I reported to a place about ten miles from the main campus for two or three weeks of transition sessions. I sat in a room with about fifteen people who had been told, in an institution with thousands of employees, that they were the most expendable. As I glanced at the individuals in my new cohort, I strained to remain calm as if caught in an undertow pulling me away from the shore. For spells sometimes brief and sometimes long, my inchoate panic succumbed to bitterness, to giving up.
Three years before, I savored my good luck: a position at the Andrew Young School of Policy Studies in a state university. I worked at a center that provided technical assistance to local and state agencies. I trained and consulted on various administrative functions, including managing employees, writing plans with SMART objectives, and developing simple action steps. It was often a slog, but we addressed important matters. My responsibilities included a role in “marketing.” I recommended to the center director that we query contacts we had in the public sector to get the word out about our services and to find new clients. I thought this way we could gather information about how we could benefit them as we made them aware of our existence. The director agreed to do it and joined me for some of the meetings, though she didn’t say much.
The most interesting idea came from the executive director of the county commissioners’ association. I recall sitting on a handsome couch in an office cluttered with pictures of county decision-makers, in a fashionable downtown building. A large man with a long, jowly face and wispy white hair, Jerry had years of experience as a state employee, including time in the Governor’s Office. When I worked for a health and social services agency, he and I had several interactions. He noted administrators had to focus on the here and now.
In an amiable drawl, he said, “A university should be able to identify what’s on the horizon. Tell us about the issues we need to be aware of to prepare for the future.”
I nodded, murmuring, “That’s a great idea,” as I wrote down the suggestion.
His advice appealed to me because of its usefulness and the prospect of exploring topics that could enliven our occasionally tiresome days. I ran his suggestion by the person I reported to and others at the Andrew Young School.
I itched to dig into the ramifications of the rising number of new immigrants in the state. The low wages, substandard housing, and dangerous operating conditions they endured meant immigrants needed healthcare, social services, and legal protection. In political terms, some viewed the foreign arrivals as threatening their livelihoods. However, an economist I discussed this with believed focusing on the growing number of elderly persons would generate more interest among policymakers and service providers. He and I got to make a case for holding gatherings to discuss these sorts of issues.
We met with the dean, who, in comfortable attire, looked like the proprietor of a small-town hardware store. His thick but muscular features added heft to his sporadic cockiness (I once heard him say that in meetings with the president, he kept an eye on the Arts and Sciences dean, implying he usually outsmarted “that son of a bitch”). After hearing my brief pitch for a conference on future issues, he endorsed it without reservation.
“I like the idea. It reminds me of annual conferences Syracuse used to hold for government leaders.”
Though he chose aging over immigration as the first topic, he bestowed two unexpected bonuses. He provided a generous budget and directed my economist colleague, who became my informal advisor and guide in the academic realm, to participate in the planning. Giddy with delight, his support went beyond my best-case musings.
We convened a well-received one-day conference. The lieutenant governor gave the keynote. Government and private sector executives, politicians, and advocates presented, as did researchers from the school. Although he retired shortly after giving his approval, the former dean attended, sitting through most of the sessions and the luncheon. Afterward, he sent a congratulatory email to those from the school who planned and participated in the event. After this colloquium, we settled on a second topic—trauma care. We held a series of breakfast forums funded in part by a healthcare foundation. They followed the same format, with decision-makers, healthcare providers, and scholars speaking. As with the aging conference, a dozen or more legislators came to these sessions.
I felt my activities enhanced the school’s reputation. And whereas I sought to mask my excitement and pride, I envisioned a role that would delve into critical public questions. I fancied myself as a bridge between research and service, as someone who draws attention to what’s on the horizon.
* * * *
On a Friday, the acting dean’s administrative assistant called to make an appointment for Monday morning. When I hung up, I realized he didn’t mention a reason for the meeting. I saw it as an oversight. Nonetheless, to shake off my nagging uncertainty, I called back.
I got along well with the dean’s assistant; he often helped us with scheduling rooms and equipment. I told him I wanted to be prepared for the meeting and asked what it would be about. He paused, “You don’t have to do anything.”
His evasiveness kindled my suspicion, leaving me uneasy.
I asked again, a little more insistent, but he balked.
With a grudging “Okay, I’ll see you later…goodbye,” I hung up.
Previous encounters with execs who blindsided me came to mind, but I rejected those thoughts as implausible. Still, like an ungraspable splinter, the Monday confab nagged me on and off over the next two days.
The day came. Instead of taking me to the acting dean’s office, the admin ushered me into a small conference room for the nine o’clock meeting. A minute later, the acting dean entered. Tall, plumpish, ruddy-cheeked, and wearing a plaid shirt, he looked the part of an academic whose strength lay in mastering bureaucratic detail. His stern countenance troubled me. We sat at a round table in the bright, cramped space.
Handing me a sheet of paper, he directed, “Read this. It explains everything.”
I finished it enveloped in a hazy cloud through which I glimpsed cream-yellow walls, bringing me to the verge of swooning. It was a letter dismissing me. I remember the letter used “endeavors,” wishing me success in my future endeavors. The word seemed ungainly, like the affectations used by insecure people to impress others. As I stepped out of the room, a campus cop walked up to me.
His approach puzzled me for a second until I heard a voice say, “He’s going to accompany you.”
The cop set the pace to escort me the one block to my office. I remained at his side, head down, pretending to avoid the glare from the sun. But in truth, I wanted to avoid making eye contact with any passerby, who I felt sure saw me as a derelict or criminal. Entering my office on the second floor, I paused briefly to stare at the folded boxes and packing tape, marveling at the cruel efficiency of the process that engulfed me.
“Don’t make any phone calls. I’ll be outside the door.”
After I found the courage to ask, the cop allowed me to talk to the other people in my unit.
I informed each person I was no longer employed there. I said “laid off” because it sounded less awkward and signified blamelessness. While my former coworkers expressed sympathy, their eyes wandered as they voiced terse bromides of “good luck,” except for a woman from England on a work visa. She became indignant as if they had terminated her.
“That stinks,” she said. She asked why they discharged me.
I shrugged, venturing a budget cut.
She repeated, “That stinks,” a word I found repellent but fitting. Her intense reaction astonished me, creating a sense of gratification and marked remorse for having ignored her for three years. All but two people were in the office that day. One absentee, the director, was on a school-sponsored trip in Europe.
I sat at my desk, drained and grappling with my impotence. The school had formally branded me an outsider, unworthy of participating in its undertakings. Although they ordered me to leave, for the next few hours, I was their prisoner: guarded, with no calls allowed.
Despite the pain it evoked, I tried to make sense of this experience. I remembered an impromptu conversation with the person who expelled me. He complimented my supervisor as “creative” and praised her for showing initiative. I remained quiet, but his plaudits rattled me: She made misleading assurances to agencies and inflated her past accomplishments; her dissembling and pretentiousness had fooled him. I liked him, and his acceptance opened the way for me to work at the university, but his inability to discern her true worth exposed d his gullibility. My forehead grew warm, and my hands became sweaty.
Scrutinizing me, his face became creased and flushed. Although the exact wording escapes me, he asked if I could support my boss. I stiffened, my thoughts muddled. I felt like a “Yes” would be a commitment to cover her incompetence and dismiss her duplicity. I made a wavering statement we both knew was “No.” While boxing up knick-knacks, folders, books, and proceedings from our conferences and forums, I couldn’t shake the conviction that my reply had sealed my fate.
* * * *
A woman in her mid-thirties ran the sessions. She began by facilitating an airing of grievances. Over the next few weeks, she and other human resources staff offered guidance and feedback on resume writing, social media profile setup, and interview preparation. Listening to these how-to tips, which seemed more suited for someone searching for their first job, I acknowledged the odds I faced. Securing a position comparable to my previous one appeared out of the question. A decline in tax revenues, a consequence of the recession, caused the agencies, with few exceptions, to abolish vacancies. I had moments where I feared I would not find an opening, period.
Sitting nearby, the head of a business unit with five or six members who had been cashiered en masse didn’t hide his disdain for the mandated job-search schooling.
“I need to be out contacting people and making calls. If I’m sitting here, I’m not out there,” he told a couple of other guys, stressing each word in a biting tone.
Restless in his seat, he refused to look at the speakers. I don’t recall seeing him after the first couple of days.
In another conversation, I overheard a diminutive information technology staffer, who was about fifty, say, “I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up,” to a hefty, talkative guy from a building maintenance unit.
Based on the faded paint and the few dents on her subcompact car (we had convenient parking outside the back door), I assumed she didn’t earn much.
He said, “I like the ‘high heat.’ Places in the Southwest, like Arizona or Utah.”
He said he would head west once he gets his last paycheck. Their nonchalant attitudes baffled me. Can they live on those puny unemployment cheques? What will their families think? Or their friends?
* * * *
Nineteen months. I had to secure a spot on a state payroll for that long to qualify for full retirement benefits. I hoped to fill a position like the one I had before coming to the university—in management or planning. Yet, I would take anything.
I reached out to former peers and acquaintances who might have information about vacancies. While preparing for these calls, I struggled to overcome the shame of disclosing that the university had dismissed me. Although the people I called voiced their commiseration, they inevitably paused after I explained my situation, showing their discomfort.
Making these appeals, I relived being on the other end of the line, aware I couldn’t help the caller and was similarly uncomfortable admitting it. Trying to be honest, I’d say I’ll talk to our personnel folks and, drifting into half-truths, I made promises to “check around.” I considered these requests to be scenes in a play, in which my role required an earnest, sensitive delivery. A successful performance indulged the caller and left me with a clear conscience.
Sometimes, I misjudged a supplicant. When I worked with an IT organization, an ousted agency director lamented, “I had wanted to work with y’all to put in new technology.”
I remained silent, and then he asked, “If you come across anything, keep me in mind.”
He came from an area south of the capital. Supposing he preferred to return there, I said, “I’ll talk to Tommy,” a retired commissioner I once answered to, from the same city as the terminated administrator.
He flared up, tears welling, and said, “Don’t do that. I know Tommy. I can contact him.”
The backlash riled me; an ungrateful man who left a sour taste. Yet after a moment, I realized I had implied he didn’t know the movers and shakers in his own hometown. I averted my gaze.
I pursued all the leads. One friend referred me to someone I hadn’t met, in charge of a unit that administered highway safety programs. While reluctant, I phoned him. He listened to my story with occasional interjections of “Oh, no,” in a soft, heartfelt tone I would expect to hear from a close buddy or my mother.
“I’ll get in touch if I come across anything,” a hackneyed phrase I usually ignored, but hearing it from him sparked a flicker of optimism.
Off the phone, I replayed our chat: In a detached mindset, his responses sounded too rehearsed to be sincere—after all, we were strangers. I understood that my friend sent me to him not because he had a vacancy but because he dispensed sympathy to those facing hardship. I had become a charity case, like an abandoned puppy, and struggled to stave off looming self-pity.
When making inquiries, I downplayed the circumstances surrounding my dismissal. I didn’t deny that the university had forced me to leave but glossed over it. I wanted to prevent triggering unspoken opinions about my competence or whether I was in a make-work job, emphasizing that I was a casualty of declining revenue. The idea that my daughters and family would conclude I’d failed gnawed at me. When explaining my exit to them, I made ambiguous statements like “It’s time for me to move on.” I sought to convey I was stepping aside voluntarily, insinuating it was my choice. No one questioned my story.
My contacts paid off, and I landed a job with a public health agency. It involved beneficial, not uninteresting duties, although the twenty-five percent pay reduction chafed. When I informed the HR lead, she asked me to “share” my achievement with the group since I was one of the early successes.
I hesitated. “It would give the others hope,” she said.
My thoughts were swirling. I felt different from my fellow castaways: the victim of a misguided, shortsighted functionary. “Sharing” my success with those folks stirred a hollow feeling, highlighting that I had fallen short. I shook my head, mumbled, “I’d rather not.” Tensing her brow, she lowered her eyes and left me alone.
* * * *
Not long after starting my new responsibilities, I received an unexpected email from my former boss at the university center.
She said before she left for Europe, the higher-ups informed “me what they were going to do but told me I couldn’t tell you.”
She expressed her regrets and hinted at lunch. Her comments triggered a flurry of county and state managers who fell for her clichés (“giving back to the community”) and self-serving palaver (claiming knowledge of what the latest “thought leaders” were preaching ). This missive galled me. I didn’t doubt she had wanted me gone. Why, I wondered, was I fired instead of this supercilious, insecure person? Seeking to assuage the unease caused by the fact that she still had her job, I deleted the email.
Several months later, I received a call from a staff member at the university: the human resources person responsible for overseeing the transition and job-search efforts for those let go. As we greeted each other, I expected her to ask how I was doing, but she surprised me by revealing that the cuts were ongoing and that she was on the chopping block. Her situation unsettled me because I surmised the HR leadership had taken advantage of her.
“Are you aware of anything I can apply for?”
“No,” I said, wishing it were otherwise.
I told her how sorry I was. Slumping in my chair, I said, “Send me your resume, and I’ll check around.”
I fulfilled my commitment by forwarding her resume to the personnel office with a pro forma endorsement. Still, a lingering disquiet persisted, and I followed up by phone; the response I received was, “We don’t have anything, but we’ll send her an application.”
I hung up and went back to my emails, but I couldn’t concentrate.
