Millenials – Yellow Brick Missives

January 31, 2013January 31, 2013

Slipping and Shining

We’ve all had those moments of self doubt.

When we’ve asked ourselves the really important questions in life.

“Am I happy?”

“Can I succeed?”

“Will I make it through to the end?”

“Too much teeth?”

You know, the basics.

***

Some of these incisive questions can leave you wanting, wondering what’s going to happen next.

Not unlike passing a note in sixth grade, wringing your hands because you’re worried that you should’ve darkened the circle around “Maybe,” and more thoroughly erased the one around “No Way.”

(Oh, who am I kidding? That note was being returned to me. Bitch.)

But knowing a little snippet of paper is being printed off for me in the bowels of The Pink Slip Factory of Death packs more of a punch.

More so than I expected.

***

Now, I’m not saying that my job is fulfilling.

Or appreciated.

Or enjoyable.

I’m not saying that it hasn’t killed my work ethic.

Hasn’t driven me to drink on occasion.

Hasn’t made me question why I got an MA in a dying discipline.

But hey, let’s flip that coin.

After all, had it not been for this job, I would’ve never had the joyful motivation to pen this or that, or start this blog.

I would’ve never experienced the catharsis of email-slapping a sad sack of human flesh masquerading as a professional.

***

Now, back to that coin. Let’s give’er another flip.

Had it not been for this job, I wouldn’t have had to go into debt when this happened on the drive home from work:

So that I could buy this to get back to work:

Only to have this happen to it two months later on the way to work:

But, I also wouldn’t have moved to a small town closer to The Job, where I made amazing friends.

And I also wouldn’t have gotten so depressed by that small town’s lack of LGBT life that I’d decide to make a move for myself–to Raleigh.

So that I could ignite a long-held passion for LGBT activism.

So that I could do something for the community.

Nor would I have then gotten so overly involved with volunteer activities that I’d given up hope of meeting that guy, and was my most basest and stressed out self…

…on the day I met him.

And my life changed forever.

***

So. There you have it. The most flipped coin ever.

And as I snuffled and cried and stress ate a box of Thin Mints last night, Andy’s reassuring voice over the phone line reminded me that we’ll be fine.

Because we’ve already overcome so much. And we’ll get through much more.

And have plenty of time to realize just how much light this silver lining can reflect.

How we, too, can still shine.

November 5, 2012December 13, 2012

When Your Only Recourse To Bullying Is A Big F-You.

There have been a few moments in my life when I’ve realized my only recourse is to throw my hands in the air after washing them clean of toxic residue left by particular experiences.

I did after crying about the sting of unrequited love.

I did after deciding to leave graduate school.

And at 6:41 this morning, I did it again.

***

After two and a half years dealing with a constant barrage of hostile exchanges and unprofessional behavior in my office, I passed the threshold separating “Be the better person” from “Here’s what I really think of you.”

Once the tremors in my hands subsided, and the keyboard stopped smoking from my rapid typing, I exhaled for the first time in what seemed like 15 minutes. Onscreen was the end product of unmeasurable amounts of stress, anxiety, and anger.

It was the albatross loosened from around my neck.

***

I’ve had so many mentors in my life, each of whom has taught me the benefits of being the bigger person. Of following all professional channels to reddress workplace issues. Of taking the high road. Of invoking that voice of reason even when fear-mongers scream through bullhorns.

But it turns out today is not the day to do any of these things. Or be any of these people.

Today is when I face the fact that this horrible place has changed me. Has made me bitter. Has changed a part of who I am for the worse. Has made me realize I need to start healing, and stop tearing off the proverbial scabs and repeatedly licking my wounds.

Today is the day I send a response to the person who has made my time in this office absolutely unbearable.

[Name]:

Thank you for your email. It brings a few issues to the floor, each of which I’d like to address in detail.

(1) If the — files are of such central importance, then I think they should be kept in your office, not mine, and in something a bit more appropriate than a rusted filing cabinet. Additionally, — has been mitigated for years, and while there is limited interest in it, I have yet to see anyone use these files since I’ve worked here; they take up space that is needed by the buildings team to process active projects. — has not been under the —‘s managerial purview in years.

(2) There seems to be a double standard with regard to individuals moving office furniture at their leisure. Did you not switch offices without any prior approval? Did you ask everyone in the office if they would mind? The move you made was calculated and the implication clear-you wanted the “power” office in the facility. The cabinet I moved has been empty since — left, and its space is needed presently. As you mentioned in your email, there are plenty of other filing cabinets floating around —; we can always get one of those once a — is hired.

(3) You are not my — mentor, my supervisor, or my boss. You have no right to “track” my leave time on the hard copy calendar in the common area (which, by the way, is an OPSEC violation), and I do not want any of my PII on the —, on a phone list, on anything that is freely accessible by others inside or outside the office. Additionally, if you ever think I am faking an illness to avoid work or am doing so out of anger (e.g., after — left), please feel free to ask me rather than attempt to undermine my professional character. (By the way, I did in fact have pneumonia that settled in my lungs as bronchitis right after — left; I also just had strep throat, an acute sinus infection, two severe ear infections-one of which left me with slight hearing loss-and pink eye in both eyes a few weeks ago.)

(4) If we want to talk about curation, we should address the multiple projects —, —, and I uncovered in the back vault that have been inappropriately curated for the past eight years. Entire projects have been accessioned incorrectly; if I’m not mistaken, this is why you go to — prior to their final storage in this facility and/or at —‘s storage facility. None of the individual artifacts for the projects can be relocated should they need to be, and each of the catalogs is a mess. Additionally, the “database” you keep for the — component of the program is a Word document, not a database; nothing in it can be queried for data usage/calls. There is no real temperature regulation in the back curation area, especially since the door to the common area is kept open at all times. Also, it is a basic best practice not to eat in a curation space; it attracts bugs and drinks can easily be spilled, damaging documents or equipment. A milvan/conex does nothing to preserve the —; these objects are corroding, rotting, and molding in these archivally unstable storage containers. The — Disaster Plan was last updated in May 2002 (when I graduated high school). Each of these issues seems to be a more pressing one than berating me about the location of the — files.

Your email is symptomatic of the targeted harassment you’ve shown toward me since the hostile interaction you initiated earlier this year when no one else was in the office (re: my tasking). Quite frankly, I am tired of your scare tactics, your immature demeanor and attitude in the office, and your unprofessionalism. You have repeatedly shown systematic aggressive communication with attributed intent (e.g., intentionally leaving me out of buildings-related email traffic-e.g., the cupola thread-regardless of if I respond to the thread or am the POC); repetitious manipulation of work (e.g., your attempts to take the — webpage management from me; micromanaging buildings projects/inserting yourself into them when you are not the SME); nonverbal aggression (e.g., your refusal to communicate with me directly or acknowledge my presence; your distribution of Suicide Prevention Awareness cards to everyone in the office-even those not present-and intentionally skipping me; antagonizing me about furniture rearrangement that facilitates my productivity in my office); and social ostracism (e.g., asking everyone else in the office if they’d like to eat in the back and intentionally skipping me).

Former staffers and others outside this office share my concerns and thoughts on these issues, so I am not alone in this assessment; I am merely the only one left who has the courage to stand up to workplace bullies like you. Others who have “pushed back” against you and your behavior have met similarly unprofessional ripostes and treatment. I have to deal with harassment, bigotry, and generalized discrimination every single day of my life, so I know what it looks, sounds, and feels like. Everything that you do to undermine my abilities and professionalism in this office, and every way that you act toward me, falls within one of those categories. Your callous behavior is reprehensible, and I am tired of taking the brunt of it.

If you take issue with anything that I do in this office, I ask that you be professional and address it with me directly rather than revert to passive-aggressive emails after I leave the office. The fact that you cannot speak to me, or acknowledge my presence in the office on a daily basis, speaks to your unprofessional, disrespectful behavior that has long pervaded the office.

Respectfully,

Matt

***

Today is the day that my mind is clear.

My conscience clean.

March 14, 2012December 13, 2012

Que’er Still Here, Beyond the Generational Divide

With the political landscape so intensely polarized, the LGBTQI community has become the most convenient scapegoat for political panderers. It seems that any zealot can put on a suit, use a healthy dose of booze to blur away images of all of their past mistresses or misters, and recite innumerable ways in which the LGBTQI community’s “agenda” has undermined the country’s traditional basis–you know, the one steeped in the bloodshed of North America’s native populations.

Laughable at best, these “arguments” fall apart faster than a Saltine in water. Traditions are meaningful, but are social constructions that change with us; after all, we’re the social creatures that create them. We can easily embrace more inclusive traditions–ones based in acceptance and equal rights protections. Still, politicians manipulate entrenched generational norms to justify partisan politics–to perpetuate a legacy of disenfranchisement. But it is very possible to transcend generational bigotry. And it starts with you.

Growing up in a liberal Catholic household in small-town Alabama, my sister and I knew what it was like to be different. While our more conservative maternal grandparents, Nanie and Papa, circulated the small town social scenes with grace and style, we were contradictory and stirred the pot more than occasionally. Less Flora than Mirarchi, Laura and I were more interested in pulling our father’s finger than pulling out a chair for our grandmother. So it was no surprise that the day I intended to come out to my family, I waited until after dinner, after Nanie and Papa left, before calling my parents and sister back to the dining room table for a wee chat.

After the whole shebang ended, my mother insisted she be the one to tell Nanie and Papa. To this day, I still don’t know how my mother told them or how they initially responded. But as time passed, Nanie would make allusions to alternative “lifestyles”–her olive branch–even though we never really sat down and spoke candidly about my social life. Several years later, when Papa was diagnosed with cancer, things changed.

Papa became a shade of his former gregarious self. When I’d speak to him over the phone, the wear in his voice was palpable; intensely invasive surgeries had prolonged his life, but robbed him of his energy. Suffice it to say I didn’t feel like peppering either of them with details of my latest catastrophes in boyfriendom. After all, I figured there was always time. Years later, as I sat across from Papa in his hospice room, I knew I wouldn’t have any other opportunities. With no leave left at work, I had to return to North Carolina. It was my turn to feel robbed.

Since I’d come out, the two of us never sat down to talk. In some ways, I think he preferred it that way. I respected that; after all, he and Nanie still wanted to be a part of my life. Even so, anxiety kept washing over me; it was the same feeling I’d had when my paternal grandparents died–that they didn’t know about this part of my life. I realized I’d been repeating the same mistake for years without really knowing it.

But this was it. It was incomprehensible to me that I’d never see him again. We chatted about this and that. The drain of the conversation began taking its toll, and he began drifting off. So I assured him that we’d watch after Nanie and got up to leave.

That’s when he stopped me, hesitated momentarily, and asked, “So, are there many gay people where you are? To be near?”

I lost it. Never had I heard him utter the word “gay,” much less in reference to me. It wasn’t a request for a tell-all, just an acknowledgement. And that was enough.

“Yes, yes there are. I’ll be fine.”

“Good. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I turned, walked to the door, and looked over my shoulder at someone I thought had become a stranger. But he’d been there the whole time. Just waiting.

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