The First Time I Was Fired
In which, the whirlpool metaphor in my memoir starts spinning
My Own Private Waste Land is about surviving loss, estrangement, family mental illness, but also about betrayal by those close to me - my employers, mental health professionals, my spouse, my family, my lover. One doesn’t expect betrayal to be such a constant in life.
My memoir takes place roughly over a decade. I mark the start with my brother’s suicide and my father-in-law’s death, which took place on opposite ends of the continent one day apart. The estrangement from my neice, my brother’s youngest child, and my father’s death occured a few months later. Grief counselors told us to hold off on major decisions for at least a year, which we did.
My then-wife and I had been swimming in a slow gel through the grief process, separated from her mother on the east coast and my family on the west coast while we lived in Kansas.
Then something happened that took that decision out of our hands. I lost my job. I didn’t lose it. I was fired. I wasn’t just fired. There was a conspiracy to let me go.
I had never been fired before. I thought people were fired for incompetence or things like theft or downsizing, things that were clearly their fault or no one’s fault. This was different. I was betrayed.
I worked for an educational technology grant at the University of Kansas. I was the project director of www. 4kids.org, a weekly internationally syndicated comics feature that appeared in 140 newspapers, distributed by Universal Press Syndicate, the same company that distributed Calvin & Hobbes, Cathy, Fox Trot, Doonesbury, and so many other great comics. It was big media and I was the editor. I gave talks to groups about how to keep kids safe on the internet. In addition, I had 7 other projects of varying complexity on my plate, 8 projects in all.
My then-wife and I had bought a house, moved to the country. She worked in the linguistics department as adminstrative assistant to the chair. My step-daughter had graduated high school and moved out. It was a quiet life, a good life, and then it was taken away by a boss with an agenda. I never saw it coming.
I remember two things that should have keyed me in to what kind of person I was dealing with. Once, while in my boss’s office, she took a call from her husband. She hung up and looking at me, said, “he’s such an asshole.” As far as I knew, they had a good relationship, but that surprised me. Another time, I had a really bad experience at a dentist, who gave me 9 shots trying to get me numb to fill a cavity. He read the x-rays wrong and was giving me the shot in the wrong place. When I relayed that story to my boss, she remarked, “You don’t stand up for yourself very well.” (I mean, I did. You trust the professionals in your life to do their job. When he started drilling and my mouth wasn’t numb yet, I let him know. So he’d give me another shot. I’m not a dentist - that’s his job.) At any rate, I think my boss thought she could mistreat me.
It was a year of applying for new grants and renewals. In applying for grants, they collect everyone’s CVs and submit them with the grant proposals. It’s a lengthy process and takes 4-6 months from submission date until they let you know the results - whether you got the grant or not. I submitted my CV along with everyone else.
Below, you’ll find an excerpt from my memoir about this experience.
Excerpt from My Own Private Waste Land
Ch. 17 - The Barges Drift
As we approached the anniversary of my brother’s death, we entered the season of betrayal. Our year of waiting for grief to settle was over. Major changes were coming, whether we liked it or not.
Grief counselors emphasized that our reflexes and cognitive functions would be slowed. It’s no wonder I didn’t see the next train barreling down the tracks. Not far from our house in Ozawkie, massive numbers of migrating pelicans with black wingtips alighted on Perry Lake three miles away, squawking loudly enough to keep us awake at night. Train whistles were drowned out by the cicadas’ rhythmic throbs in these hot and mind-numbingly humid August days.
Work was quiet, the students away on break. One morning, a young woman introduced herself.
“Marilyn told me I would find you here.” Melanie offered an outstretched hand. “She said you are to teach me all you know about the 4kids project. And then she wants to see you this morning.”
I gave Melanie a tour and then went upstairs to meet with Marilyn.
On the second floor, colleagues saw me coming up the hallway and retreated noticeably back into their offices.
“I met Melanie. She’s nice. What’s her role?”
“She will be the project lead on 4kids,” Marilyn said.
It took a few blinks for the brain fog to clear.
“So, what will my role be then?”
Marilyn just looked at me.
“We can’t afford to keep you when you work on only one project.”
“What do you mean, one project? I have eight projects on my plate.” I felt my body stiffen.
“You don’t travel like the rest of the staff.”
“That’s right, and you assured me I didn’t have to. With Denise’s behavioral problems and QT’s anxieties, travel is difficult for me. We agreed that I could work in the office while others did the field work.” My voice grew defensive.
“We can’t afford to keep you when you work on only one project.”
“But we recently bought a house.”
“That’s none of my concern,” she said.
“I clearly work on more than one project.”
“We can’t afford to keep you when you work on only one project.”
My heart tried to escape my chest. I rested my elbows on my knees, out of breath. I rushed out to call QT.
“I lost my job.”
“Oh, honey. Let me guess, Marilyn.”
“She sent my replacement to me to train.”
The most recent grant continuation proposals had been submitted months before. As requested, I provided my resume and staff bio for the renewals. I found out later that my name was never submitted in the final proposal, a five-month conspiracy. There were four male project coordinators and four female project coordinators when I started at ALTec. After my dismissal, one male project coordinator remained, who left soon after. Later, the school newspaper ran a story about the women of ALTec, a female-led technology project with a picture of Marilyn beaming in the middle of her all-female staff.
The ombudsman’s office heard my complaint. As I stared at a picture on the desk of the Ombudsman getting a certificate from the University Chancellor, he said, “You don’t want to work where you’re not wanted.” Tears stung my face as I walked to my car. I could hear my father’s voice, “Life’s not always fair, kid.”
I had never been fired before. Now with two incomplete graduate degrees, a tumultuous second marriage, and threatened financial ruin, all I could taste were ashes.
Thanks for reading! Next week, I’m going to try something different. One day will be excerpts from my memoir. The other day will be discussion about memoir and composition and my efforts to get published.
Have a great weekend. It’s almost summer. The weather has changed her in Hot’lanta. It’s quite warm and getting steamier every day. We’ve started the countdown to our move to Seattle, about 100 days to go.
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Thanks again for reading. I look forward to your comments.
As for me, I’ll …
Just keep writing!
I too have experienced being fired. It was shocking.