So here you are, awake at 4am, trying to figure out how to reinvent your professional life. Again. For the third time in a decade. You weren’t fired – you definitely weren’t fired – you were made redundant. You aren’t unemployed now because you were bad at your job, but because of cutbacks. That’s supposed to be the good news.
You think back to earlier today when you joked that you felt like Schrodinger’s cat as you waited for your appointment. The cat is stone-cold dead now.
You weren’t laid off because of performance issues. This was a “restructure reduction”, and you’re leaving with a large group of your colleagues. We’re in difficult economic times, they told you. But the economic situation has been the same for years now – and it would have been kinder to do this to you earlier, rather than slashing and burning at the time of year when academic jobs are hardest to find.
But at least you got to hear the news from a respected supervisor (rather than the impersonal human resources representative). The minute she made eye contact, you knew. You held it together so she could get through her prepared speech, and you tried to say thoughtful, positive things while haemorrhaging hopes and dreams. Finally, you saw that she was holding back tears too and you wept – apologising for not keeping it together while she was being so kind and so professional.
You left the building for an hour to give yourself time to get your head straight, because you still had a class to teach. You took in the river and thought about how lucky you’d been to see this view every workday.
You sent some texts and wept some more, until you finally sat down and let the wind flow through the empty space where your stable future used to be.
Realising the time, you pulled yourself together. You made a spur-of-the-minute decision to shift your class plan to an interactive final (which you’d been toying with for two weeks anyway) and pulled together last-minute supplies. You entered the classroom with a smile and announced: “Surprise, no review, we’re doing the final now!” You knew this class could handle it.
All too soon, it was over and they were surrounding you. They already knew. Of course they knew, there are no secrets on a small campus. Some were crying, some were smiling with encouragement, some were angry – one even vowed to write a strongly worded letter and you laughingly offered to check it for grammatical errors.
You spent two more hours tying up loose ends; sending emails and making phone calls as your colleagues commiserated and tried to disguise their pity for one another. You left early, hauling your things to the car in a conference bag. You will spend more time on this campus in the coming weeks, but – there’s no use denying it – the space is no longer yours.
You fell asleep easily this evening, wondering why the gravity of your situation wasn’t crushing you. Then your eyes shot open at 4am, mind racing as you started trying to figure out who you would be now that the person you chose to be – who you love to be – is gone, through no fault of your own.
In the following weeks, your colleagues express anger, frustration and confusion. Some leave immediately, others wait out the week, others opt to stay until the very end. At after-hours campus get-togethers, the mood is awkward but sweet. Those who remain in their jobs feel awful, and worry about further cuts.
Those who opt to stay do so in order to prepare their classes for finals, while those leaving immediately do so quietly, without protest. Notably, no one takes it out on the students. We came into this for them, and we’re not going to leave any differently.
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