Canned

When I quit my job in October last year, I was certain I was making the right choice. My boss — who had been piling additional meetings and responsibilities on me — told me I could not expect a promotion or a raise beyond the (lower than the cost of living adjustment) annual standard. The day I gave notice, she asked me to wait until she found out what she could do. Too late.

I found a good contract gig almost immediately, I was unemployed for maybe two weeks? When the work slowed, another role I’d had my eye on opened up. I jumped, expecting it to last for the foreseeable future. I helped with a small project but also, I was part of the team that helped land millions of dollars of work with a tech giant.

Then I got fired.

I’m still wondering if I hallucinated the meeting after which I reported I thought the client on the smaller project would be easy to collaborate with. We had a clear path forward, I told the account manager, and the client would be a good partner. Two days later I learned my work was unacceptable and I was incompetent. Another project for the same client was similarly fraught; they said I was inexperienced and unprofessional.

I sat with my frustration for a week, and then I contacted my team. “Every now and then it happens, a client decides they just don’t like you. Lemme give you some names, maybe one of my very qualified cohort will land better. I’d like to focus on the big work where I have proven success. The other project, they expect me to fail, so please replace me.”

Replace me they did. On everything.

I was an independent contractor, I do not get unemployment. I received no notice or severance pay. One day I thought I was settling into my new job. The next day I no longer had income of any kind. Poof.

I have been laid off uncountable times, the bulk of my work is in tech, it’s common. I’ve walked when the writing is on the wall, too. I negotiated my departure from a tech startup in the 90s when the milk was replaced with powdered creamer. I will never forget the poor admin’s face when I asked why we didn’t have real milk anymore. “We’re out of money, aren’t we?” I asked, and she turned quite pale. I can read a room. But I have never been summarily dismissed.

I’m good at my job and I’m good to work with. I can write about difficult technical concepts and processes in clear language almost anyone can understand. I do exhaustive research, I ask good questions, and I am always firmly on the side of the audience. I’m excellent with words, regardless of the topic at hand. I mention my skills for two reasons. One, I’m looking for work and it’s good for me to articulate this. And two, my work is not why I got fired.

I’m not entirely done being mad. I helped bring in millions, literally millions of dollars in business and they fired me because I have boundaries. So I do think it’s best I no longer work for that company but damn, that was cold.

I should acknowledge my privilege. I did not quit my job last October before I’d saved a fair bit of cash. I don’t have income right now, but I have very little debt. I have only Harley the Dog as a dependent. I’m shockingly healthy. (No, really, I wrangled some difficult issues right to the ground, hallelujah.) I can sit in my unemployed state without panicking. This is not true for everyone. I recognize this. It’s still causing me a fair bit of anxiety, this zero income state. Go figure.

For some time I have been trying to write about work. The place it occupies in our lives. How much we sacrifice to the gods and monsters of capitalism. Why we have to give it the lion’s share of our time. What it allows us to do and what it prevents us from doing. But every time I’ve sat down to write, I have come up empty. I think it’s been too big. Then I got fired. Getting fired is fucked up, no question, but it certainly sharpens your focus. And I am laser focused on the experience of getting fired.

I have partnered with that tornado of competence and creativity, producer Amy Guth (she produced our award winning short, Elvis of the Yukon), and we’re making Canned: Conversations about Getting Fired. I started talking with people I know about their experiences and I’ve gradually been expanding my sources. Some of them are anonymous, some are on the record. Every single person has remarkable wisdom about the experience of getting the axe. Everyone has said something deeply insightful about work and identity. Turns out I didn’t want to write about work, I wanted to ask you about it.

I have a fantasy Amy and I can turn getting canned into an income earning job collecting and publishing stories about … getting canned. There are stranger work fairy tales; why not have this one come true?

So. Please tune in. Get in touch if you want to share your story. Tell your friends about Canned and tell them to get in touch with me if they have stories, I promise I am on their side. I feel a bunch of things every time someone tells me their story: invigorated, validated, vindicated to name a few. Outraged at how disposable we are as workers, at how little recourse we have, how little grace we are offered.

Also, I need a job. Send leads, wouldja?

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Want to share your story? talktocanned @ gmail dot com

Want to keep getting Canned? It costs money to make and I don’t have a job. 

Suggested amounts: 

• Cardboard box level: Any amount (Canned general fund)
• Crying phone call level: 9.93 (One month basic hosting)
• Awkward meeting level: 13.33 (One month Zoom subscription)
• Escorted from the building level: 328.00 (One time mic kit upgrade)

Throw your spare change here. It goes directly to production and hosting expenses.