In which our melancholy correspondentmediates on unemployment and
the decade of broken promises
We were surprised recently to hear from an old friend who dropped
from view more than a year ago when, after riding high in the Eighties,
the publishing company he worked for went under with a titanic splash.
Jobless ever since, he now reports that the horror is over and that his
sights have at last become adjusted to the horizons of the Nineties. His
horizons, and maybe ours. What also caught our attention, frankly, was
the postmark on his letter Woodstock, New York--site of the memorable
rock concert in 1969. Our friend, as we recall, is not much of a rock and
roller. Perhaps the town drew out the bohemian in him, treed now from
corporate constraints, though not exactly by choice.
"The first trouble I got into after relocating here," he writes.
"was getting up too early, a carryover from my days in 'the regiment' my
former firm. I put the morning news on too loud and soon heard from the
neighbor, a jazz pianist. 'Musicians stay up late,' she said. 'If you
could, try to keep it down.' It was a mild run-in but it told me
something about the effects of long-term unemployment, which had begun to
manifest in me in rather overt ways: My habitual time structure had come
under siege. At first just the obvious cues disappeared, although,
properly conditioned, I clung to them stubbornly. No more 9 to 5, no more
lunch at noon, no more daily commutes, no more Saturday trips to the
dress-shirt laundry. In other words, no more escaping into malify, no
more clinging to the convenient minutia of a busy everyday.
"Then, less subtle changes took hold. It was not merely that the
distinction between hours blurred, but the names of days lost their
significance, as did their place on the calendar. I was adrift in a
temporal limbo, where virtually the only signals that registered were the
onset of day, the fall of night, and the change of seasons. For the first
time in decades I watched dawns and sunsets, studied constellations, kept
a sharp eye on the outdoor thermometer. Very primeval. Biological
fundamentalism. Everyone should try it.
"I can see now, looking back over the last year, that I passed
through all the psychological phases of unemployment without realizing I
was doing so. Once again, my record of naivete with regard to the crises
of my life is intact. For I have gone through adolescence, mourning,
organic chemistry, marriage, parenting, divorce, and now unemployment
without being aware that the emotional shoals threatening this vessel on
each of those passages were well-mapped (though not necessarily therefore
avoidable, as many counselors and fellow travelers will confirm). It also
surprised me to discover that, in the case of unemployment, the phases
uncovered and codified by social scientists during the Great Depression
remain pretty much unchanged today, except that now, in the Great
Recession, they include and apply to a much wider social spectrum. It's
no longer predominantly a male, blue-collar phenomenon, but hits at both
sexes and at every level--blue, white, gold, and whatever colors lie
between. Thirties, say hello to the Nineties. Sister, can you spare a
dime?
"A British researcher, Marie Jahoda, summarizes the phases of
unemployment that became apparent in the Thirties this way: The initial
response is fear and distress; this is followed by numbness and apathy,
gradually replaced by some adaption and efforts to obtain employment. As
the futility of such efforts becomes obvious, hope weakens. This is
followed by a complete loss of hope, which gradually changes either to
apathy or sober acquiesence.
"That isn't all, for during that unpleasant slide, consequences
appeared among the unemployed, often without regard to the economic
stress induced by lack of a paycheck: loss of time structure, social
isolation, lack of participation in collective purposes, the loss of
status and identity, and the absence of regular activity.
"You already know that my personal clock went bananas, and my days
were no longer populated with the lovable inanities of my former follow
workers (whom I miss). I have given up trying to blaze a trail in the
publishing industry. Forget about regular activity. I' play a lot of
tennis. But I doubt that you can imagine the impact of the toss of status
and identity. I won't share with you the intimate aspects of this
deprivation, beyond suggesting that it entailed the blunting of some of
the body's more useful and interesting pheromones. And drives. Nor can I
tell you why these separate elements--status and identity are so
deleteriously linked in our society, where what you do or where you fit
in, some hierarchy is tantamount to who you are. But there it is, drummed
into us, at least into me, to such an extent that half the battle of
surviving the cut from the working herd has involved breaking this unholy
link. this dependence on the image projected to the brotherhood and
sisterhood. Maybe even to the parenthood, though I suspect most of us are
more intent on impressing peers and siblings than we are elders.
Tags:
bohemian,
broken promises,
constraints,
cues,
dress shirt,
eighties,
horizons,
identity,
jazz pianist,
limbo,
long term unemployment,
minutia,
morning news,
neighbor,
nineties,
old friend,
postindustrial,
postmark,
publishing company,
shirt laundry,
subtle changes,
time structure,
unemployment's,
Woodstock,
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