Ti Moune Syndrome

Throughout the month of June, I had the 28th pegged as a big day and held onto the significance of this date for three reasons: First, and likely the most understandable, the confirmation hearings for Elena Kagan were scheduled to start that day. Although most Americans would much rather watch the reports on the hearings than the actual coverage, I was eager as always to educate myself on the most pressing issues at hand to Congress at the moment, how much politics was to be involved in this process, and (perhaps most importantly) what kind of person was about to take her seat on the highest bench in the land. Secondly, and likely the least understandable, the much-anticipated season premier of ABC Family’s Make It or Break It. Superficial though it is, I’ve invested a personal interest in the course of these fictional characters’ lives and after speculating on all of the possibilities lain before them at the close of last season, I was eager to see what their custom-written fates had in store for them. Lastly, the personal one that made my breath a little shallower and my roll out of bed a bit more reluctant was my planned trip back to the Fund for the Public Interest office where I would pick up my one and only paycheck for the two hours that I had been in their employ.
The last reason was the only one that made me anxious on Monday morning and while it would be easy to chalk this anxiety off to that matter being a bigger deal, I’m not satisfied with the notion that watching the confirmation hearings and Make It or Break It just carry more weight than a trip downtown. I believe instead that the three matters bear similar weight, but take different shapes and the shape is what makes this particular burden the most difficult to carry out of the three.
When I first woke up I went through my obligatory walk and stretch, the two actions that tend to significantly influence whether I’ll feel good about my day but once they were over (all too quickly), I was immediately faced with the unpleasantness of my failure as an employee. Despite my having the date burned into my head from to moment it was spoken, I couldn’t shake the lingering doubt that I had gotten the right date or heard correctly and I had to call rather than risk the humiliation of showing up for my check only to find out I had misunderstood. After only pressing a few buttons I was suddenly listening in horror to the routine ringing as one line made contact with another, praying that someone who didn’t know me, had never seen or heard of me would pick up the phone. In fact, I got Aaron, the director who had been so gracious about firing me a few weeks ago. The sound of his voice in his cheerful salutation made me queasy, not so much out of disgust with him as with horror that all the humiliation and disappointment that came with being terminated could resume so keenly and so quickly, and I had to fight the temptation to hang up and try again later for someone who it wouldn’t be agonizing to speak to. I quickly regurgitated the greeting and explanation I had rehearsed so painstakingly and waited in terror for the confirmation that I had been wrong again; that I had waited too long and my check had already been donated or that I would have to go somewhere else to get it or that somehow I had forgotten to do something that I was supposed to to ensure that I got my money. None of that happened. In fact, he was very cordial, taking the time to acknowledge that he knew who I was before giving me instructions for when I could come in before wishing me well and hanging up. Nothing I feared about the call happened…and yet I was still horrified. I heard in his voice the same amiability that I had heard during our first debriefing and during his termination speech. His tone rang a certain “no hard feelings” cheerfulness that was somehow much more offensive to me than the coldness that I had been expecting. Whatever his intentions were, his ease in conversing with me only served to make me more uneasy. Having gotten confirmation that I had, in fact, been right to both dread and look forward to this day, I was soon on the connector heading toward the building I would likely be entering for the last time and affirming that the opportunity for which I’d had such high hopes had come to nothing. I didn’t want to go. I wanted the money and the closure, but I didn’t want the confrontation, small though it would be and every step I took, every stop on the elevator, every turn I made brought me closer and closer to facing my failure. I finally found myself outside the suite and steeled myself before making my way in with what I hoped was an air of nonchalance. I was back on the elevator not five minutes later and despite the wave of relief that the small ordeal was over, I was crushed by the wave of comprehension that it was over. It was the same mixture of respite and regret that I feel at the end of a school term when I’m glad I don’t have to put up with the drudgery for awhile at the same time I’m disheartened to know I’ll never have another chance to improve my performance. The fears I’d fostered all turned out to be exaggerations borne of conceit over my own significance to these people and the world at large.
It’s funny; my failed attempt to make a difference for the cause was illuminated by the fact that my absence made no difference to the organization. I walked through those suite doors feeling crushed and exposed and ashamed and none of that mattered to the directors. I didn’t matter. I was just another face to them, as expendable as the potential members whose doors I’d knocked on. That expendableness, that…inutility followed me down the hall, around the corners, onto the elevator, and finally back into the car where I was trapped with it, forced to grapple with it for the time it took to get back home, as tightly gripped by my own shame as the check was by my hand. I stared at it, both amazed that I had made so much and annoyed that I had earned so little. There, in black and white, was the sum of my time at Fund for the Public Interest. It was a sobering view.
I recalled after I left what thoughts had gone through my head the previous time I had left this building. It was still the beginning of June and the twenty-eighth felt like light-years away. In my mind I saw myself having read lots of books, learned a bunch of songs found so many things to fill the space between the now and the near future. I was apprehensive, not just about having to face my failure again in the future, but about having to come back to it after moving past it. What pain, I thought, to have to take these steps backwards after all the progress I would make. And yet to my horror, I walked out of that building on the twenty-eighth in the same place as I had on the eighth and I realized just how unlikely it was that I would really have to worry about having to turn back after making progress. Three weeks and I had done nothing. No wonder Aaron could dismiss me so easily. No wonder Shaun could smile over my signature as he handed me my check. I was of no use to them. I had not even been useful to myself. I’ve been like a tool that’s missing its batteries waiting to be empowered by an extension of kindness or a better adapter to my environment or a tune-up for a good friend. Estuve inutil.
When my anticipation for the premier of Make It or Break It was finally sated at ten, I marveled at how each of the girls took control of their lives. When they were weak they made themselves stronger. When they were off balance they found their own center. Even when they were unstable they had the presence of mind to reach out for a decent support. They were significant. They made things happen. They made me feel inadequate and inspired at the same time. I want to be like them. I don’t want to be helpless and useless. I don’t want to be able to count on my hands how many people would show up to my funeral or wonder if anyone is reading these words. I want to be astonishing. I want to be proud of myself. I want to look back and have a different view than I did a year ago and the year before that. I want I want I want. And time goes by and the wants pile up and soon enough the desires form an obstacle in themselves. I can’t blog today; the words might not come out right and I want the writing to be good. I can’t practice today; I might have an audience and I want to improve before I face scrutiny. I can’t call my friend right now; I want her to care enough to reach out to me on her own. How much happier I would be if I could want less and do more. Can I?