Just these past couple of weeks some really good people very close to me no longer have their jobs. I know how they feel.
This column won’t necessarily make them feel any better, but when someone is grieving, like when he loses his job, those close by need to offer support the best way they can. They need to say something. Don’t get me wrong. There were people who lost their jobs for cause in the last couple of weeks. There are plenty of people, many of them on both sides of the aisle on Capitol Hill, that need to lose their jobs.
That’s not what happened to these who are very close to me. Simply, their jobs were consolidated away or they found themselves on the wrong side of the bottom line for the organization. That hurts. I would know. Perhaps this story will help. Perhaps not. But here goes anyway. This wasn’t the only job I lost. It was just the first.
You see, I was in the sixth grade. For five years prior, I had watched the top notch sixth graders (these were the cream—people who could afford to miss the first 25 minutes of class in the afternoon) dish out food in the cafeteria line to augment the school staff. These were the ones who would spoon out the green beans or corn on your plate, or place that ice cold half pint carton of milk on your tray.
These were the people you wanted to see each day, because someday, you wanted to be one of them. I mean, the first 25 minutes after lunch were the worst, and these guys didn’t have to endure that. We didn’t know who Tom Brady was back then, since he wouldn’t be born for another 18 years, but for sure he would have worked in his school’s cafeteria when he arrived in the sixth grade. That’s how cool that was.
When I arrived in the sixth grade, I wasn’t chosen to work in the cafeteria—until October—and that was just fine, thank you. Soon, I was dishing out beans and corn on plates and checking out the smiles on my younger schoolmates as I placed those half pint cartons of ice cold milk on their trays.
I also found out there were other duties involved in augmenting the cafeteria staff (in fairness, I didn’t really know what the word “augmenting” meant back then). During those 25 minutes after lunch, you helped the supervisor with the tray, plate and flatware clean-up. And that wasn’t so cool. Just to rinse the flatware was like cheating death with one of the hot springs pools at Yellowstone. I’ve never known water to be so hot, and me sweating over it, just to lower a tray filled with flatware to get “sterilized.”
I was living the good life when one day, unannounced, the school principal showed up at the classroom and summoned my teacher and me to the hallway. There he informed me that I had not performed well enough in the cafeteria and that I was being replaced by someone else. The principal was, without question, the tallest person in the world and as I looked up at him, his words left me devastated.
They turned to return to his office and I followed for a few steps and then, like I had never asserted myself before, loudly proclaimed, “But, I tried my best.” The principal slowly turned around and looking down from 18,000 feet, and in a low voice, simply stated words that will forever remain in my memory. “Well, I guess your best just wasn’t good enough.”
Not good enough? What did he mean by that? My best had always been good enough. Not good enough? For someone who didn’t even know what the word “augmenting” meant? After I picked my head up off of the ground, I realized two truths. I was still alive. And, I was going to have to tell my parents, and then I wouldn’t be alive much longer.
Of course, the sun came up the next day, and my parents were almost as upset about it as I was. That day I endured the sixth-grade walk of shame through the cafeteria line joining other “former augmenters” of the school cafeteria, and I weakly tried to convince anyone who would listen that the first 25 minutes of the afternoon were the best part of my classroom day.
Well, I don’t mean to patronize you at this hour, or make light of the life-events that occurred in your lives these past several weeks. I was shocked for a while when I heard the news, but then I remembered the sixth grade and I got over it, too. Just know this.
The sun comes up tomorrow. You’re still alive. Don’t worry about what you’re going to tell others. You have wonderful skill sets, knowledge, talents, gifts and abilities. God has a place for you and when you get there, you will be standing on the ground, on your feet. I would love to help you in any way I can. Why? Because you’re worth it. So, congratulations on completing that body of work at that former job. One day, God’s going to congratulate you on completing that body of work on earth. But that day is not this day.
It’s a lot of work looking for a new place to work. I understand. We still have much to contribute. I continue to look for endeavors that are significant. People my age do that. God has us here for that purpose. And hopefully, your new job will be so much better, that the first 25 minutes after lunch won’t be so bad. Wouldn’t that be cool?