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I want a shot at redemption.
Feb. 8th, 2007 10:46 pmThis week's been a tough one, in terms of the human side of human resources. I don't have to deal with the human side so very often; my company is smallish, and turnover is fairly low (especially for a construction company, whose workforce is notably peripatetic). Mostly I deal with computer stuff, push paperwork, make sure we're compliant on all employee-related fronts. Sometimes I deal with men whose hours were somehow shorted. Occasionally I'm called on to listen sympathetically or help arbitrate a complaint or a worry. I take the employee pictures.
This week, though. I've never sat across from a fiftyish ex-addict (who has slipped out of ex-dom and solidly back into addiction) while he shakes and cries; he doesn't want to go back to prison but he can't help doing all the things that put him there in the first place and he can't work but can't be trusted not to use while he's not working. I've never had a teleconference with a parole officer before.
I've never had to fire a worker who's been on a week-long bender and only came back to the office in the first place to pick up his paycheck so he could go back to the liquor store, sitting in the conference room so drunk he could barely speak, too drunk to remember his own phone number, far too drunk to understand his 401(k) options or the information on his separation notice, and everyone loves him when he's sober but he's sober only when he doesn't have the money to spare.
I am worried about these guys. I sit across from them and want to hug them, or, better, make their lives easier in some unspecified way, but. It's clear they have maybe not the worst lives imaginable but bad ones, it's clear they don't have the resources to navigate their own personal nightmares, and I sit at that table and turn them out. I have to, because it's my job to protect the rest of the company from the damage they can do. But I turn them out, and then the only people left for them to damage are themselves and they're so incredibly good at that. And I've (or in the first instance, the company vice-president has) made it clear that there's a place for them if they can stay clean and sober, but I'm not sure what the odds are that they'll make it back under those terms. I think they're probably running pretty high against.
I've been thinking about a line from a film this week as I've floundered. Am I up to remembering that we live in the same world? I thought I was, in theory, before. And now I know I am. I know that there are men older than I am who make more money than I do who don't have bank accounts and live in single rooms and drink themselves blind every day of their lives, and I definitely have it in me to keep their particular hells in mind when I'm sitting across from them in the conference room. And when they're out in the world as well.
I don't know what to do now that I know I'm up to remembering, though. I wish I did.
This week, though. I've never sat across from a fiftyish ex-addict (who has slipped out of ex-dom and solidly back into addiction) while he shakes and cries; he doesn't want to go back to prison but he can't help doing all the things that put him there in the first place and he can't work but can't be trusted not to use while he's not working. I've never had a teleconference with a parole officer before.
I've never had to fire a worker who's been on a week-long bender and only came back to the office in the first place to pick up his paycheck so he could go back to the liquor store, sitting in the conference room so drunk he could barely speak, too drunk to remember his own phone number, far too drunk to understand his 401(k) options or the information on his separation notice, and everyone loves him when he's sober but he's sober only when he doesn't have the money to spare.
I am worried about these guys. I sit across from them and want to hug them, or, better, make their lives easier in some unspecified way, but. It's clear they have maybe not the worst lives imaginable but bad ones, it's clear they don't have the resources to navigate their own personal nightmares, and I sit at that table and turn them out. I have to, because it's my job to protect the rest of the company from the damage they can do. But I turn them out, and then the only people left for them to damage are themselves and they're so incredibly good at that. And I've (or in the first instance, the company vice-president has) made it clear that there's a place for them if they can stay clean and sober, but I'm not sure what the odds are that they'll make it back under those terms. I think they're probably running pretty high against.
I've been thinking about a line from a film this week as I've floundered. Am I up to remembering that we live in the same world? I thought I was, in theory, before. And now I know I am. I know that there are men older than I am who make more money than I do who don't have bank accounts and live in single rooms and drink themselves blind every day of their lives, and I definitely have it in me to keep their particular hells in mind when I'm sitting across from them in the conference room. And when they're out in the world as well.
I don't know what to do now that I know I'm up to remembering, though. I wish I did.
