When One Door Closes

As someone whose professional career has been spent as a contracted employee for the federal government, this is the first time a government shutdown has directly affected me; in the words of my fifth grade teacher Mrs. Luftig, boy did I get a doozy. Usually when shutdowns happened, the military and contracted employees would still be able to come into the office. For every other shutdown, the contract I was on was fully funded, which meant business as usual. This time that lovely contract roulette wheel did not land in my favor. The contract I was on ended, and the new one was not in place when the clock struck twelve on October first.

To their credit, our organization's chief, an Air Force Lieutenant Colonel, and his government counterpart (AKA Blue Falcon), tried to exercise a six month extension to ensure we maintained the same pay and more importantly, to prevent future contract issues occuring when the fiscal year ended. This attempt was a rollercoaster in itself, with a discussion of their intent shared after a staff meeting in May, and continued reassurance that we would hear something in the months ahead. First, we were supposed to hear an update on the extension by June, then July. In July I traveled to Guam with the government counterpart and one of our test directors. One morning, the government guy came down to the hotel lobby looking dismayed. "I wish I hadn't checked my email," he said. I sensed this was about an change in the new contract, but I also knew as a contracted employee I couldn't outright ask for more information. By the time August came around and we were less than two months from the contract's end, skepticism rose, hope plummeted, and lunchtime chatter on the front porch of the extended trailer where we worked became more and more disgruntled. We speculated on the changes being negotiated, which positions would be cut, and which of us would be kicked off the island.

I also got updates from my manager who trusted me as the next in line whenever he was out of the office, or needed to sit down with me and pass on information that couldn't be widely shared. The contract extension discussions had gone south because the company and the government could not come to an agreement. The company wanted to eliminate certain employees, and the government wanted the company to receive less overhead from the contract. My manager had offered multiple solutions. We could take paycuts if certain employees worked 35 hours a week, the minimum allowed for employees to continue to receive full time benefits. His goal was to keep as many people there as we could as the work we had done that year was more than we had ever done in the span of a year, or when considering the pandemic, multiple years. As much as he tried, nothing stuck. One day he entered my office, shut the door, sat down and said, "The contract is fucked."

From what we knew, my manager's position would be eliminated. Our technical editor, the person who laid eyes on every written report our organization was supposed to deliver, was also eliminated. The facilities manager position was amended to include a 60 pound lifting requirement, knowing that the guy who had held the job for over 20 years had a 10 pound limit due to health issues. The individuals in these positions were the oldest members of our team, but age discrimination doesn't come into play when everyone loses their job at the end of a contract. There is no penalty for not asking these people to return, and no penalty for eliminating their jobs or adding requirements. This is a tangent in the story, but my inner justice warrior felt compelled to mention it anyway.

We learned there would be a 30% cut in funding and the addition of an "engineer type," because when you're cutting that much, it only makes sense to add a highly specialized and high salaried position to the team.

In our final month at work, morale was in the toilet. The government guy, bless his heart, announced that we would have a lunchtime cookout. Cookouts were popular because we had acquired a few grills on our site, our location was very much a "by invitation only" setting. There would be no surprise drop ins by high ranking individuals because one had to get through two controlled gates to reach our site. That said, some of the freedoms we enjoyed got nixed in the recent months. Our permission to telework one day a week was no more, our work hours became constrained, and no contractors were allowed to unlock the trailer in the morning or lock up for the night. We also weren't allowed to work the grill for cookouts, since these were work hours and grilling meat was not considered one of our "other duties as specified." Our subsequent non-cookouts meant cold fried chicken from Royal Farms and whatever else anyone could bring in after preparing it from home. For this short notice affair, I asked if we'd be allowed to use the grill. The answer was yes, and I took that as an indication of our impending doom.

The company contacted me for a couple of reasons unrelated to my job ending. For my three year company anniversary, I received a congratulatory email message including a code for $175 in company funny money to buy company-branded merch from their company store site. How timely, I thought, I have money to spend on something advertising a company I won't be working for much longer. Couldn't I just get the money? All they could say was no. I replied:

Is there any way to convert this to money as I am about to be laid off this Tuesday -- the contract I am on is ending and money would be more useful than {company} merch.

The answer, dressed up in sympathy and understanding, was (of course), no. The Monday before my last day I picked a set of over-the-ear company-branded headphones that would use up most of the $175 without going over the designated amount, and I ordered them. Yes, the value was inflated (I price checked the cost of the non-company-branded version of the headphones), and yes, I already owned a pretty good set of over-the-ear headphones that worked just fine, but this is capitalism, isn't it? Even if you don't want or need the thing, we will compel you to get the thing. I selected two day shipping. Do you think my unneeded but ordered anyway three year anniversary reward over-the-ear company-branded headphones ever arrived? If you guessed no, you would be correct. (UPDATE: over two months after ordering, I received an email message from FedEx that my shipment was arriving. If you guessed this aforementioned shipment contained the company-I-no-longer-work-for-branded headphones, you guessed correct)

The next insult to injury was another company message received exactly one week before our contract was due to end, informing me that I had been nominated for the company's “People Powering Possible,” which was described as a series where we highlight and celebrate interesting, diverse and impactful employees through short profiles published on LinkedIn. I'd seen these profiles before, they would feature a nice headshot of the individual with their first name, last initial (Severance innie style) and a quote. Oh, so I was expected to use my personal social media profile to advertise for the company. Cool, cool. I replied:

Thanks for reaching out but my contract is ending on 30 September so I won't be a {company} employee for much longer.

You could practically hear the sad trombone at the end of that sentence. The person who emailed me quickly replied with her apologies that they won't get to feature me on social media, along with well wishes for my job search.

The final company gesture came in the form of a farewell lunch. The upper management mostly left us alone. The person assigned as program manager would come to our site for short discussions with the organizational leaders but no real engaging with the worker bees. I've worked for many contract companies and this is my long lasting resentment towards them. The reason the corporate types receive a salary is because of the contracts, the people actually doing the work, but we get treated like we're dispensable.

We joked that the lunch would be a pizza party, however I knew from experience it would be catered Panera in the conference room. I wish I'd taken bets because that's exactly what it was. Our company president and our higher level manager descended to our site for a final outbrief with our organizational leadership and their box of sandwiches and chips. I noticed the president had a salad from Panera, which spurred me to fetch my own salad from the breakroom, thinking, Too good to eat sandwiches like the rest of us, eh buddy? I'll show you! I later learned he was gluten intolerant but even so, as a leader, optics matter.

This lunch was filled with talk from our program manager, who regaled us with stories of ski vacations and piping in with "that's amazing," any time one of us peons chimed in to add something. One of my coworkers said later how out of touch it was to describe a ski vacation when some of us would never be able to afford that. Right before they departed, the president stood up and let us know the company would cover our healthcare premiums for October, which I appreciated. He should have led with that, and read the room. Leaving the box of sandwiches on the conference room table, thanking us for our work and exiting stage left would have been preferable to an hour of unsolicited small talk.

The final farewell lunch for our team was on the last day of the contract. We went to our usual group lunch spot, a Mexican/Salvadoran spot with dim lighting and dusty velveteen sombreros on the wall, and sat together as a team one last time. A couple of us ordered margaritas, and we presented our manager with a gift, flowers and a birthday card (his birthday was the following day, and coincided with the end of our contract).

In all of my professional experience, I had stuck around in this job the longest because I liked the work, I enjoyed the location and because my manager always emphasized that personal life always took priority over work, and he meant it. I'd gone through my separation and divorce at that job, sometimes feeling severely impeded by my personal life, and he never held it against me. He was not going to be the guy watching the clock to take note of when I arrived, or scolding me for a mistake. In over two decades of professional experience working with managers, not every manager was a leader, and while my manager wasn't perfect, he was considerate. In my interview with him seven years ago, I stated that I wanted to come to work and not feel dread when I pulled into the parking lot, and while that may seem like a low bar, I was actually asking for a peaceful workplace. Most of the time he succeeded as the buffer to ensure that we all had that. He'd been working there over 20 years and this last gathering of our team did not feel like an adequate thank you. He thanked us, and told us not to sell ourselves short, and to reach out to each other if we were struggling. Our group had our pockets of dysfunction, but it was far better environment than anywhere I had worked in the past.

After lunch, some of us returned to the site and the rest of us took off to go home. I had already turned in my keys and access card so I had no reason to go back. I had also cleaned out my office and taken things home over several weeks, a tactic I've named the "Andy Dufresne shuffle." I scolded myself for allowing myself to get so comfortable that I needed to make multiple trips to get everything home. I told myself if I returned, I'd keep a more spartan set up, something that allowed everything personal to be removed in one trip. This is a lesson I have had to constantly re-learn, to not allow myself to get too comfortable or settled in a job, especially given the temporary and sometimes volatile nature of contract work.

My resume is in the pile for the new contract, whenever that starts. I've applied for other positions. A friend who started her own company has assured me that she is developing a proposal which will include me. I may return to my old job, but I know with my manager gone and others on our team with job prospects, it will not be the same as it was before. I don't want to look at a closed door for so long that I miss the opening of a new one.

Feminine Energy Doesn't Pay The Bills

In the past year, I've seen a lot of commentary (okay, usually on a social media "reel") about what men have to do to make sure their woman remains "in her feminine energy." I think I get the gist; in non gender identifying language, the implication is that the man needs to ensure he is a safe environment so the woman can feel relaxed. My skeptical side sees how this language became gendered and the implications that surround applying a gender to one's "energy" become a slippery slope.

This kind of language then gets applied to life. Several years ago, my individual therapist informed me there was a backlash against "independent women." It sounded so fringe and bizarre to me at the time (about six years ago, I didn't even know about the term "manosphere" then). Who wouldn't want an independent woman? Who wouldn't want someone who arrives capable of paying their own bills and looking after themselves? This sounds like a perk, not a handicap. The increase in articles about the "male loneliness epidemic" occuring at a time when women finally have enough freedom to be able to support themselves is not a coincidence. In my own later in life single experience, I prefer someone who is solid company and consistent in treating me well. If they are also able to buy nice things, that's a perk, but not a requirement at the top of the list. The man has to provide, but when we shift from financial to emotional providing, it's treated as an impossible, unreasonable ask.

The backlash becomes tearing down women. We're "masculine" for simply being adults living on our own and paying all of our bills; for not needing a man. That's a sad statement; being needed is a low bar. Why not strive to be wanted, to be valuable in presence and not only for a paycheck? Much of the message to men is simply to not be like women. When we mind our own business, women get threats like, "Have fun dying alone with all of your cats." Women finally see this isn't the insult it's intended to be; 1) dying alone with cats (in peace) isn't the worst thing in the world and 2) see "male loneliness epidemic." It's all projection.

There's hand wringing about women earning degrees in higher numbers than men. When you hear whispers of ending no fault divorce or public figures stating out loud that they support one vote per household alarm bells should be sounding. When you have to hobble half of the population to hold on to power, that's not a win. I'm reminded of the white people whining hypothesis in the '80's and '90's that black people possess an unfair athletic advantage because enslaved people were "bred" to be stronger. The retort to that complaint was simple: elevate your game. Go to therapy. Learn how to have a healthy relationship. Confide in your friends (if you don't have any, make some). Stop treating sex like an act of domination. Unlearn the societal script that tells us women are inferior to men. Challenge the thought that anything leaning "feminine" (to include feelings) is to be mocked or disparaged. Insecurity commonly masquerades as superiority and gives itself permission to step on others in order to stay on top.

I'm not "masculine" for earning a salary that allows me to pay my bills without a man. I don't know when being an independent adult became equivalent to having XY chromosomes. I don't know why anyone would pine for the days when women were more like hostages than equal partners in their marriages. When we encounter opinion pieces asking if women ruined the workplace, I'm reminded of the blame Eve gets for ruining paradise. Women also got blamed for "ruining" the Service academies, the military, and every other realm where we were previously prohibited from entering. Instead of examining whether these places were ideal in the first place, or seeing what women added to improve things, by default, accommodating women is seen as a loss. What we fail to address is how everyone loses when women are expected to sacrifice their ambition, potential, rights and self worth so men can succeed.

When your mother shows up.

I posted the story of my first period a few days ago; the story encapsulates my deepest disappointment in my mother for not doing more to ensure I was comfortable. Out of guilt and/or a desire to be fair in showing she wasn't always falling short, I'm going to share a story of a time when she came through for me.

When some families had weekend traditions like volunteering or going to church, mine had the tradition of going to the mall to shop on weekends. Sometimes these trips included major purchases, but mostly they consisted of browsing familiar haunts. When all four of us would go, often my sister and I were released and everyone went their own ways with the understanding that we would meet at a designated spot at a specific time when it was time to go home. This was life before cell phones, and a life that required watch wearing, or being brave enough to ask someone what time it was. After my sister joined the Air Force and started her own adult life, we moved to California and the weekend outings continued. Sometimes this meant I was left to my own devices during our family "shopping together apart" time. During my sophomore year in high school, one of these outings resulted in me meeting a guy who was out with his friend. After some small talk, he asked for my phone number and I gave it to him, not because I had actively decided that I was interested, but because I had bought into the idea that any attention of a reasonably good enough looking guy was a good enough reason to share your contact information. There was minimal decision making on my part because what was the harm, right? This was how people met. This was how you get a boyfriend.

He was black, a highly uncommon demographic in my high school. He wasn't bad looking. His name was Ulysses (middle name "Grant," I kid you not) and he lived in East Palo Alto which was, at the time, a notoriously dicey bay area town adjacent to Palo Alto, home of Stanford University and a lot of rich people. In remembering events, I realized we'd met before I was licensed to drive and took the bus from Half Moon Bay to San Mateo to meet up with him for a movie date (Dark Man, starring Liam Neeson, thank you IMDB). That was the extent of our relationship. When the movie was over, we talked for a little while, but my primary concern was catching my bus to get home.

Two and a half years later, I was a senior in high school and prom (at some point between my sister's prom and mine, we all stopped calling it "the Prom") was on the horizon. I wanted to go as to not miss out on a milestone high school experience. My dad had died a few months before, and there was a high school classmate interested in asking me out (which I knew through our mutual friends), but I did not want to deal with rejecting him. Instead, over the phone, Ulysses invited himself to be my date.

It seemed like a good enough solution to my dilemma. Looking back, I wish I had invited my best friend or attended in a friend group. I hated that we were expected to pair up with a boy in order to enjoy a night out in a gown and enjoy some time on the dance floor. I hated the wedding like mimicry of couples' poses and pairing up in this transient way that felt like a grab for status. Those who had a date got to go to the ball, and the have-nots stayed home. I hate that I did not have the ability to deconstruct what I had unknowingly internalized without question. I said yes.

Ulysses did not have a way to get himself from East Palo Alto to my home in El Granada, so I drove to pick him up. I arrived at his apartment building, where we went inside to gather the tuxedo he'd rented. He was sipping a lemon Snapple when I got there, and I remember thinking his breath was tart, but I said nothing. We got into the car and I drove us back "over the hill" on highway 92 that crossed the Santa Cruz Mountains and led to the coast.

We got ready at my house. My mom had helped me choose my entire ensemble, a blue violet tea length off the shoulder velvet dress with dainty black velvet mules and a necklace and earrings she'd lent me from her collection. I guess we'd also given Ulysses a room to get himself ready; I didn't remember. He did not have a corsage for me.

My mom drove us to my friend's house, where the limo was supposed to pick us up. There were two other couples, and we had split the cost of the limo and agreed to have dinner before heading to the San Francisco hotel ballroom hosting our prom (theme: I'd Die Without You, by P.M. Dawn -- what angsty teen chose this? I'll never know.).

What I remember: Ulysses had no money for dinner. We had to split a pasta plate Lady and the Tramp style, which I covered using my saved up earnings from my job as a library page. By the time we arrived at the hotel for the actual prom I was experiencing deep regret. I didn't know this guy, and I had not paused to think about what I actually wanted for myself with this milestone experience beyond getting dressed up and looking pretty. What I did know: I did not want to be around this guy. When we took formal photos, you could actually see me leaning away, because not only did his breath smell, his cologne did not mask his blossoming body odor. He had looked good in the store when I was 15, and now I was experiencing buyer's remorse.

Prom ended with the six of us outside, waiting for the limo to fetch us for the return trip home. Ulysses kept trying to lean in for a kiss and I kept dodging. I dreaded having to make that long drive back to drop him off. My mother got us from the limo drop off point, and when we got home, she told me she would be driving him back. She and I took up the front seats while he sat in the back. I had never been so thankful in my life. It was just the two of us in the house now, and we were both adjusting to the loss of my dad. I had seen how quickly she took action the morning after he died; selecting flower arrangements, notifying relatives and coworkers, and organizing the funeral. She didn't believe in keeping a body on ice for weeks which meant there were only a couple of days between his death and the funeral. She was good in a crisis, and I sometimes wonder what she might have been able to do with that skill if she'd established a professional career.

This was no different, and we dropped off Ulysses and went home. She never criticized my choice or asked what I had expected from that night. I think she must have seen the disappointment on my face and knew to step in and (literally) take the wheel. I regret not voicing my gratitude much later in life, so she could understand there was a time when she'd done something exactly right as my mother. This time she was the mother I needed, and I will always be grateful for that.