Escaping a lousy job

I’ve always been a people pleaser. Chalk it up to being raised in the South by a mother so polite, she would rather sign up for a dozen bake sales, church obligations, and professional society commitments than tell anyone no and risk inconveniencing them. 

From a very early age, I lived to please grown-ups and took that quality with me into adulthood (story for another time: I only majored in public relations because I didn’t want to cause trouble by correcting my advisor over a clerical error.) So, it’s no surprise that I found myself in more than my fair share of bad jobs. Not wanting to disappoint anyone, I stuck around long after I realized it was an unhealthy environment. 

When I moved to Chicago in early 2011, I started taking writing courses at The Second City and set out to find a job. Three months into my new adventure, I was still jobless and starting to panic. A friend in my writing class mentioned that his office was hiring.

“It’s kind of a crappy job and they don’t pay very well, but you’d be full-time with benefits,” he told me. Five years out of college, I certainly didn’t expect to work for just over minimum wage, especially not at a law firm. But I couldn’t borrow money from my younger sister again and rent was due soon. So, I accepted the job. 

Sharp & Associates* is a foreclosure law firm run by a man who could usually be described as “reeking of booze” or “inappropriately touching women” or “on vacation with his mistress.” A high-end law firm it was not. 

They profited off the housing crash of 2008 by representing banks in the thousands upon thousands of foreclosures happening in Illinois. They kept their overhead low by creating an assembly-line system to process cases. Instead of paying attorneys or paralegals to draft a complaint, prepare a judgment package, or read through thick packets of mortgage documents, they paid people like me to handle one tiny piece of the case. The result was roughly 800 employees who could churn out tens of thousands of judgments per year. Employees who are virtually useless outside of this system because knowing how to draft the notice of hearing alone is not a marketable skill. 

“It wasn’t exciting work but I had my creative outlet to support, so I didn’t mind too much.”

It wasn’t exciting work but I had my creative outlet to support, so I didn’t mind too much. Some data entry here, some filing there. But soon, I took on more responsibility and assumed a(n unpaid) leadership role in my department. I was sure my hard work would be rewarded with a promotion and a raise. After two and a half years, it was. Sort of.

I was promoted to coordinator. That means that I was the liaison between the supervisor and the underlings. All of the responsibility, none of the say. I wasn’t invited into meetings to talk about workflow or best practices, but I would hear about it later and be expected to communicate those expectations to my co-workers. Shortly after my promotion, a new supervisor took over my team. She informed me on her first day that she didn’t feel comfortable with me because she didn’t know me. It was a gut punch. I felt like I was juggling plates and keeping things moving, only to be told none of that spinning mattered. We managed to create a working but tenuous relationship.

After struggling to have my hard work recognized for four and a half years, I was finally promoted to supervisor. Foreclosures had begun to slow down and due to some new rulings about predatory lending, our case flow slowed considerably. Upper management got nervous and began a frantic hiring and firing spree of experts to help us streamline our process. My team of 14 managed to escape layoffs and worked diligently to eliminate the backlog caused by the new rulings. 

Then, one morning, I was called into the director’s office with the other supervisors. She handed us each a list of names. 

“These are the people who are being laid off this morning at 11:00. They will receive an email calling them to the cafeteria. As soon as you see them leave, you are to go to their desks, pack up their things, and deliver them to the cafeteria.” 

I protested, “Only three of my employees aren’t on this list!” 

“We’ll talk after.”

I packed up eleven employees’ belongings and delivered them to the cafeteria, being sure to slip a note in each bag, assuring them they could use me as a reference. I sat in my office stunned. My cell phone pinged. There was a text from a number I didn’t recognize.

“Come to Shirley’s office.”

Shirley was one of the efficiency experts the company had hired in their mad dash to save the sinking ship. I walked down to her door and was greeted by the director. She and Shirley invited me to sit down. I mentioned again how shocked I was that all but three of my employees had been let go. 

“Yeah, it doesn’t make much sense for your team to continue with three people. Your position has been eliminated, too,” the director said. 

Gentle reader, I couldn’t help myself. I started to cry. 

“But you’re smart and you’re a hard worker, so we don’t want to let you go. So, we’re just demoting you.” 

I lost my damn mind. I yelled, I sobbed, I pitched a full-on fit and told them I wish they had fired me because then I could have applied for unemployment. Now I had to choose between taking a significant pay cut from my already modest salary and outright quitting. I took the rest of the afternoon off, cleared out my office, and went home to scream into a pillow. Then I planned my escape. 

I applied for job after job — interviewing at small non-profits all over the city. After the demotion I had slowly taken home all of my personal effects. I cleared my browser history, deleted old emails, and basically reset my computer to as close to factory new as I could. I drafted three emails: one to HR and my director to advise them of my resignation; one to the colleagues I enjoyed working with to thank them for our time together; and one to friends with my contact information. 

Four months after my demotion, I accepted a job offer. 

The morning of my great escape, I was elated. I would never have to darken these doors again. My six years of service were up. After treating my friends in the department to coffees, I fired up my computer one last time, put the finishing touches on my emails and hit send. Then I dropped by badge at the receptionist’s desk, walked out — and never looked back. 

I have yet to regret the manner of my departure, and I’m not sure I will any time soon. Most folks will tell you not to burn bridges because you may need a reference later, it’s bad business, etc. 

I’m here to say f--- that noise. 

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. 

*Not their real name but it’s close. They’ve since merged with another firm and downsized considerably. It’s allegedly a better place to work now but, given the above, I’ll never find out for sure.