Work history

Last night I revisited a job that has been so central to the trajectory of my life that I quit it twice. If I'd been wiser to the ways of the world the first time, in fact, I would have quit before I ever started, so thank baby Jesus for just enough naiveté. But this is not a what-if story, or a what-happened story, or, odds are, given my penchant for the tangent, much of a story at all. Call it an appreciation.

A couple of different times I worked a part-time community college job for a couple of years. The hours were sometimes skimpy, the pay was always marginal, and the benefits were so slim that they relied on snow or a visit from the Pope to pay off. True story. But, there was nothing lousy about this job. Instead, it gave me exactly what I needed: students, the opportunity to write, lasting friendships, straightforward, encouraging bosses, and, whenever the time came, a graceful revolving door.

The first time, it might have been harder to leave if we could have afforded to stay, but, honestly, who could resist the siren song of Wisconsin? The second time I left to take a grad school fellowship. Getting paid to go to school for free? Resist that! It could have happened some other way, I suppose, but it did happen because I saw a flyer on the mailroom wall two years after I returned to that same job. It may not have been fate, but it sure was symmetrical.

The writing center was good to me; that's the bottom line. My experience was unique only in the details; the center was good to a lot of other good people, too. Given the turn-out at a party held to honor the changing of the guard and the gifts that had to be seen to be believed, it's clear that the writing center has also been the site of a rare chemistry. Those who got it, got it. Those who didn't, quit, quickly--and didn't come back. Over dinner last night my friend and I sat at the edge of the table and tried to deduce the difference between that place and any other place we ever worked, but soon enough we shrugged and turned our attention back to our chicken piccata. It is what it is and what it may never be again. I'm just glad I was there. Twice.