Unpacking Our Work Relationships
In Episode 12 of the Wallflowers in Bloom podcast, our guest shared about her recent work experiences. As the seconds ticked forward on the recording, I worried she was putting too much out there. As I edited the audio that evening, I conceded to something. Our guest’s revelations hit a nerve with me, bringing to the surface events I denied affected me while employed at the same Los Angeles-based investment banking firm.
For anyone sauntering by, there was always an unrestricted view of what we were doing.
It’s time, I said to myself, on a sunny day in August 2019. Wedged between an off-white wall and the desk of a colleague, I stood and grabbed my security badge. I then clicked Control+Alt+Delete to lock my computer.
“I’m gonna take a break,” I said to my colleague.
“Enjoy!” In her mid-20s, she swivelled her petite frame back to face her monitor—smoothing back her long, dark hair.
I looked right at the other employees in my department as I walked by our room. Through the san serif font of “Presentation and Graphics” stencilled in the center of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. For anyone sauntering by, there was an unrestricted view of what we were doing. Which included working, strategizing, or attempting to shovel food in our mouths as we worked on time-sensitive projects. The “fishbowl”, as we had dubbed the space, was devoid of artwork and comprised three clusters of dark brown desks that matched the dark brown stained carpet. Paired with its lustreless lighting, the windowless room was primed for quick conversion to a basement telemarketing call center.
…I pulled out the phone number scribbled in red ink on a mini yellow Post-It note.
Walking down the hall lined with artwork from employees’ children, I glimpsed my supervisors snuggled in the last compact office. Built like an ex-rugby player, our tall middle-aged senior manager had his feet up on the desk of his subordinate—overhead lights beaming down on his shaved scalp. Four days into his five-day visit from the firm’s London office, his look contrasted with the dark-haired, stocky junior manager.
I turned right into the wood-panelled elevator bay. The doors slid open as soon as I pressed the down button. My stomach lurched as I travelled alone down four floors to the lobby of the high-rise building.
The heat from L.A.’s mid-August temperatures blasted me as I stepped out from the iciness of the building’s interior into the rear courtyard. I looked at the seats surrounding vacant metal tables, then turned right towards the multilevel parking garage. With over 200 employees in the firm’s office, I was never sure who shared the same security badge as me.
Moving against foot traffic coming from the parking structure, I pushed through a nearby heavy iron gate to leave the lair of the building’s rear. A view of the mall across the way loomed ahead as I headed towards the busy street. Reaching into a front pocket, I pulled out a phone number scribbled in red ink on a mini yellow Post-It note.
“Hello.” The bright voice of the marketing director greeted me from where she was in the firm’s San Francisco location. I imagined her exploding into her high-voltage smile as her cheeriness coursed into my ear and drowned out the surrounding noise.
“Hi, I stepped outside for more privacy.” My heart quickened as the moisture from my palm softened the Post-It note.
“Is everything okay? Earlier, you sounded like you needed to talk.”
“Everything’s good,” I assured her. Then, I took a breath. “Because most of my projects come through you, I want you to be the first to know I’ll be submitting my resignation.”
“Erick, no! You can’t leave us.” The saccharine sweetness drenched her words. “We value your contributions as a graphic designer. You’re one of our most valued team members. It’s not because of us, is it?”
“No,” I laughed. I then explained my plans to leave for Stockholm, Sweden. A city I first visited in August 2015.
“Well, we’re going to miss you. If you’re open to it, we can keep you on as a contractor. If that’s okay with you.”
“Of course! That would be great.” She then offered suggestions on how to approach my supervisors in L.A.
“Make sure you call me as soon as you’ve told them. Okay? I’m thrilled and excited for you. Wow, Sweden! Who knew?”
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. But I followed the marketing manager’s suggestions. And from that day until my last one three weeks later, she didn’t respond to any of my phone calls or emails. I felt let down. Her actions returned me to something Cicely Tyson shared in a December 2018 episode of Oprah’s Master Class podcast about an employee she once worked with.
“I remember,” Ms Tyson said. “Sitting to the left of Mrs Johnson, who had been there forever, right? And I remember this party. And I remember them presenting her with this watch. And I sat there, looking at them. I said, ‘after 30 years, a watch’. I was looking at this woman who put so much time into this organization. I said, ‘I’m never ever gonna be any place where they’re going to give me, after that length of time, a watch.’”
Like Mrs Johnson, I’d been at the firm for over 20 years. However, I didn’t get a watch at the surprise luncheon thrown for me several days before my departure. I didn’t want one—okay with leaving quietly down the back stairs on my last day. Not because I didn’t feel I deserved it. After years of upgrading my skills and taking on advanced projects, I didn’t want to smile into the faces of some who minimized my contributions. I wanted to honor my acceptance of those I knew were not professional allies.
I worked until the last hour on my last day, completing projects and answering emails. This was interspersed with thanking those who wished me well. I was anxious, but I wasn’t sad because I gained a lot working for the firm. Where I redirected my creativity into graphic design. I gained invaluable knowledge from colleagues who shared their professional expertise and insights.
Things were different for me a year after resigning from the investment banking firm. The first three months were challenging. Namely, because I wanted to leap-frog over how I felt. Because that would include admitting I was nervous. I was excited to begin new professional and personal ventures. But couldn’t comprehend how it would all unfold.
Saliva coated her pink gums, creating a plastic sheen…
Work is a relationship, too. So I unpacked my feelings around the firm—a place I’d been at for over half my life. I admitted to those parts that were unhealthy. I unpacked the suitcase and recognized that the validation I sought from work associates who were often less than supportive. Like my dating life, I believed in the importance of a healthy work-life.
An hour before leaving the firm for the last time, I ran into marketing’s creative design director in the elevator bay. “We’re going to miss having you here,” she said. Saliva coated her pink gums, creating a plastic sheen as her mouth stretched into a tight grin. “We will reach out to you for contract work.” Noting the dullness in her eyes, I smiled and conjured up an image of a just vacated house. Then I said to myself, Open up the windows. Air it out and let it go. When I made it back to my desk, I gathered up my remaining belongings.
