Meaningful Work and the 23-Year Journey

For more than two decades (23 years and one week, to be precise), my professional identity was college writing teacher. Even during a period with a part-time administrative appointment, my core professional identity was teacher.

When I accepted my current administrative position, I found myself grieving over the loss of that identity. I was no longer what I had been for nearly half my life. One day I was in the car with my son. He made a minor grammatical error as he spoke, and then he said, "Ha! You can't correct me any more because you aren't an English teacher now!" After I sat in stunned silence, I burst into tears. I loved my job, and I loved being an English teacher, and stepping away from that was so very hard.

As much as I came to love my new job and the people with whom I work, I missed my old job. I missed people I'd befriended over my ten years at my previous campus. I missed the familiarity of my life--two classes per day surrounded by plenty of unscheduled time to use for grading, planning, and community building (aka, talking with colleagues and students). I knew the rhythms of the day, the week, and the semester. I loved knowing my job and knowing what to expect. When people asked me if I missed my job, the answer was "yes"--despite the fact that I loved my new job.

Two months ago, one of my colleagues asked me not if I missed my old job but if I missed teaching.

Imagine my shock when I realized that the answer was "no."

What I had found most meaningful in my previous job was neither the subject nor the classroom; it was the interactions with individual students at moments of decision-making and transformation. When I came home from work and was asked about my day, I did not talk about helping students understand what a thesis is or a student's excitement at finding the perfect source for a research paper; instead, I responded with stories about students trying to decide on a major, struggling with parental pressures, and working through relationship issues. Those were the things I loved most about teaching, and those are the things I get to do every single day where I am now.

It is quite disconcerting to realize that I don't miss what I had loved for more than twenty years. I feel so blessed to have discovered what it is I find meaningful and important about my professional activities. Had this job not happened, I would have managed to be happy for another twenty years doing what I'd been doing. And I would have missed the chance to make a difference in a way that matters to me more than I could have known.

We Are the Champions

Dear Wisconsin,

Here we are, just about one year after it all changed. One year ago today, most of us were still enjoying the afterglow of the Superbowl and wearing our newly-purchased Superbowl sweatshirts. We were unified in joy at watching our beloved football players achieve their goal.

On February 11, I drove from Waukesha to Wausau to a workshop on supporting college students who face challenges in reading and writing. It was an incredibly cold day, so cold, in fact, that the doors on the campus vehicle I'd planned to drive were frozen shut. So there I was, at five in the morning, rearranging my personal vehicle situation so I could go to my workshop. I knew that I wouldn't return until sometime early in the evening.

I remember that the drive was beautiful. Throughout the state, I saw prairie grasses and bushes covered with ice crystals. The rising sun made everything sparkle so beautifully. I remember feeling very content.

During a break in my workshop, I checked my phone for the news. I saw that Scott Walker had put the National Guard on alert, saying that public employees would be so upset by his Budget Repair Bill that they might cause problems.

And so it began.

Since then, my activity level has ebbed and flowed. Sometimes I protested; more often I didn't. Sometimes I immersed myself in social media and tried to shape the discourse; other times I stepped back while I tried to figure out what I was thinking and feeling.

I have watched many maintain a level of passion and commitment that awes me. It was easy to be part of the movement when there were tens of thousands at the capitol, raising our shared voices in a cry that gives me chills even now: "This is what democracy looks like!" It was easy to march with the bagpipes and be inspired by the celebrities.

And then we went home, to do the real work of democracy, from collecting signatures to communicating information to simply continuing to show up at work despite feelings of oppression.That wasn't so easy, but it was equally important.

But here we are, nearly one year after the protests began, and I  have seen the landscape transformed. People have joined together. A million recall signatures. Friendships I have watched form across differences of age, race, and lifestyle center around a shared commitment to making a change.

I have been transformed as well. I was bringing home less each paycheck than I had ten years earlier for doing the same job, and my family just couldn't afford the hit it would take. I ended up leaving the public sector after than twenty years to take a position in a private institution. My professional life is completely different now. I carry with me the feelings of oppression and anger directed toward public employees by some of my neighbors as well as former students. (Side note: When I wanted to have a fair salary, I was told that it was taxpayer money, not really mine. Yet when Scott Walker hires a criminal defense team using his own money, it's his money. Pick one, folks.)

I will never again take voting for granted. I will never again sign my name to let someone be on the ballot unless I truly support that person. (Yup, I signed Rep. Kramer's papers after shaking his hand and thinking what a nice guy he was to stand at my front door and talk to me. And then he never responded to my emails at all.) I will never again think my voice doesn't matter. I will carry the memory of watching the news on my computer when the Wisconsin 14 voted with their feet and left the state; I jumped up and shouted in excitement! I will always remember that one of the best days of my life was the day I took my daughter to Madison and passed the torch of justice to the next generation. We marched in the snow and cold, we sat in the capitol and felt the vibrations of democracy through the marble we sat on, we worked on our protest signs together, and we saw that we were connected to thousands and thousands of others who were there. 

I mostly continue to carry the sense of community I have watched and participated in. This sustained shared effort is inspiring. 

And you know what? This is way better than winning the Superbowl. This wasn't a bunch of well-paid guys on a field with coaches who had us cheering them on. This was US! We are still here. And we are the champions. No matter what happens with the elections, we have earned our self-respect, our passion, our commitment, and our pride. I just need to be sure to get a sweatshirt.

Community of Mourners

As the associate dean at my former campus, Phil was the one who hired me and who worked with me as I navigated my professional life as someone who'd left a tenured position and become and adjunct faculty member. He was the least boss-like yet most effective boss I've ever had. He always made me feel like the campus was lucky to have me, although the reverse was more true.

My last real conversation with Phil was the day I told him I'd accepted a job offer at another school. It was the only time in ten years I saw him speechless. His response was kind, supportive, and encouraging--exactly what I needed as I plunged headfirst into a new professional life.

~~~~~~~~~

The death of a colleague collides our worlds.

At work, we live in our professional worlds. Sure, there is some blurring of boundaries as we discuss our personal lives, schedule meetings around the fact that we have to relieve a spouse in graduate school of parenting duties or get a cavity filled, and see the wear and tear of life on our colleagues' faces.

In academia, the professional is personal for many of us. Scholarship and teaching are extensions of our earlier selves when we were students. Our research and writing focus our academic interests and come home with us. We engage in our intellectual work in our jammies and in the shower, not just at work. The point, I guess, is that for academics, the boundaries between personal and professional are already a bit fuzzy, just because of the nature of our work.

When a colleague dies, though, the remaining barriers are shattered for a brief time. Phil died recently; yesterday I attended his funeral service on campus. He'd been sick for a couple months, and his death sent the campus (and my friends and former colleagues) reeling.

Because I now work somewhere else, I won't experience the loss of Phil on a daily basis as so many of my friends will. I feel a bit outside the community of mourners. For several days after his death, I was incredibly sad and I cried a great deal--but I am not the one who will have to live with the loss when the spring semester begins and Phil is not there. My friends will. By the time the funeral arrived, my sadness over his death was overshadowed by my sadness for my friends who will need to live and work without him. My tears, by now, are for them.

At the funeral service, I saw grief in my friends' eyes. Man and woman alike, they cried. They shared stories--not about Phil's professionalism, but about his humanity and the way he touched their lives.

In the end, it is not the work we do but the way in which live our lives that leaves a legacy. It is right that those we spend time with cry over their loss. It means we lived well. We made a difference. And when the people we leave behind mourn and grieve together, the circle that has been left empty is at least, somehow, complete.

Christmas Eve Reflections

Although we typically open gifts on Christmas morning, we do occasionally decide to do it all on Christmas Eve instead. So I'm still up, way past my bedtime, with some reflections and new cozy slippers while my sons engage in nerf gun wars in the living room.

1. There is always one gift that takes someone's breath away. This year, it was Matt's gift to Becky--a sonic screwdriver a la Dr. Who. She was overwhelmed. There is always one gift that is funny; this year there were several. Matt regifted the snuggie he got last year from Ben--to Ben. Ben gave Matt a gift card for Batteries Plus (where Matt works), in the amount of 50 cents. Much laughter ensued. In our lives with different schedules and now Matt's friend living with us, it is comforting to be all together in the same place, sharing our time with each other.
2. I've never been good at staying awake until midnight, and Christmas Eve is certainly no exception. It appeared that several members of the choir experienced the same problem. We're still probably less tired than Mary was at the first Christmas.
3. The "glo-o-o-o-o-ria" section of "Angels We Have Heard on High" offers many opportunities to catch up on yawning without looking like you're yawning.
4. I will never experience the candlelight Christmas Eve service without remembering the time one of the children burned the hair of the woman sitting in front of us. I have forgotten which child it was, but I will always remember the horror I felt.
5. The ceiling in the octagonal sanctuary at First United Methodist Church in Waukesha has its central section made of stained glass. I don't know why it was designed that way, but the ceiling serves its most wonderful purpose on Christmas Eve. When the electrical lights are turned off and we are left with the multitude of flickering candles, the flames are reflected in the ceiling glass, looking like the stars. All eyes turn heavenward, which is at it should be.
6. Even though I'm up too late, I will probably be the first one up in the morning. Unlike most of my childhood, I will probably sleep past 5 am.

Sisters

I haven't blogged about my job much for various reasons--mostly that I still feel like I am learning what my job is. But thinking about how my initial goal of this blog was to illuminate one woman's experience, I'd like to say something about my job through that lens.

I work at a small Catholic women's college sponsored by a community of religious women (and by that I mean nuns). Some faculty and administrators are men, as are a very few nursing and graduate students.

I love being with so many women every day, and mostly, I find that I love the nuns. They are earthy, loving, and passionate. They have given their whole adult lives to God and to the transformation and education of other women. They support each other.

I've seen a sister reach out to hold the hand of a frightened student, and I've heard stories of smashing mice with shovels in the convent basement. They are committed to social justice and are not afraid of change. They both impress me and crack me up every single day. They teach me much about what it means to nurture, support, and encourage as a woman.

I have been blessed every single day by the sisters' presence in my life. I love when I experience a gift that I never could've anticipated.

And So It Begins

Nine months ago today, I stood on the capitol lawn with colleagues for my first Wisconsin protest. It is when I first heard the chant "Recall Walker."

Today the recall began.

I have hopes for this time (besides the hope of recalling Walker, of course).

I hope that people focus on policy and process, not on personality. We need to disagree without being disagreeable. Referring to the governor as a weasel or calling him a douchebag says more about us than about him. Seriously. If you can't say something nicely, perhaps it doesn't need saying.

Second, I hope that people maintain their integrity. If we win the recall, it will matter that we have done so in a dignified, transparent, and honest manner that does not push our political opponents so far away that we can't move forward after the recall. And if we lose, do we really want the winners angry at us?

My third hope is the most important. I hope for kindness and respect. I saw an article that indicated that some Republicans and former Walker supporters now support a recall. Let's not make it harder for them, folks. It takes a lot of honesty and courage to change your mind and to bring yourself to sign your name to a paper intended to remove someone you voted for. We should show respect for these individuals. They are our best allies in building bridges toward our futures.

And so it begins...

Connectedness

When I began my job, I was asked to take the StrenghtsQuest assessment. Unlike typical personality and interest inventories that I've always felt were used to label me in some way, this assessments a positive way of indicating what my strengths are so I can build on them to achieve and grow. There are 34 strengths, and they include things like Command, Developer, and Achiever. It's been interesting to see how much insight my colleagues have gained about themselves.

My greatest strength is connectedness. I see everything and everyone in terms of how they relate to each other. My goal is always unity and understanding how we all fit together as part of a greater whole. I've always known this about myself, although I never considered it a strength. (Interestingly, several of the nuns have the same top strength.)

If I had a theme song, it would probably be "Blessed Be the Tie that Binds." It is a huge part of why I love Facebook, and it is related to why I always want to know everyone's business. I am a bridge builder.

Knowing this in terms of a strength has helped me understand why I was so caught up in "the Wisconsin troubles" this year. It wasn't just because of the things Walker and the Fitzgerald brothers tried to take away. My biggest issues were the divisive ways they went about doing things and the divisiveness and contention that has resulted.

(On a side note, this is also why I've  been so upset about a situation at my former workplace. My former co-workers are facing an extremely difficult situation with another co-worker with a serious mental illness. They are upset, and I am distressed to not be with these people I care about.)

Just as connectedness is my greatest strength, disconnectedness is what provokes the greatest agitation in me. My role cannot be to go out and confront. It puts me at a
disadvantage.

The coming months will again be very contentious. I need to think through how I can contribute--not just as another body in the struggle but as a person who uses what she does well naturally  to make a difference.

P.S. I wrote this whole blog entry on my phone.