You are not your job title - an open letter to people who lost their jobs today

Today 18 people lost their jobs at Luther Seminary. (More to come, they say.) Luther Seminary is where we lived for six years, where Bob got his degree, where I got my friends, and where the kids got their introduction to cross cultural education.

Last count is about two million people in the U.S.A. have been unemployed for 99 months or more.

They are my people.

Yes, I am gainfully employed. Yes, I have a decent salary and benefits. Yes, even at my age. Yes, we are fairly financially secure. (Never mind that we traded in spring break for a new dishwasher and other household repairs. We know that we are the lucky ones. All it takes is to look at average income data which I do all the time these days in my grant writing role.)

But I'll always align myself with the people who were dismissed, dissolved, terminated, eliminated, laid off, fired, resigned, or whatever the proper term du jour is. And I'll pretty much always believe it wasn't their fault. If there's one thing I wish I could say to all the people who lost their jobs today at Luther Seminary, or anywhere, it's this: it had nothing to do with you. It's about the leadership and lack thereof. However that's no solace at all because when you lose both your income and your sense of vocation in one fell swoop, it has everything to do with you. It's unfair. It sucks. And possibly the very worst part about it is how it affects your family.

I have a file in my personal email account called "Happy Sunny Future" in which I saved all the emails pertaining to my severance negotiations. It was a horrible process I likened to dealing with the devil. It's been approximately four years and two months since all that awful communication flew back and forth, and it still makes me feel sick, although less sick now. One of the conditions was that I couldn't write about my lay off or else my family would loose the departure allowance we depended on. So I didn't write about it, even though one of my MFA classmates said that whenever you're told not to write about something that's precisely what you should be writing about. The former employer bogeyman could still be out there, but right now I'm just feeling bad for the 18 people at Luther Seminary. And the two million people across the nation. And the uncounted people around the world with no source of income, and a ginormous source of self-doubt.

I remember when I got the first official email from the human resources director that would start the official negotiation. This email came a day after I'd been notified that my position was eliminated. I was prepared for that email, thanks to a wonderful job coach, but Bob wasn't. I knew that the email would come as a business letter that would delineate me as an outsider, even though just hours before I was an insider. I'd been an insider for over 15 years. (Red light.) Bob expected that first post-termination email from my former HR department to be on our side, to be personal, to be sympathetic. After all, it had been just been one year after the very same HR team had fought mightily for our insurance benefits to cover his liver failure medical expenses (insurance was trying to get out of it). You can imagine how grateful we were (are) for that. But still, when that email came and Bob opened it up only to find a cold hard business letter, it really bothered him. And it bothered me that it bothered him. I didn't care if they treated me like crap, but it made me sick that the foulness of the event infected my husband too. It's one thing for yourself to be ousted; it sucks that your whole family is ousted. Loosing your job is that.

And yet Bob was my financial safety net. What about those who have no financial safety net? Loosing your job is that too.

I don't know the story behind the Luther Seminary lay offs. I have a feeling it has something to do with incompetence and ego. It usually does, yet no one ever knows the full story. That's what I learned in my own process. There's a lot of secrecy and hush hush and blaming and bashing, but in the end no one really knows what happened except for the exact people who lost their jobs. Due to the fact that they are now outsiders, they no longer have credibility and so the truth floats away like a puff of cigarette smoke. After a while it doesn't matter. Until you think about the 2,000,018 people without work.

I wish I had some words of wisdom to offer to the out of work folks. I mostly don't, but there's a big part of me that wants to give it a try so here goes:

1. You are not your job title. Even if you didn't lose your job, I suggest you find a way to define yourself that is *not* your job title. You are so much more.

2. Apply for unemployment benefits immediately. Find out what else you qualify for. Fill out a form to get your kids on reduced school lunch fees. Apply for SNAP (food stamps). You paid into all this stuff and now it's your time to use it. Don't feel bad for one minute. You and your family need it.

3. Depend on the kindness of others. Ouch. This hurts us proud independent people. But if you can find a way to get help to pay the bills, accept it. Pay it forward when you can. The fact is, we need each other.

4. Network, network, network. After a week or so of absorbing the shock, get dressed and get out there and meet people. Networking is all about listening to other people and learning their stories. Contrary to popular belief, you don't even have to talk so much. Just show up and ask a couple questions. You can do it. Volunteer somewhere. Join a club. Get involved at church. Meeting people is the number one way you'll get a new job, I'm convinced.

5. You will survive and thrive. And you'll be stronger, smarter, and more creative than you were before. But don't worry about that now. For now, grieve. (I watched the entire boxed set of "Providence" in my pajamas with my lovely daughter. It felt good. Do something that feels good.) Don't drive yourself crazy with sorting out "fairness" and such. Make yourself move forward.

For whatever that's worth, I offer it up. My thoughts and prayers and strength goes out to all of you who lost a job today.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

Dynasty All Stars at the UCA All Star International Championship

On behalf of Girl Child, I'm pleased to present her competitive cheer team routine at a recent international competition, where they placed 5th out of 12 teams, worldwide. (She's the one in the pony tail.) Cheers!

"Help!" mimicked the talking bird.

Today's blog is about a parrot story
that creeped me out.

Hello my sweets,

Today, I uncovered a few Stephen King moments, as in the spooky novel, creepy story writer Stephen King. The nuggets of terror were so good, aka, so terrifying, that they must be noted for a writer who may one day choose to  incorporate them into a mystery thriller. (Probably not me, but I offer the nugget to you.)

Or maybe it's an Edgar Allan Poe nugget. And maybe I should keep it to myself in case I would ever write a short story. . .naw, never gonna happen. Here goes.

So today the "big" project I was telling you about was finally submitted. It was a big deal and I actually had to return to the site of submission twice (three times in total) before 1 p.m. to get it  right. Let's all say "BIG" three times in capital letters. In celebration, some colleagues and I went to lunch. (The Thai place in East Village. I had the garlic noodle special which was delicious.) Someday when I can, I'll tell you more about the big project. Honestly, I have a fantasy about calling the New Yorker and pitching a related story so they can put me on their payroll to write it up creatively, not technically. (Like I was Truman Capote or something.) The story is redemption personified, multiplied by 1,800.

But that's not the point of this blog post. The point of this blog post is the Stephen King nugget, the slice of  Edgar Allan Poe, the subject of our lunch conversation, among a group of us who deal with the abused, the addicted, the addled, the agitated. In this group, when beloved pets are weirdly connected to petrified human beings, we all get it.

Imagine this: a talking parrot rescued from a house with domestic violence 18 years ago. To this day, almost two decades later, the bird still perfectly mimics a woman's voice, "Help!"

I don't know about you, but that totally creeps me out. Or maybe I've just been writing too much about domestic violence lately (in a technical way).

The bird knows other phrases too like, "I'm watching you."

Apparently parrots inadvertently change words (like a feathery spell check). The nice, new, nonviolent owner taught the bird how to say, "See you in the morning!" in a happy tone of voice.

The parrot repeated, "See you in the morgue."

Some people believe that parrot can foretell the future. If you believe that, even a tiny bit, "See you in the morgue" doesn't sound like a peaceful night's sleep. (Although our home really did feel like a morgue when Bob's liver failed, so maybe I can use this material somewhere.)

Stephen, Edgar, are you getting this? Writers, do something with this. It's too good, and I don't have time. The ghost of that woman, whoever she is, wherever she is, continues to be echoed by that parrot.

>>insert Shirley Jackson, who should really be the one writing this short story

There you go. I leave you with that. And I thank you for coming over to my blog. Wishing you all a morgue-free evening of peace and tranquility.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

Hurdling trash while moving on up

If you're in Des Moines today, I hope you can stop by
Funky Finds Vintage & Retro. Think of me. 

Good morning lovely readers.

Today is vintage crawl day in Des Moines, a mid sized American city positively bursting with renaissance. Cultural activity busting loose. Artists, musicians, writers galore. For all the times I've been in the wrong place at the wrong time, we moved here at the right time.

Vintage lovers, here's the map to Vintage in the City, if you're able to check out all the cool shops popping up around town.

Me? I'm just eating my morning bowl of oatmeal (because it's Saturday I'm eating it in the kitchen, and not while driving through rush hour) and heading into the office. I am accepting offers of pity.

We are working on a big project. I've learned to mistrust supervisors and such who say they're working on a "big project" but trust me, this one is truly big. One day, I'll say more. How many people does it take to write a grant? I've lost count on this one. Blizzard? Crawl to work. Sick? Dayquil. Can't get out for lunch? Leftovers in the break room. There was a point on Thursday when I actually started roaming cubicals to see who else might be available to revise a chart. A generous colleague happily obliged. All of my co-workers have honored me by providing much, MUCH assistance in this big project, which was nothing more than a big pile of papers five days ago (because there was another big project due last week). As an fyi, I intended to use the word big seven times in a row. Not to brag, but I feel like we put together a full fledged graduate thesis paper in approximately 120 hours. And I'm really not bragging because it's been a team effort. In an action unheard of previous to yesterday, I gave my executive director an assignment and a deadline, requiring her to work over the weekend. If you know me, you know I generally do not tell my superiors what to do (which hasn't always worked in my favor, but I'm inherently old school with lines of authority, and well, I'm just plain old).

So this picture on the Funky Finds Vintage & Retro site cracked me up. Doing housework with white gloves and a treasure trove of garbage receptacle choices. Analyze that. I would if I had time, but seriously, I'm working on a big project and must go. I'm thinking of all the lucky people who are hopping vintage shops today. Wishing I was there. Hoping for the future.

Thanking you for coming over to my blog.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

She parallel parked a truck in the snow

Due to logistics beyond our control, Teen Girl got permission to drive the Dodge pickup (formerly owned by my brother) to school today. In the snow. And she parallel parked it. In the snow. She was born in Brooklyn, New York, but I think she's official Midwestern now. Or perhaps a dual citizen.

It happened like this.

Teen Girl works in the principal's office first period and thus hears all the secretary gossip. (I have a previous post on this somewhere in the blogosphere.) Today's gossip was that the substitute teachers had nowhere to park because too many students had parked in the teachers' lot. Probably because it was crappy weather (hello March, crappy weather is supposed to be over and out by now) and so there was no where else to park. Uh oh, that's where Teen Girl parked.

The secretaries called the police.

The designated policeman arrived.

The policeman  complained he's sick of writing tickets that people make him rip up. (He's got his problems too.) Today, there will be no ripping up of tickets. The officer of the law headed out to write the tickets. All this overheard by the student worker, aka Teen Girl.

"I have to go to the bathroom," said Teen Girl to her supervisors, knowing that the Dodge pickup she parked was about to get a ticket. Worse yet, knowing that she'd have to explain it to her father. (Play the Psycho shower scene music in your head starting now.) She was mortified at the possibility of presenting a $30 ticket to Bob, and the lecture about responsibility that would ensue. She quickly exited the den of gossip on the pretense of bladder control and headed straight out to repark the Dodge. No, she didn't merely "head out," she ran. That girl literally sprinted through the school's hallways and sidewalks and parking lots and snowbanks and past the police officer who was writing tickets just three vehicles away from the Dodge.

(Continue with high pitched crazy music in your head.)

She didn't even look at the police officer but went straight for the Dodge, started it up, backed out, and drove away in the knick of time. Then she found another spot, not in the teachers' parking lot, and parallel parked that truck. (In my family you don't call pickup "trucks" because we are a family of 18-wheel semi drivers and those things are trucks. But for purposes of impact, I'm calling it a truck here.)

Teen Girl successfully parallel parked the truck in the snow.

And arrived three minutes late for her next class. And was able to text a friend to warn her about the tickets.

The girl told me this story as we were buying shampoos and such for her competative cheer trip to Florida. Be impressed, yes. Feel sorry, no. Teen Girl is going to be quite alright. That girl can problem solve and she's headed to the sunshine.

Thanks so much for coming over to my blog! I hope you are all surviving this positively dreadful weather.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

Communicating Tasty Tacos

The silent child and the tantrum, er,
cheerful child. Both, the sunshine of my life.
That's all.

A couple weeks ago the woman who generously stands in as a localized Grandmother for our children, Garnet, took my 13-year-old son out for Tasty Tacos. Afterwards they went back to her apartment and played cards. I finally got a chance to thank her today. I told her he had a blast.

"Are you sure?' Garnet said. "He hardly talked to me the whole night, but I know he likes to win at table games."

"Yeah, I'm sure he had fun. He loves tacos, loves playing cards, and loves attention, so I'm sure he had fun," I told her. Plus, he had given the evening a rating of ten when I asked him for a scaled evaluation, a way for me to get information from him in a way he likes to give it: with one syllable.

"Don't worry," I consoled Garnet. "I took him to Chicago last summer and he didn't talk to me the whole weekend."

He didn't cry as a baby either and in fact was a dream infant, sleeping for 22 hours a pop from day one. Bob and I would go to bed at night and forget about him in the baby swing because he was so quiet. We'd be almost asleep -- exhausted from the other child who was more prone to delivering earsplitting tantrums for the whole neighborhood to enjoy, or maybe the whole department store -- when one of us would say, did you put the baby to bed? The other would respond, no, I didn't put the baby to bed, did you? Then one of us would have to drag our tired butt out of bed and slog downstairs to retrieve the tiny child from a darkened living room, a tiny child perfectly content to sit in the still chair of the swing, happily sitting in the dark.

Having a silent baby is wonderful. Having a silent teenager is another thing. Kind of a payback, I suppose. But I'm convinced it's not a teen-stage. It's a core personality trait.

It's the same trait that glommed him onto American Sign Language.

The same trait that attracts him to a public bus full of tired commuters.

The same trait that responds to a sick father with fullness of his body. When Bob's liver failed and he lay in our living room like he was in a coma for weeks and months, people came over to pray. I won't go into my misgivings about prayer, but I will say that it was very nice to have other human beings enter our dead zone of a home. My son was seven at the time and he didn't pray or question. While the visitor talked to God, the boy's instinct was to crawl onto the futon and lay next to Bob, burrowing into him as far as he could as though his body would personally deliver the prayer to the underside of Bob's skin, where vital functions tried so hard to work, but couldn't fully get it together.

When my son and I rode the Megabus to Chicago last summer, I kept thinking what a perfect travel-mate he made. He didn't say a peep the whole six hours from Des Moines to the Union Station, but was perfectly content to look out the window and eat Cheetos as cornfields flew by. I felt relieved for all the future airplane seat mates and other such people who might one day sit next to him and be glad he didn't strike up a conversation of small talk.

There's not much of a point to make here tonight. Just writing stuff. My mother said she missed my blog, which I thought was very nice. So, I'm making a greater effort to write and to write as though good writing doesn't matter.

Maybe that's why food is the universal language. Who needs to talk or write well when you've got tacos? I think we'll have tacos next week when my cooking team is up for the Beloved Community meal. Such is how my decision making goes.

Meanwhile, I asked my son if he wanted to take another trip with me to Chicago this summer. He responded yes. (And only yes.) Another four days of silence in the city. Such is how my meditative practise plays out.

Thanks for coming over to my blog, one that only a mother could love.

With love,

Terri