Later this morning, I will be signing an offer letter to begin at my new place of employment next week. I’m finally off the bread line, and couldn’t be more excited to get started.
During this period, I said I wouldn’t compromise. Of course, I did. We all do to an extent: we do or we die. That said, life isn’t about whether or not we compromise, but for what we compromise. The job I was hired for wasn’t exactly the position I wanted, but it is the best fit for the time being within that firm with real opportunity to move up and around into something more suited to my talents and work-related skill set. Those things are already out in the open, almost mutually expected, and that gives me hope and drive to succeed.
The funny thing about this series of events is that I applied for a few positions with this company shortly after being dispatched from The Man’s employ. A recruiter was intrigued enough to give me a call and discuss other opportunities with the firm, and it’s been a four-month dance culminating today. At first, I applied here as a safety net, as we were unwilling to depart from Mecca, then as an anything-but-Plan-A, as we were unwilling to depart from Mecca to return to God’s Country. A recruiter and I went through something like seven or eight roles before settling on getting me in and seeing where we can go from there. And it’s a great company; a locally-based boutique subsidiary under the umbrella of a major corporation with an obvious values-based, employee-centric ethos. The pay’s not quite there, not yet, at least, but it will most certainly work for now, and the benefits are comparable to what the The Man provided. And clearly, they saw something in my resume package that was worth fighting for weeks over.
At one point, I had over fifty resumes and applications out, from Texas to Kansas to Minnesota to Ohio. Every single one of them either said no, or Ric Flair lowballed me with what they were offering. It’s nice to be wanted, and it’s nice to be treated with dignity.
While I’m here, it warrants mentioning that any talk of a real economic recovery is absolutely bogus, and there isn’t a single person anywhere on the political sphere–it’s a circle, not a line–who deserves to talk about working families or the unemployed. Many of the jobs out there right now are high attrition, meager pay, low ceiling positions, or, the very roles that were always there regardless of economic climate. The best jobs are taken by those with experience–there were more than a few responses from potential employers who loved me and what I had to offer, but couldn’t find it within them to pull the trigger on someone they had to fully train–and held on to by those who tacitly understand that the grass isn’t greener anywhere else right now. Markets might be booming, but so are gas prices, groceries, and other things that are exposed to inflation. Any talk of recovery is either from someone thoroughly punch drunk on their own kool-aid, or trolling for low-information votes from low-information voters.
I’m fortunate to have found work within 100 days of my dismissal, and I will never forget that there are some who have been out in the cold for a lot longer in far more desperate circumstances. If anything, my time here allowed me to spend lots of time with my twins and wife-mama, get the [J]PSTD out of my system, gain an appreciation for and real sensitivity to the needs of those who are down on their luck, and develop an awareness of just how out of touch politicians and powermongers are with reality, and how absurd their solutions are to problems for which they are ill-equipped to address.
We were also truly, actually, definitively blessed by more than a few people–some anonymous, some not–who gave us grocery gift cards, coupons, vouchers, utility assistance and, occasionally, considerable amounts of cash. These all helped keep us alive and our little family operation running. Literally. You may not realize it, but there were days, plural, where we were wondering what we were going to eat and on the verge of having the power cut off. In the middle of winter. In the middle of the worst winter flyover country has seen in a century. Thank you.
Call it God taking care of us, providence or people just being kind and generous with an exceptionally fortuitous sense of timing; call it what you want, but it kept us from complete disaster, and also from me turning the blog into a virtual intersection, me with a digital cardboard sign and a link to indiegogo. (It almost happened, several times, in fact.) I’m thankful for not having to pimp the readership.
I thank you for reading these posts and, as always, for being a part of sailerb.
PS–If you’re still in the bread line, my heart goes out to you. If you need to vent your frustration, you’re absolutely welcome to contact me privately, information on the About page. Not sure that’s a lot of help, but I do understand the simple need for the discouraged to get their angst out.
Dispatches from the Bread Line were not-exactly-recurring blog posts until I was employed again. Which I am now, technically speaking.