In the Absence of Work

Mr. Banks from Disney's Mary Poppins

Like a stoic father in a classic family film, I built my identity on providing for my family. I worked hard at a job I believed in, hauling home stacks of papers to grade or never-ending projects that occupied my mind as I washed the dishes or walked my kids home from school. I wrote extensive daily to-do lists and submerged myself in a perpetual busyness that quickly formed a protective callus over the deep wounds left by domestic violence. 

This isn’t to say work occupied all my time. On the contrary, I filled my free time as completely as I filled my work days: weekly game nights, yoga classes, books, and weekend trips to visit romantic partners who always seemed to live out of town. Whenever trauma threatened to derail my days, I practiced self care. I journaled and even sought therapy. I anointed my feet in coconut oil, read adrienne mare brown’s Pleasure Activism, and prayed to Hera, the ancient Greek goddess who protectively watches over all women through peacock eyes despite endless tales of violence from her thundering husband. 

Housework. Body work. Healing work. Work-work. Intellectual and emotional labor. The day shift. The second shift. Shifting consciousness.

 I….did….my...best. 

Perhaps better?

I wrote emails to state representatives and called their offices. I organized a large community event. I protested. I built programs and curriculum to support the students us teachers lament in the minutes before department meetings--working within an institution in upheval to do work I perceived as intersecting efforts toward equity and social justice. 

Work: The Schyuler Sister from Hamilton

When I perceived my growing frustration and exhaustion, I reached out to my supervisor. I explicitly stated that I could feel myself burning out, and I asked for some flexibility in my schedule as campus slowed down for the summer. No compromise. Then when my vacation request was denied, and I knew I was staring down a crisis, I listened to Lizzo’s “Water Me” on repeat as I walked to my supervisor’s office for one last negotiation. 

I had my letter of resignation in my backpack. I felt embodied in my power when the negotiation failed and I walked away from the job on which I have built 5 years of semi-stability, health insurance, and identity.

In the weeks that have followed, I have discovered that all my critiques of capitalism, all my commitment to my “inherent” self-worth hinged on my confidence that I did good work that supported my family. Without that foundation, I find myself adrift. I have no idea who I am. I lack a sense of purpose. I gaze into a void and ask myself who the hell I think I am. 

Because who really am I? A gal who worries too much and fills her mind with other people’s art when she hasn’t composed more than a Facebook status in years? A woman who imagines herself as a storyteller whose kids aren’t very interested in stories any more? A community organizer who failed to follow up on her Big Project because she was leaving her job and is now too embarrassed to show her face in public for fear she won’t have an answer when someone asks, “What do you do for a living?”

“What...do...you...do…for...a….living?”

Friend, most days I’m not certain I am alive, and even if I am, I have to confess I am rather underwhelmed by the experience so far. 

I’m leaving you today on that rather dreary statement, having offered nothing but a thread of personal narrative. However, I hope to use this as a jumping off point for a more rigorous series of investigations into work, identity, and the tools we use (with varying levels of success) to navigate the intersection of the two.