It’s happened again. Yesterday I
started another new employment program and today I’m depressed.
In 2010 my whole department was outsourced to India. Laid-off I’ve exhausted Employment Insurance, got a diploma with Second Career and applied for many jobs. My line of credit stretched after seven months, I applied for Employment and Social Services: Welfare. Since then I built two business plans, I’ve been to the churches filled with secondhand clothes, I’ve sat in waiting rooms watching the jitterrers, hearing the weepers, watching the silence ones acting invisible, who nearly jump out of their skin if you point out their glove on the ground then they flick a grateful smile because you noticed them and were nice.
In 2010 my whole department was outsourced to India. Laid-off I’ve exhausted Employment Insurance, got a diploma with Second Career and applied for many jobs. My line of credit stretched after seven months, I applied for Employment and Social Services: Welfare. Since then I built two business plans, I’ve been to the churches filled with secondhand clothes, I’ve sat in waiting rooms watching the jitterrers, hearing the weepers, watching the silence ones acting invisible, who nearly jump out of their skin if you point out their glove on the ground then they flick a grateful smile because you noticed them and were nice.
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| STEVE ADAMS FOR THE GLOBE AND MAIL |
Now, I’m in a pilot job program. The
online part has got it all including an avatar to encourage and keep us company.
I guess the number of opportunities overwhelms some people and they can’t keep
track. More likely we’re helping social services develop a tool to keep track
of us, but there is a chance it might work, so we go with skeptical hope.
People understand you better if you
show up looking the same everyday. For me a grey denim skirt, t-shirt, sweatshirt;
every piece found in perfect condition in the garbage. Shoes? I still have good
shoes left over from before; this is my only conscious nod to my old income.
I take food: a piece of toasted bread
with nut butter, folded, tightly wrapped in wax paper, two tangerines. Because
it’s the first day I plan for a Tim’s along the way. It’s too expensive to buy
anything away from home except on special occasions.
My income per month is $650 from a
tenant and $650 from the government. $1300 is perfect for my mortgage; I bet
you didn’t know people with mortgages could be on welfare? Everything else: food,
hydro, heat, pet food, the internet I use to communicate with the program, comes
from my line of credit.
And there’s coffee, with tempting institutional
baked goods: an under-proofed croissant, (not a mini), oily muffins which
moisturize your hands. I wonder if they’ll have breakfast every week, I expect
not.
The facilitator seems exciting and
reasonable until he declares his own goals for the program: to become manager.
His coworkers sit quietly off to
the side. A trim white lady of a certain age in black slacks, a sheer blouse,
drugstore jewelry, glasses on top of her head. She’s along for the ride, if the
program doesn’t work out, she’ll be back where she started, in the caseworker
trenches.
And an Indian lady here for
demographics, without the skill-set this job requires, she gives Dylan easy
problems to solve.
We sit in rows. Slowly we reveal
what got us into this ghastly state: laid off, let go, company moved,
outsourced.
Illuminated life stories with
hopeful beginnings and unhappy presents. The crème de la crème, lucky enough to
be selected based on predictions of commitment and success. If Dylan can make this
work, he’ll get to be director of the whole program!
According to the agenda all three
facilitators will speak for equal time. In real life Dylan does the talking.
We break into stunned groups. My
facilitator has to repeat her question, we not understanding she want
suggestions for discussion speakers. We haven’t even talked to each other and
we’re going to choose someone to talk to us? I try to work out how they divided
the groups, though it doesn’t matter, any way it’s hopeless.
Later, we can’t believe it - we’ll
get an additional $100 a month top-up for travel expenses. I’ll walk, I always
walk.
In a daze the participants move
towards each other, seeking a real human to connect with, a luxury we’ve had to
do without on long days at home.
Weekends don’t mean much when you
haven’t done anything all week.
I have a few rules to get me
through the week: no reading books during “work hours”; it would be too easy to
just read it all away. No drinking (actually it’s a plus, I can’t afford booze).
Workouts three times a week, no less, no more, see my item about books…
I am often surprised when on the
street somebody greets me. Isolated as I’ve become its too late before I
realize I could have made small talk. (All my life I hated small talk and now
I’m going to create it?)
I still have some old friends, telling
me I’m doing great, that I’m resourceful. We have modest meals at home that end
early. They send me links to job postings in their buildings, I apply and we never
mention it again.
Some friends and family I’ve
alienated; I overthink their personal situations, become adamant with unsought-for
solutions. Opine when solace is wanted. Will I ever come back and make friends,
regain respect?
What does my kid think of all of
this? He is aware. The cheque stub, carelessly left beside the computer, turned
upright after homework lets me know.
I designed a book recently, for
free because I’d have invoiced about the same as my cheque and 100% would have
been clawed back. I sent it to the printer today and should feel great and proud.
Actually, I feel like a hack.
Trying to recover grace and dignity
alone: busy but meaningless, careful but unseen.
Curious, powerful, capable; pushed
down, scolded, reduced.
