We have bees at work! at work.
Coexisting with bees in cities is easy and natural. After all, honey bees are just one of a number of pollinators like butterflies, bumble bees, and wild bees with whom we already share our urban spaces.
I left work at a former job mid-afternoon to take a commuter train east accompanied by a co-worker (I think). Shortly after leaving the train station, we suspected we were headed in the wrong direction, which was confirmed when we passed high, jagged, snow-capped Rockies-type mountains. I don’t recall the co-worker after that (if there was one).
On seeing the mountains and fabulous skies, I wanted to take photos before getting off at the next station to head back east, but I couldn’t find my iPhone. Eventually I couldn’t find my purse and coat, either, and wondered how many stations I’d have to pass before recovering everything. I worried about getting back to work, let alone my original destination.
I put out a plea on the train to help me find the phone as we passed even more spectacular mountains and skies. We went through a NASA-type installation, which is when I realized I was in Canada.
I couldn’t find all my stuff, so I gave up and got off the train at the next station. I couldn’t find the opposite platform or set of tracks for the eastern train, only a dirt road going down a hill. When I asked people for directions, they kept pointing this dirt road out. I thought, “I’m never going to get back to work at a reasonable time.” Especially since I seemed to be in western Canada at a station with no return train.
At this point my phone turned up in my purse in its usual slot. Too late. It was almost too dark to take photos of the mountains, which I couldn’t see anymore from this place anyway.
(This may not be chronological or one dream.)
I was in a small work room with three people. Someone was insisting we rewrite another department’s documents, but hadn’t discussed it with me. The insistence was making me livid and anxious since it made no sense.
A French man I didn’t know changed into new shorts—apparently from a skirt. I thought this weird for a work place. I didn’t see how it happened—it was like magic.
At some point we separated. When we came back, the room was different, and I couldn’t find my assigned spot. I remembered my seat number. I was still trying to figure out how to get the co-worker alone in this setup to explain why we couldn’t pursue their plan.
I was on a train—home? It was running underground, and when I looked out the back window, it was turning off but another train, a freight, was coming toward it as though about to slam into it. My train, however, completed the turnoff with perfect timing to avoid being hit—by a cat’s whisker.
I looked for my aunts to say goodbye as somehow I knew I would be getting off the train soon. Then I was to transfer to a train downstate (Springfield?) and somehow get to wherever I was going.
My first aunt refused to hug me, but the other did. I went back to my car, but abruptly I found myself off the train, standing underground, watching the earlier freight go by. I knew it was the same freight because each car was painted with a part of a seamless scene that looked like the Swiss Alps. It was an amazing effort.
I was panicky with no wallet, no phone, and no idea of where I was, realizing I was going to miss my connecting train. I kept finding myself in bizarre underground markets and had no idea to get aboveground.
At last I found someone who was busy but was willing to answer one question, about where I was. “5400 N. (something),” she said. I assumed Chicago. I was a cab ride away from home, but how to get there with no wallet and no phone?
And how to get aboveground?
It was 36 years ago today . . . wait, that sounds like a Beatles song. Anyway, here I am, young, hopelessful, and unemployed. When I woke up on Monday, June 13, it was the first time in my life I had nowhere to go. Adrift. Typical because planning isn’t my forte, but it wasn’t a good feeling. I was too burned out and poor for graduate school to be an option.
After spending part of the summer selling Chicago City Ballet tickets by phone (really), I found a full-time job starting in late September through the classifieds in the Chicago Tribune (really).
One job I interviewed for that I didn’t get — a writer/editor for a dietitian association (if I remember correctly). Why didn’t I get it? I couldn’t type fast enough.
Still can’t.
In the 1960s, boys wanted to be firemen or policemen, and girls wanted to be nurses or teachers.
Except me.
I didn’t know what I wanted to be. I didn’t know what it meant to “be” something. I never thought about adults or what they did all day, even the teachers I saw every day. I didn’t know what my father did when he went to work; I knew only when he left and when he returned. Once in a while, he would come home with a cut or scrape, but I never learned how they came about.
As I grew older, I figured out that doctors and lawyers had more money, but I couldn’t say why. I was naive about socioeconomic status and based my own affections on the merits of the person before me, not on what their father did for a living or how much money he made.
In college, I learned the importance of status and money to others. A young woman in my dormitory asked me what my father did before his retirement. Still unclear as to his exact job, I said he worked for Ford Motor Company. “Was he a VP? Of what?” she asked. I didn’t know what a VP was or did, but I told her what I did know, that he worked in shipping, in the rail yard. Her eyes and facial expression changed. “Oh, he was a worker,” she said dismissively. Neither she nor anyone in her circle of friends spoke to me again. In addition to being the child of a mere worker, I must have seemed the height of stupidity and social ineptitude. Later I would see the campus communists protesting speakers and would think, “What do they know of workers?” I seemed to be alone.
I thought about this the other day when I did a keyword search and came across job listings in health care. Registered nurses, licensed nurses, administrators, directors of nursing — all the usual health care positions.
For some reason, the position of “case manager” caught my attention. No one at age 6 wants to be a case manager. No one at age 6 has heard of a case manager. As with nursing and many other fields, to be a case manager requires specific education, training, and experience. At some point, you have to decide to become a case manager and then you must prepare for it. It’s a long-term commitment, different than becoming a store cashier or a call center operator. If you are a case manager, you are a case manager — your commitment, at least for now, has made the profession part of your identity.
This may be where I get hung up on career choices. I can’t get past thinking of careers as functions that society needs performed. To me, it’s something that someone pays you to do and that you perform so you can do what you really want to do — whether that’s buying a house and having a family, collecting lovely things, traveling to exotic or exciting places, or following your academic dreams.
Specialized functions seem so limiting to me. I don’t mind writing copy, but I don’t want to be thought of as a copywriter because I can do so many other things. I learn quickly and thoroughly, and I think strategically. I come up with ideas and develop solutions to problems. I’m a good judge of people. I can earn the respect of people of diverse personality types.
There are things I’m terrible at, too. I don’t have the patience for advanced math or physical sciences. I’m not mechanically inclined; in fact, I’m dimensionally impaired. I’m introverted, so I would not do well at anything that requires an outgoing personality, for examples, fund raising or sales. Authority and top-down discipline are antithetical to me; I could not succeed in the military, on the police force, or as part of any bureaucracy.
I have a clear idea of who and what I am, and of who and what I am not. If I remember accurately, my dad’s official position was “checker.” My current official position is “senior copywriter.” Just as my dad was much, much more than a “checker,” I am more than a “copywriter.” I chafe, I think, because the guardian types who tend to be in charge in any organization prefer to see people in terms of function instead of possibilities, and because i have not taken enough risks to find a function that focuses on my abilities, capabilities, and interests, not tasks.
There must be something comforting in knowing that you are a good case manager, that there will be a foreseeable need for case managers (or at least their talents, knowledge, and skills), and that there is little or nothing else you would rather do. You have a plan, a certain amount of job and financial security, and perhaps a general sense of contentment that balances the day-to-day frustrations any job brings.
I have but a vision — and it’s blurred, scary, and forever elusive.
And so I continue my function, paralyzed by inertia, never happy, always discontent and unfulfilled, forever dreaming.
My memories of 10 years ago are vivid and painful, and they remind me that some things do indeed work out well.
Along with a couple of other consultants, I was in a small Midwestern town dominated by a tech company. The trip there had been eventful, and the local hotel did not offer the comforts of the downtown Minneapolis Embassy Suites where I stayed when visiting that office. The phone in my first room did not work, and no one seemed inclined to fix it. The “continental breakfast” proved to be a box of corn flakes with milk and orange juice. There was nowhere to walk, and no time for it anyway. From personal and professional causes, I had slid into a severe clinical depression (diagnosed) that sapped all my energy as I struggled to hide it, mostly successfully, from coworkers and clients.
During this client visit, we were to put the finishing touches on an employee communications program surrounding a rollout. My Minneapolis coworkers, of whom I was fond, teased me by saying that they had insisted that I come, too, to experience their pain. Apparently nervous and controlling, the client seemed to want to be sure that we were working devotedly on their project. To that end, their plan was to put us into a small room with our computers, printer, and supplies, close the door, and leave us to it. Bathroom or water fountain breaks were to require an escort. At 36, there’s nothing like having to ask permission to use the facilities, being led to them, and rushing because your escort is waiting.
We arrived late at night, when I would have been tired and most vulnerable to feelings of sadness. I started to feel generally ill, and then I found it — a hard, sore lump in a place where hard, sore lumps have no business. Quietly, I became panicked, almost hysterical. Because the phone didn’t work, I couldn’t call anyone for reassurance and comfort; it wasn’t something I could discuss publicly on the lobby pay phone at 11 p.m. So I cried to myself, probably hard and for a very long time. I slept little, if at all.
The next day, I discovered what life was to be like for the duration of this visit — with no privacy, bent over a computer for hours, with creativity and wit and solutions expected to flow like something that can be produced on demand. On top of feeling depressed and ill, now I was exhausted, too. I thought I was hiding it all well, but my coworkers and people from the client told me that I looked terrible and deathly pale. And when I looked in the mirror, I had to agree. Yet I could not excuse myself from spending the next eight hours or so hunched over the computer, being “creative.” That experience over two days taught me a little of my grit and resources.
The lump turned out to be an impacted, infected gland that would bother me for more than a year, even with treatment, before finally resolving itself. A year later I would leave that job with few regrets, with those mainly for people who had already left. I would not have survived had I stayed (the practice was sold), and I found myself in a position and a culture then more suited to my personality and temperament. With that, the clouds passed on, for the most part. I still have moments, but they are mostly just that. I live in a better place, I work in a better place, I’ve met people I might never have known otherwise, and the work that I’ve done — big projects and small — has made a difference for a lot of people.
I hope never to be so alone and so frightened again. If I am, I know that I have it in me to do what it takes to endure, and that what looks like a storm may lead to a rainbow.
Employers who are hiring want “energy,” so those want to be hired have to have and demonstrate “energy.”
To which I say: If you want “energy,” hire a two-year-old.
I have recent experience with someone described to me by several people as “having lots of energy.” In some ways I am the best judge of character I know, and it’s easy for me to see that what is perceived as “lots of energy” is no more than a spectrum of annoying nervous tics and a tendency to look rushed for no particular reason.
I worked with a woman who also was perceived as being “energetic” because she literally ran around constantly to display her “sense of urgency” and “can do” attitude. Not surprisingly, she accomplished about half as much as someone who simply sits down and gets work done.
Like I said, if you want “energy,” hire a two-year-old. Except for the occasional nap time, “energy” is never in short supply for them.
What employers really want, I think, is initiative — the ability to take charge, to come up with ideas, and to find problems and their solutions, all without having to be managed too closely. A person with initiative just does it. A qualified, experienced person with initiative just does it well.
Humans are visual creatures, however. Initiative is hard to see, while “energy” is hard to miss. Someone with initiative could quietly generate dozens of ideas and solutions, and he would be thought of as a dedicated hard worker, perhaps even a smart one. If the same person did half as much but with “energy,” and threw in a little self-promotion, he would soon be on the management, even executive, track. And he would want to recruit “high-energy” candidates like himself — nervous tics and all.
Meanwhile, the real work is done by others, those who focus on the doing, not the talking.
I wonder if that is why I sometimes feel like many organizations are run by the equivalent of two-year-olds — complete with “energy,” egos, and tics, but not so complete in the areas of, say, intelligent decision making or action. Even the thoughtful have been conditioned to think that “energy” is a must.
“Energy” in a two-year-old is both exciting and exhausting. “Energy” in an adult is primarily exhausting. If I want “energy,” I’ll go to a playground. If I want vision, ideas, and accomplishments, I’ll seek out an adult.
Unfortunately, I’m not hiring.
I can conceive few situations more harassing than that wherein, however you may long for success, however you may labour to fulfil your duty, your efforts are baffled and set at naught by those beneath you, and unjustly censured and misjudged by those above.
Anne Brontë in Agnes Grey
If you’re old enough to recall certain comics and TV shows, you’ll recognize the old style of top-down management, epitomized by cigar-chomping bosses named things like “Mr. Abernathy,” who said such things as, “Crumblebottom [no title], if you don’t finish that report by five o’clock, YOU’RE FIRED!”
We’ve come a long way, baby. At some point, someone discovered that an inclusive, cooperative approach is more effective than an autocratic, coercive one, and that two or more heads are better than one. People work harder and better when they have a stake in the work and the outcome — and it could be an emotional rather than a merely financial one. People who work out of passion or at least commitment do a better job than those who collect paychecks. And people who value others foster a more productive environment than those whose self-interest is their ultimate — and sometimes — sole objective.
It doesn’t take earning a Ph.D. in psychology from Yale or Stanford to understand this.
Yet there are still those who don’t.
The results are not surprising. People work the fewest number of hours they can get away with, while the problematic leaders wonder why they are not putting in extra hours to meet poorly planned deadlines — because they have no stake in doing so. They also have no desire to spend any more time than necessary in an openly hostile environment where their suggestions and opinions are neither required nor requested, where projects are managed through nagging and pressure, and where providing sincere positive feedback is perceived as a waste of time. Bandages have been applied, but the infection continues to seep out from underneath and to poison everyone.
At this point, no one feels motivated, and no one has the time, energy, or will to do good work, let alone their best.
It makes me think of a gangrenous limb. It may have served you well when it was healthy, but now it is killing you. You hate to cut it off, and you may delay the decision as long as possible in the hope that the spread will stop and that some or all of the limb can be salvaged, perhaps with the loss of some functionality. You can’t imagine life without that limb or how it can be replaced.
At some point, though, you have to decide. Amputating the foot may save the leg.
A decision needs to made soon, or there will be nothing left to save.
My first full-time job was as the proofreader in a then Big 8 accounting/consulting firm’s word processing department, proofing benefit plan documents, actuary’s reports, responses to RFPs, etc. The word processors (people) used primitive stand-alone machines called Vydecs; enormous, flimsy floppy disks (the origin of “floppy,” no doubt); and a printer that utilized daisywheels. This wasn’t state of the art, even for 1983.
The professional staff, as they were known, used a mainframe computer with workstations in a central computer room to perform calculations, manage databases, and so forth. They also maintained hard copy workpapers as a paper trail. To revise or create new documents, they photocopied previous or similar ones and marked them up. The word processors would store the new document on one of the flimsy, oversized floppies, which I think could hold up to 30 pages per side. They were prone to failure, as were the machines. The Vydec repairman was a frequent guest in our office.
At some point in the 1980s, perhaps about the same time we moved to another building, we changed over to personal computers and WordPerfect (DOS). The word processors spent many hours converting Vydec disks. Later, because of a client relationship, we switched to the indescribably awful AmiPro, then to Microsoft Word.
As time passed, more individuals were given their own PCs at their desks (rather than sharing those in the computer room). For the most part, staff still marked up documents, and the relative ease and speed with which they could be produced and sent (via FedEx overnight) contributed to an increase in volume for the word processing center, which expanded.
With more new hires who were comfortable with computers, typing, and editing, slowly most people started writing their own documents on their own computers, coming to word processing only to have them “cleaned up” and finalized. The business of the word processing center waned, and a once-indispensable service became almost superfluous within a matter of a year or two. The proofreader who had replaced me spent half or more of each day reading books.
Someone had the questionable idea of transforming the word processors into graphic designers, as though access to QuarkXPress and graphics software was all it took, as though this weren’t a specialized skill, like a dental hygienist becoming an orthodontist on the job and on the fly. At about the same time, someone came in to manage document processing as though it were a combination of graphic design and word processing. I have the impression that people were unhappy with the results, that there were personnel, workflow, and quality issues (all problems you want in a high-priced business consultant).
My understanding is that ultimately all of the department-specific word processing groups were centralized. If that still exists, I wouldn’t be surprised if more attempts had been made to outsource the function, just as many organizations outsource mail and supply centers, copying, scanning, and so forth. With Microsoft Word templates, e-mail, and notebook computers, along with BlackBerrys and the like, it’s even likely that there’s no longer a need for any word processing function.
I remember the times that I went to work on Saturdays, even Sundays, to spend hours marking up documents in red pen, then verifying that the necessary changes had been made with the word processor and the project lead, while partners and managers continued to refine the scope, offering, verbiage, and numbers. Today I would mostly likely receive documents at home via e-mail or through connecting to a company intranet. I would redline them and e-mail them back or upload them for the next person to review. That person would accept or reject changes and make additional substantive edits — possibly from his or her home, too. What was once a painful, frustrating, laborious process is, I would hope, now more streamlined, efficient, and nonintrusive on personal time.
This was only nine or ten years ago. Much about how we work has changed. Everything is “teamwork” and “collaboration,” even though it often isn’t. There are no more secretaries who type and file; there are administrative and executive assistants who often have the inside track for operations positions. I wonder how many word processors are left — perhaps in law firms? But I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that it had become an anachronistic profession, like that of the chimney sweep. The irony is that the technology that created the profession has led to its demise.
On the other hand, 23 years ago very few people could write and spell well, and that has not changed. Even if the need for proofreaders and copyeditors is not admitted or acknowledged, it still exists. More documents, more pages, more words — more errors.
After reading some of the work produced in the new era, however, I wonder if anyone cares. Maybe proofreading and copyediting are anachronistic as well.