Revolutionary worker scholar canned!

by RWS/PNN

I got canned last week. Just like that. My job was helping others find jobs. Now I'm the one without a job. I remember that last day. I helped a man put together a resume. He wanted to get into the maintenance training program of the non-profit I was working for. Another guy walked in and told me about the status of his janitorial gig - a gig I helped him get. He told me he was doing ok, that he was trying to avoid certain negative people. He's trying to better his condition - a man of color trying to get closer to himself, his essence as a black man, a king - in a society that treats you like a damn fool.

We talked about life, his 15-year-old daughter, cell phone and child support payments. I walked him back to the job where we hugged and parted ways.

I put in a year's time into my job at a local non-profit. Its mission, I was told, was housing the houseless and jobbing the jobless. The job was rewarding - I got people jobs and averted a knife attack last December in a supportive housing building operated by the organization; jeapordizing my own safety. But as time went on I realized the organization was less human and more spreadsheet-oriented. One evening after work I jumped into bed and found a spreadsheet where a flannel one should have been. It was a cold night.

Long story short, I got jobs for many people - people formerly homeless and/or incarcerated. Unfortunately, my supervisor was typical of what you find in non-profits in San Francisco - aloof as a piece of ivory in a display case. She walked the halls as if she owned them - like a missionary. And of course, she had the privilege of travelling all over the world, "just to get away".

While I was cultivating relationships with community folk, helping them obtain employment, I was being scrutinized for trifling things - like not affixing my assigned magnet to the in and out board to notify the office where I was at all times. They seemed to pay more attention to this than to the fact that many of my so-called clients were getting jobs. It was bizarre. I was terminated without being given a reason. I was told to clear my stuff out. Just like that.

The day after my termination I took a bike ride through the Tenderloin. I must have run into everyone I'd ever known at my former job. Some were working, some not. It was like going back in time. I went to the EDD office to apply for unemployment. I saw one of my former "clients". We exchanged nods. It was like going back in time. Seeing them was a gift. The friendships we'd forged had not been terminated. We shook hands and hugged without the client/service provider relationship hanging over our heads. This is as it should be.

I kept riding my bike, newly canned from the work world. I sought out the real workers. One guy was in the Embarcadero. His set up was a microphone stand and PA system. From a tape recorder played the music of James Brown. He spun and swayed his hips and slid effortlessly across the pavement in a pair of tight slacks, silk shirt and spit shine shoes. He tapped the mic stand and it rose and fell on command in a limbo-like trance. In a coffee can was his money - 2 dollars and change. He sang, "It's too funky in here! Give me some air!". At that moment the door to one of those fancy downtown French toilets opened and the toilet tech appeared with a dopey smile on his face. It was perfect timing because the tech surely must have needed air. The brother was earning his money. If James Brown was soul brother #1, than this guy was soul brother #2.

I rode for miles. I went back to the tenderloin and through the Mission. What would I do without a job? I stopped at Union Square Park and lay in the grass. I looked up at the sun. It was taking a nap so I joined in. I awoke and jumped back on my bike.

I saw a man blowing balloons and twisting them into beautiful shapes. He walked about handing them out to children passing by. The kids held them like giant candy. One parent told his son to return the balloon when the balloon man said; "Any donation is appreciated". The balloon seemed to turn into broken glass in the boy's hands as he handed it back.

There should be a place where folks who want to blow balloons can blow them. I think balloons are flowers that don't need soil to grow. I think those who blow balloons for children should unionize their collective breath into a balloon blowers union and create and shape another world without broken glass.