washwords

Sometimes out of the loop is the best place to be.

The top mommy nag my mom sent me off to college with was this: “Don’t join anything before October 15.” Why? Because in high school, I was kind of… well, a joiner is probably a kind way to put it. (Think “Tracey Flick” as played by Reese Witherspoon in “Election”)

Because join I did! I was secretary of honor society, Spanish class, sophomore class, junior class, Student Senate, Student Council (Yes, they were two different things – how very bicameral of us), editor-in-chief of my high school newspaper (and sole staff member most of its history).

(Sidebar: Who can’t wait for MTV’s “The Paper?” tomorrow night. Me! and all the other Tracy Flicks out there! Anywho…) I tried to take mom’s words to heart – after all working on that student paper (on my Apple IIC and using, yes, stencils, and literal cutting and pasting, with scissors till 3 and 4 a.m.) was a wee bit tiring.

As was yearbook, the literary magazine, all-county chorus, the dance marathon, Close-Up in Washington, Spanish immersion camp, piano lessons (and verrry short-term flute lessons, ice skating lessons…) and well, you get the idear…

Yet, sure enough, a month or two into college, I was involved in several literary magazines, choral groups, trying out to be a tourguide, a mentor (ha! what could I have possibly “mented”) carrying a full courseload, and yes, heading full-steam into the college paper. I don’t regret a minute spent on the paper. Not the twice-weekly 4 a.m. deadlines, not the first real critiques I’d ever gotten (that I cared about, anyway), and certainly it was all well worth meeting some of my very best friends doing work I am still most proud of to this very day. But all that other stuff? Ehh.

One step forward…

Later in my journalism career, my spreading-too-thin-itis focused in (progress!) but grew more intense (two steps back). I would literally force myself to work on two projects at once, not by conscious choice but because while I was interviewing someone, I couldn’t help but hear the newsroom conversation about my other story (and why were they involved? that was mine!) or the interesting class so-and-so was taking or… I kept up the joining. I was propelled to do… everything! Until, shockingly, inevitably, I would crash. hard.

The interview line you’re supposed to say? The one about “oh, I just work too hard, take on too much” for me was real for me and not a good thing at all.

So it was with pride that I seemed to finally be learning. In my current job, I joined NO committees. I don’t help with parties or seminars. I passed on doing the “team newsletter.” But … when no one wanted to be the representative for writer-editor types like myself in our new and important union, I was proud to do so, and have worked hard. Perhaps a little too hard. I fell back into some old ways – what could I do on the council? Why, run communications of course! And so I volunteered to help an existing committee put out their materials. It’ll be fun!

And it was fun. The first day. Getting out a breaking news alert on our pay negotiations took me back to days of reading stories to an editor on the phone. I got the news as it was happening and sped it out the door. It was a thrill!

The next day and week and month was less fun. The committee which had been operating independently had its own way of functioning, understandably. But one of those ways was to use material “pulled from the internet”. My journalist-rooted heart skipped a beat. When I read it, fluffy and p.r.-like and possibly lawsuit-generating, my editor took over. I called a few other folks and I pulled the material.

In the days that followed I was called: a censor, a fascist, too-nice (by the same person!), a Russian dictator after the fall of communism, self-absorbed, disrespectful, a bully, a softie, lacking boundaries, being closed off and well, you name it, I was it.

But me? I thought I can do this still! So I tried to broker peace; I brought cookies and tea, I typed proposals. I literally put in sweat and tears. I did the work myself when others were offended or tired. I requested (and got) help whenever I could. And kept putting out the newsletter and writing memos and educational materials and fact sheets for the union and oh yeah, doing my actual job, too.

Here comes the sun

Recently, after much, much, MUCH deliberation on control and process, the committee reformed. It was assumed I would do it and in went my name, of course. A friend stopped by as I was preparing for a first meeting, and asked me a life-changing question: Why?

Why indeed? Why was I doing something that made my stomach hurt every week, where I was regularly beaten up from many sides, for a product I knew would never carry weight outside the room of those of us arguing about it? Why was I distracted from the real work I’d hoped to do on this council, lobbying for more rights and respects for my talented peers, something I really liked doing, an arena where I was respected and sought and had fun!

My friend told me my face changed, brightened at the mere possibility of quitting. I literally felt like I’d lost 100 lbs. I became more and more excited at contributing still, in a way I actually LIKED working with small groups of people to negotiate changes, and communicate those changes myself to my peers, some of whom were seeing equitable compensation for the first time in years, others who were just learning what they would need and should have to be happy at work.

I didn’t do it soon enough, which made me feel guilty enough that I almost didn’t do it all. But I did. I went to the first meeting of reformed committee. Some talented people were there, perfectly capable of getting things done without me, and even more beautifully: there was a process in place now, a good process I was very proud of helping our council see the need for and create. The PROCESS would help the concerns I still had, the ways I still thought things could and should be improved – or if my solutions weren’t best, the process would take care of that, too. The beauty of it! Of walking away.

Later that night at drinks with friends from one of those first journalism jobs, I raised my glass with exciting news: “I quit something today!” I said cheerily. “To quitting,” said my two girlfriends, both successful over-achievers in their respective worlds. “To quitting!” That wine never tasted so good.

Hmm, I see the council needs a secretary!