First Person: Layoff Psychology

By Joan Lopez Flores


It wasn’t the perfect job, but when I got a callback from an online promotional products company back in October 2007 hiring me to be their newest copywriter, I thought just that. Not that my copyediting job prior was that bad—in fact it’s still one of the companies that I’m proud to have been associated with to this day. It’s just that, well, I felt underpaid and undermined, thus my eagerness to get into this new company that promised an exciting new work environment and a host of benefits you can’t find elsewhere!

November 1 was my starting date, basically because the company wanted me to begin right away. Now I’ve never been a superstitious person, though I’m occasionally curious of eerie events, but now when I look back I sometimes find myself thinking, maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to start then.

Working there wasn’t quite as I imagined it would be, but it was okay. I was treated decently. I gave them what I was asked of—copy for all new merchandise to be uploaded in the company Website’s online catalogue, pretty much. The team I got assigned to wasn’t necessarily my idea of friends, but then I’ve always been complimented to have the talent of making friends anywhere.

What I looked forward to every day were the coffee breaks and lunch hour, where I would get together with two of my colleagues whom I’ve become friends with during my previous employment (actually we resigned from there at around the same time, too, and got jobs in this new company). To that end, I guess it was almost the perfect job: working with friends.

Recession
Three months into the job and things started getting shaky.  The company was US-owned, and with the economic recession then in the advent of burgeoning into the gaping hole it is today, the execs were all on their toes, panicky. Soon talk of “cutting costs,” “making ends meet,” and eventually “company-wide layoff” became everyone’s daily gossip.

It was funny, because I didn’t feel that much affected. Not that I had zero fears of getting fired–after all, I was one of the newest ones on board, but somehow, for some weird reason, I was indifferent about the whole thing. Sure, I engaged in talk of so-where-do-we-go-next-if-ever among close friends, but not every two seconds like the others.

A week passed, and indeed, the layoff happened. First two, then four, sometimes even almost a dozen people at a time, one department after another. Accounting. Sales. Art. Marketing. Still not feeling the tension.

Then that evening came. I got to work pleased that traffic wasn’t half-bad when it was in fact Friday night, ergo congested EDSA night. I ran into my supervisor on my way up the building, talking in a hushed tone with two of my other colleagues. I thought nothing of it and went straight to the elevators.

Mindless hours later and into my coffee/cigarette break, I went out and there my supervisor was again. This time she asked me, “Joan, they’re asking me to pick three people.”

I honestly thought my heart sank, but it didn’t, although I pretended to be devastated. It was really funny, this feeling of distance from all the panic. She went on about assessing performance, tenure, and all that, but I could really care less, I thought then. Maybe it was an instant defense mechanism? I didn’t know. But I remember just thinking then, if it’s going to happen to me, then let it. I’ll manage. Or maybe, I was really convinced at the back of my head that I was going to stay. I mean, I did a kickass job at copywriting, why would they want to kick me out?

Bad news
Conference call, everyone in the team was in the room. The VP from offshore rambled on and on from the loudspeaker about how she didn’t see this whole thing coming, and so on and so forth. And then finally, the names. Three people. She said my name last.

I swear, I did not expect to be the least bit stirred, but I was actually floored to the hilt! I realized then that the reason I was indifferent all the while was because I really did not expect to get fired, and I really did not want to be, no matter the countless times I’ve said the words “there are so many other jobs out there, anyway.”

And just about then, when everyone was consoling me, even telling me the company made a bad call kicking me out and that I deserved to stay, the reality of being “jobless” started to hit me like one thick hardbound thumping on my head after another. I thought about my baby girl just about to turn one that year, my mom and my two brothers still studying who depended on me, especially since my dad had just died two months from then. My husband had a decent job, but it would not be enough to support all of us.

I kept cool going through the paperwork that very same day. No more coming to work Monday, they said, but I’ll be paid for a whole month on top of my last paycheck.

Bouncing back
It wouldn’t be until two months after that I’d find another job. Not the same benefits, what with all other companies tightening belts as well, but decent enough. The days that followed were grueling, I must admit. It wasn’t easy to find a new job with the description and salary you want and start from scratch again when you’ve just settled in. I found myself busy with other things besides applications, like my mother’s small business that sadly didn’t do well and taking a work-from-home stint that ended up not so well either. I had to brave myself to face every day knowing I did not have the security I used to have, reassure myself that I was worth a company’s trust and investment. And I had to learn to fully, even blindly, trust God to take care of things for me.

I turned out okay, and it’s been over a year. I’ve put the experience behind me, and I look back at it with a smile now and a lot of gratitude. I still have that same job and it paid the bills. Getting laid off and being able to go through it and survive has permanently reshaped my character, I must say. I’ve learned to adapt better, to hold on, to value what I have. It taught me to be prepared for any jab and that sometimes it can be an uppercut from nowhere, and how to cope when it does hit hard on the nose.

And now that recession continues to happen and affect many others–would you believe, my husband got laid off just last week!–I know better than to care less and prepare for the worst. Prayer has never failed me too, I learned, and so I continue to trust Him and let Him be God. Yes, never mind if my next job come another year or so signs me up to start November 1 again.

First Person: Memories of Homes

This juniper was the only other living thing in my first apartment where I lived alone many years ago.

I am moving to my new home this week–my twentieth address since I was born–and in the middle of cleaning the jalousie and polishing the wooden floor, I wonder about this house’s history. I’ve always been fascinated by the character of houses and the stories they tell.

One of the more memorable houses in my lifetime is my aunt’s house in Cavite. Big, bold, and boisterous, the house, more than 20 years old, is never without people. Quiet moments are scarce there, and the house is never without visitors as it serves as a halfway home for relatives from the Visayas who come to visit. Despite my craving for peace and quiet—writerly moments, I call them—I am drawn to that house, maybe because I feel most at home there, in the presence of family.

Another significant memory of houses in my childhood is my grandmother Estrella’s house in Bacolod City, where I lived until I was eleven. Even now, almost two decades later, I still remember the glossy shine and the smoothness of the house’s wooden bamboo floors and hot summer months quenched by a bath in our own well.

Another home that I remember fondly is my first apartment in Taguig. During this “year of living independently,” I battled the depression that comes with living alone. I learned to cook for one. I kept the house company during the weekends, polishing the floor while listening to relationship advice over the radio.

Its walls had a coldness to it and I tried to be kind to it by playing Lea Salonga throughout the night or some other music, depending on whether someone was staying for the evening. I would read poetry aloud in the middle of the night when I’d wake up scared of being alone. But I came to love it, and when my contract was up, I was sad to go and gave away some of my possessions because I didn’t want to be reminded of the memories of that home.

Today, as I clean out the big, tall closets in this place I will soon call home, I start to wonder what this house has seen. I am sure the walls have seen a lot of sex in their lifetime. I wonder if the happier moments in this house outweigh the sad ones. I also wonder if anybody has died in this house—and if someone had and I knew, would I still take it?

My wild imagination starts conjuring scenes of devil worship and human sacrifices a la Rosemary’s Baby. But my saner self takes over and I focus on my plans for this house. Like whether I should repaint its mint green doors in the rooms above, a shade a stark contrast to my color scheme, or when to replace the blinds—a repository of years-old dust—allergens! I fear another allergy attack.

Despite the fact that I’ve moved a lot since I was a kid, I never walk into the door of a potential home and say, “I will stay only a year.” There is always the longing to stay, maybe longer, maybe forever. I’ve come to love the homes I’ve lived in like I would my own child. During idle moments, I find myself scrubbing tiles and walls, seemingly rubbing away the age with bleach and detergent.

The kitchen tiles in this new home are starting to break. The locks and doorknob are rough with age. I may have to replace all these soon, if only because I want to love this house back and so I want to make it more lovable despite its flaws, like an only child. The house has a lot of potential, I know. I am positive I will have a lot of good memories here.

First Person: Amoy-Amerika

By KC Ramirez

Last March, my older brother, who migrated to the US in 2005, gave my parents one of the most-awaited rewards of pouring their money into sending him abroad. For the entire week that we were expecting its arrival, I brazed the MRT rush and elbowed many mothers to get home as early as I could. It wasn’t sent to the house the day I was cheek-to-cheek with the train door. Nor did it show up the night I spent my last P100 on an MGE cab. It was yet another thing we should start keeping in mind about long-distance family affairs: The Balikbayan box never arrives on time.

In fact, it didn’t reach our doorstep for another week. And when it did, my mom misunderstood my SMS.

I keyed in, “Ma, na-open niyo na yung box? Malapit na ‘ko.” With a fierce game face and hips set into frantic motion, I was brisk-walking for my life toward home, and—well, I was just really excited.

When I finally made it to our living room, strips of silver packaging tape were already strewn over the floor, and my mom’s face was buried deep inside the box: she was reaching in for the last corned beef cans and Dove soap.

The first-ever opening-of-the-box ceremony commenced without me. We were supposed to open it together, but mother dear thought I said they could go ahead. Wha--?

I wish I had complained more but the imported goodies drove me to move on with life. The sofa and dining table showcased so many fluffy towels (that will have be embroidered with “Ramirez” very soon), a box of original sandwich-size Zip-Lock, a sleek Black  & Decker power drill, three big bags of Cadbury Crème Eggs, Bath & Body Works lotion bottles and a cleaning mop that comes with its own soap dispenser! Multicolored backpacks! Car tools! Vienna Sausage! Old Navy flip-flops!

And, oh, the smell of America… my mom, dad and our palaki, Tomas, found ourselves sniffing each and every item, savoring the aroma of “stateside”, picturing the best we could what it’s like in that other world.

My brother is now a registered nurse in the US. He left in December of 2005, taking his wife, who’s always mistaken as my real sibling, and my beloved nephew, who I’ll forever consider my panganay, away from us and into a brighter future. Before we drove them to the airport, my brother caressed the yellow walls of his house (which stood behind my parent’s) in between tears, and had a moment alone with the family car.

He took the CGFNS examination twice. He missed the first one by a point-something and nobody in the house ever talked about it. Between the two of us, he’s actually the moody one so we were always careful around him. To my friends, I fondly refer to my brother, who is 10 years older, as the girl in the family. We didn’t enjoy each other’s company until I was old enough that enjoying each other’s company required no effort anymore. Nevertheless, thank God we had our chance.

Despite being difficult, one good thing was that my brother always knew where he ought to go. In their house, they have their own study table, apart from my nephew’s little blue desk. My sister-in-law, by the way, is a pharmacist, so the two shared a passion for making it there. And they did, despite the months we spent looking out for Mr. LBC to deliver their Immigration papers. Everyone knew what to do the moment they arrived: Sign in behalf of my brother, do not open the envelope, place it on the piano and stare at it until it melted. I guess I should mention here that the consul assigned to them took so many vacation leaves their papers sulked in his office for nearly seven months. The validity of their medical tests almost expired.

Three weeks before Christmas that year, finally, the three left for the States. Without any luggage. They did, however, bring two Balikbayan boxes, each with its contents list, in case my Kuya and Ate forget where they had placed the few things they couldn’t let go of: Vincent’s Spiderman, Transformers and Toy Story figures, his Manchester United shirt from a cousin in London (also a nurse), Ate Camille’s bags and my dad’s winter jacket, which he used while building irrigation systems at the foot of the Himalayas and which was waaaaaay too small for my brother. For the record, when my Kuya wore it, he looked like Ben Stiller in Starsky & Hutch, constipated for the past 10 years. The complete set of Friends DVDs had to be left behind.

Days after they got to the US, they had already received their green card. Then it took them several months to fill the box to the rim. So long that the contents had become collectible, commemorative items: the shoes were bought at a sale in November, the watch was made available with a 50 percent discount when spring had come. The Nano accounted for a number of 16-hour shifts. The box itself was sent months delayed because their second baby, little Enzo, was born in October. Each piece already had their own story.

On with that night, I was trying my Chucks on andtinkering with the iPod Nano, which I would not buy by myself. My dad refused to wear his Kenneth Cole watch, except, he says, during really special occasions ( I vote never), and my mom kept busying herself with trivial concerns in the kitchen. Deep inside, she was just afraid that the Mossimo swimsuit would not fit.

When the excitement had subsided somewhat, I couldn’t help but caress the box myself. I thought, “Vincy helped packed this, Ate Camille and my Kuya took pains to seal this part…” It was overly sentimental, but it was as close to them as we’ll ever be, at least for the next two years.

In the days that followed, my parents had to endure well-meant jesting from relatives, such as, “Wow, katas ng ‘Merika,” and, “Uy! First blood!” Corny, tacky, but true. Surprisingly, however, we couldn’t be prouder. And it provided us with so much more.

Sometimes I feel like I’m their parent, too. I feel scared and anxious how they will do after a sheltered life here, how their new world would suit them, and how much they would change.

When the box arrived, we felt freed from worry. Who would have thought that the balikbayan box, which is decreasing in size, by the way, could grant us the assurance we have been waiting for since they left?

It meant they’re gradually making it there.