The Journey

It’s 3:42 on a Tuesday afternoon. I’m sitting in a coffee shop reading blogs and surfing the web. No, I’m not on my lunch break, but I am on a break. A permanent break, as it turns out.

Exactly one week ago today, at 8:30 in the morning, I was fired from my job.

What has followed has been a blur of activity and motionlessness. Time has stood still. I cannot quite remember the details of the days that have come and gone over the past week. Only specific activities stand out: Dinner at our best friends’ house, seeing my teacher, visiting the farmer’s market, filing an unemployment claim.

Last Tuesday, I got up and went to work as usual. I remember wishing I didn’t have to get out of bed, that I could sleep as long as I wanted, which is not usual for me on a weekday morning. I opted out of putting on make up in favor of enjoying a longer morning “quiet time” on the couch. I got dressed, prepared a lunch bag, and finally headed off to work. At 8:05, as I was walking across the parking lot toward The Office, I paused almost imperceptibly and prayed “Holy Spirit, please go in here with me today” for no particular reason.

The company finance controller had arrived from Europe the night before and was due in the office that morning. When she arrived, I greeted her and showed her around the new office. Once acquainted, she went to set up her laptop and then came to my office to get me for a Skype conference call with The Frenchie. I picked up my pad and pen while the distinct thought ran through my mind, “I’m not going to need these.” My stomach churned, and even though I had no reason whatsoever to suspect what would occur next, my heart already knew.

Within a few short minutes, after some minor technical difficulties, I was sitting next to the finance controller in the conference room as the The Frenchie’s garbled, heavily-accented voice twanged through the laptop speakers. I strained, as usual, to make out the words and meaning of the sentences spilling out of his goateed mouth. Soon, the poorly worded sentence that would spark the recognition of what was happening landed on my ears: “We have taken the decision to end our collaboration with you.”

As I began to understand what I had already somehow known well before I walked in that room that morning, I finally blurted out, “Wait…you’re firing me?!” The Frenchie continued to talk about this and that and I continued to try to understand what was being said, slowly processing what was happening. I was being assured of payment for my services and thanked for my time. What the…? “Okay,” I thought, “It’s actually happening. I can’t believe this is actually happening.” In an attempt to be pragmatic as well as to understand what was occurring, I interrupted The Frenchie. “Okay, so, can you tell me why exactly you are firing me? I’m going to need to know what to say to future potential employers when they ask why I left here. It’s not as if I didn’t show up for work or stole or anything like that…?”

“Oh, no no, obviously nothing like that!” The Frenchie replied. “It’s just that we didn’t feel that you were taking good control of the administration of the running of the office.”

“Okay,” I said. “Can you tell me what you mean by that? How did I not take good control of the administration of the running of the office?”

The Frenchie had no answer. Instead, he went on to say how he did not feel that I had a real passion for the job, or that I truly liked my work. He said that was not cause for “the decision that had been taken,” but simply his observation.

I couldn’t particularly argue with that, but I still couldn’t get an answer on why I was being fired. There was nothing I had done wrong, nothing I had failed to do, nothing that I had messed up in any way causing the company problems or financial consequences. There were no specifics offered on how I had not taken good control of the running of the office, the administration, or the marketing despite my repeated requests for some example, some specific reason.

Finally, I was forced to acknowledge what I already knew. I was not being fired for anything I had done. I was being fired for who I was. I was being fired for being the only person in his very small sphere who actually spoke up to The Frenchie, stood up, even, to The Frenchie, dared to disagree, however tactfully, with The Frenchie. It could be no coincidence that the last time we met face to face, I had diplomatically, but steadfastly, dissented with The Frenchie, without fear. The Frenchie is most accustomed to those around him, especially those under his employ, deferring to his every whim and word.

As it turns out, devolving to a 40% work ethic had nothing to do with my termination. I hadn’t even been striving for that goal long enough for them to notice any change. But speaking my mind and refusing to kowtow to the boss had cost me my job. I still didn’t regret it. These were the thoughts and conclusions whirring through my mind.

I was asked to gather my things, turn in my keys and leave. I was back home before 9:30 that morning, still not sure what had hit me. I had never been fired before in all my 34 years and 20+ something jobs. Never. It almost felt like an accomplishment.

The rest of the day was a daze that I walked through in a stunned calm. The next morning, as I sat staring out the window, coffee in hand, I had a sudden unexpected realization: I wasn’t fired because I did something wrong. I was fired because I did something right! I had the distinct impression that I had completed my lessons, and therefore my work, at that particular job, and therefore I was released. Because I was determined not to jump ship early this time, I had stayed until the bitter end, until I was in fact pushed out. It was time for me to go. I had been set free. What a relief.

I never could have predicted how such an event would impact me. I used to joke, “What are they gonna do, fire me?” And that joke was always followed by the sentiment, “What a relief that would be!” But I never actually thought it would happen. I never imagined that I would be fired. Without cause. I always figured that I would leave on my own terms, as I always had before. And I never, ever guessed what it would actually be like to get canned. The ol’ heave ho, “pack your shit and leave.” Wow.

I’ve spent a full week processing this event, trying to understand, make sense, and feel out what is in this experience for me. I’d be lying if I said that I’ve fully processed it yet. I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t felt hurt, rejected, and betrayed. It may take much longer than I had anticipated to make this adjustment. But I do feel that I turned a corner. One week later, I’m ready to start looking towards what’s next for me, even if not ready to dive forward yet. I just know that I wasn’t released into the great wild world of unemployment for no particular purpose. There is most certainly work for me to do. It just remains to be seen what form that work will take. This is the journey, after all.

In flux,

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