unlucky few and then felt guilty for being grateful they weren’t. When the president asked if anyone had questions, the room fell silent. The tension climbed while morale visibly plummeted. That’s when I decided to step forward.
As I raised my hand to speak, I could see the executives in the front of the room grow a little uncomfortable. No doubt, they worried I would trash the leadership, complain about being unfairly treated, rally the crowd to rage against the machine. But they trusted me and gave me the microphone.
I announced to my colleagues, many of whom I had known long enough to watch their children grow up, that I was among the cadre soon to depart. An audible gasp rippled through the familiar faces and I began to choke up. I thanked them for the many years I’d had the privilege to work with them, I thanked the organization for its compassion and generosity in this difficult transition, and I focused on the positive change that I hope lies outside the company doors. The tone in the room shifted, and while sadness and shock were unmistakable, people seemed to feel strangely comforted by putting a face to the change. I learned a lot in that moment about the power of transparency and optimism.
Afterward, a rush of people came to lend their sympathy and support. People immediately began offering to introduce me to someone who might know someone who might be able to help. I got offers for lunch, a drink, coffee, and most important, perhaps, references. I was told that my remarks were gracious and that I was a class act — a compliment made less obvious when the crowd of mourners streamed into my office to toast farewell in paper cups from a bottle a friend brought by. As the calls and emails poured in from people, quite literally across the globe, who told me that I had touched their lives and changed the course of their careers, I felt a bit like George Bailey at the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” No man is a failure who has friends.
One of my colleagues said to me, somewhat sardonically, “That was like the Lou Gehrig of unemployment speeches.” The truth is that, as unnerving as this is and as afraid as I am, I felt in that moment and believe even now as I recall it, that I am indeed the luckiest woman alive. I wonder if they’ll retire my phone extension.
