Draft of a Resignation Letter?

"I've been thinking through my life a lot lately, and my job, and how those two things tie in together, and I've realized that this job is just not a good fit for me. It's been eight months, and for most of those months I tried harder than I've had to try for a job. Part of that is the environment - which has certainly not been optimal for me - but I'll take the blame for part of it as well.

Either way, I think the best course of action is for me to resign, and for you to find someone with experience and know-how. Training me from scratch may not have been such a good idea after all when you consider that you were simultaneously trying to train yourself how to use those systems. If it wasn't unfair for you to expect me to learn new systems while you were relearning them, it certainly wasn't the best idea.

I'm fairly resolute about leaving - there are days when I think I'm dumb for wanting to, but if I'm really honest with myself, I've been wondering when I would leave almost since I started. It was a countdown until Indie Grits, and now I don't have something important to keep working for. I love Andrew and Isaac, and I love the Nickelodeon and Indie Grits, but you've made it increasingly difficult for me to love the work I do. It's the systems, yes, and the fact that I'm terrible at anticipating you, but it's also the way you treat all of us. When you hired me, you said we'd "work closely together," but that's not at all true. You work far above me and expect me to know what you need without telling me, and you don't respect me enough for it to be anywhere near working "with" me.

I really appreciate you taking a chance on me, even though I'm sure it'll look like a wasted effort to you. I'm sorry I'm leaving before you in a lurch, but I'd be happy to help you train the next one, or write an extensive list of where things are and how I've organized things. I would still love to come to the Nickelodeon and volunteer for Indie Grits, and I hope you won't think of me too harshly for realizing that someone else would do a better job, and I'd do a better job somewhere else."

Can I do this kind of thing in an e-mail?

Post Office Etiquette

Now that I'm going to the post office literally five days a week, some things have become evident to me about the etiquette that so often goes unrealized at this, the most unconscious of public spaces. I really do believe  people just go about their business without really thinking about how they should be acting, but when it's something you deal with every day, sometimes twice a day, you start to have allergic reactions to all the obnoxious people who think their business is more important than yours.

Let's back up just a bit to the pre-post office stage. This pet peeve actually transcends pet peeve and delves straight into terrible driving; I hate when people turn left at the same time someone coming towards them is turning right, just assuming that the person with the right of way is totally fine with staying in the rightmost lane. That is most often not the case at all. A lot of people want to get in the middle or right lane when they turn. Seriously. Just don't do it.

Parking in the post office is always a mess as well. But no matter how much of a mess parking is, I don't ever think it's acceptable to park in a handicapped parking space, then hop out of your car and run inside for a second. Call me old fashioned here, but those spaces are sacred. I cannot think of a single situation at the post office that justifies taking that spot when you clearly don't need it. And it happens so, so often.

It all comes back to a sense of entitlement - and while I may suffer from that same sense on occasion, I like to think I can keep it in check enough to remember things like right of way, politeness in parking, and pedestrian safety. And while some people probably do have more pressing places to be than I do (I won't get fired if I show up five minutes late), it seems like people get so caught up in their own world that they have no time to yield, to acknowledge that all of us are going places and doing things and seeing the world through our own eyes.

If I want to get into the nit-picking details of it, I could mention how people avoid your eyes or even glare at you at the post office. I feel like, in a place like this, it's actually terrifically important to smile at people. It's like a neighborhood - you get to know the cars you park next to at the post office, and by the same token, you should get to know the people that are with you on your "shift."

Too Much, All the Time

How do I ever make decisions?

I have a mind of my own - I like to think - but I've learned to pay close attention when people give me counsel. Lately, though, I'm running into some form of cognitive dissonance, when I have too many people telling me too different things. I have a bad habit of completely shutting down in that situation, digging my heels in and waiting for some blinding light to show me the way. So the last few months have been a little bit difficult, and a lot stagnant.

A friend made the point last night that I'm still really young, and this is the time in my life when I have an opportunity to do what I want to do. This really struck home with me. Maybe it's not quite as crazy as flying to Italy tomorrow (ideal), but as simple as spending my afternoons laying on the river reading, or training myself to write an hour a day again. Her implication - or the one I read into it - was that I jumped into adult life a little faster than was absolutely necessary, or maybe just faster than is good for my psyche at this time.

I've got things pretty together right now, though. I've got a wonderful boyfriend that I fully intend to spend the rest of my life with. We have two dogs together (you have to see the way he interacts with Chloe - she's as much his as mine now), a house that we're trying to move out of, and a lovely garden. I'm not saying I would lose those things if I tried this other method, but I would certainly feel less like I deserved it, had worked for it. I'd lose my claim to being a contributing member of society.

What happens if I decide I don't want this responsibility, and walk away? Not the responsibility of "family life," because I like that part, but that false responsibility of having a salary, working set hours, and hating every second of it. What if I decide I don't care about a "career," and decide to be a Five Points rat until Brian and I can go away and find something better to do? Does that mean I'm throwing away my potential or just finding out that my potential doesn't lie in office management?

It's about themes, I suppose - what's the theme by which I want to live the next few years of my life? Do I want to be selfish and "find myself" and try to find happiness externally? Do I want to "start a career" and show my worth here rather than places where I feel I'm actually talented at all?

Here's the bottom line: I want to quit. Is that the worst idea I've ever had? Does what I want actually matter if I'm doing something right?

Problems with the Christian Youth

I think I'm fairly well qualified to write on this topic, too - I was one for a very long time. Even if I still believe in God and have fondness for aspects of the religion, I can also fairly well disqualify myself from that category: the "Christian youth" are the ones in YoungLife, who go to MidTown, who wrap their social and religious dealings up so closely that they forget that there's anything else out there.

For a little context, I'm in a wedding right now that requires me spending time not with the cool Christian kids that I used to hang out with (well, two or three of them), but rather the kids that they're hanging out with now. Is it wrong to call a certain set of them "cool" and a certain set . . . definitely not cool? Even if I don't buy into the same set of moral concerns that I used to, and if my actions are no longer driven by emulating Jesus in my daily life, I still live by a certain code that more or less requires me to consider others' feelings and treat people with respect. Sometimes I feel like this self-informed mode of values is far more effective - or maybe it just boils down to the fact that I was raised right.

But one thing that really strikes me, hanging out with a crowd of Christian youth, is that they tend to hide behind their Christian community as a way to avoid being real with anyone on the outside. I know Rachel felt it too, and I'm sure Alyssa was aware of the tension - not going to MidTown, or worse, not going to church at all, means that a lot of girls feel no need to get to know you at all. It's funny, because I felt the same way when I was actually going to MidTown. I guess even within that social strata, there are substrata that allow their members to ostracize people. All the girls I was with last night went to the same service (of the three that I think are still going each Sunday night - there was always a "cool" service to go to), knew the same people, had become close with the same leaders. If you don't know these people and hang out at the same times, clearly you must just be a godless heathen and nobody needs to try to connect with you.

I remember being the same way in high school - in fact, there were several weeks of crying and frustration among my youth group because some people didn't try to welcome new additions, and some people felt unwelcome even after having been there for a while. It's easy to hide behind the mutual friends and events that you can talk about with the people you know, and even easier to write someone off that's from a different circle entirely. When surrounded by your compatriots, you have their collective goodwill and the "us vs. them" mentality - some kind of primal instinct present in troops of monkeys and prides of lions - is strong. Politeness, genuine interest and kindness are unnecessary towards someone who has no tribe present.

This is not to paint myself as a victim, because like I said, I was like that once too. I had my defenses last night that allowed me to express my disinterest in playing that game - the only way to challenge it is to completely deny it - but it just seems vastly unnecessary to want to play the game at this stage in our lives. The concept of "young adult" allows for arrested development and offers what should be fully-fledged adults the ability to worm out of responsibility, both social and religious. Grow up - get a job, find the real world. If church for the youth is mostly about drawing bounds around specific types of people, then something is drastically wrong.

Open Letter to Managers

I've done something similar to this before - talking about my frustration with managers. I don't know if it's because I have a natural desire to delegate and make things happen my way, or if I just am my mother's daughter, but I have very strong feelings about certain parts of . . . any job, really. No matter what the situation, or the circumstances in the job, I get frustrated when people do things in a way that seem ineffective or inefficient to me.

It doesn't take long for me to feel strongly about the concept of "efficient," either; within a few weeks of beginning work - really, right about when I've found what I consider to be efficient for myself - I start to get frustrated when people do things in a way that makes them slower or less clean than me. Different doesn't matter - training a girl today, I tried to make it really clear that I mind when you don't attempt to be efficient, not when you do things differently than me.

But all that aside, my pet peeve for the day is when two people - who will go unnamed - do so much "managering" that they force me to carry the bulk of the work. I ranted a little bit to the third manager, who confirmed my frustration and then told me that it's just their ability to rely on me that leads to their inattentiveness. I understand that concept, and it's not a new one to me. Because I can do a lot of things all at once, and reasonably well, managers assume that I don't mind doing many things all at once for several hours at a time. Not the case, friends. Some days I would enjoy not having to push hard to keep up our standard of service. Some days I would really love to be the one who gets to chat people up rather than constantly be moving.

Moral of this story: when you have the same number of managers as you do hourly employees, there are going to be problems. I experienced that with great frustration at Chick-fil-A, where I trained several managers and then had to endure them telling me stupid things to do. I'm actually not great at masking my frustration with things that I could fix if given control of. Or being the one who's admired for doing things quickly and in a friendly fashion, but then not being listened to or helped.

And I know how all this sounds - like I'm really arrogant. But in all seriousness, Sean tells me every day how much of a void is going to be left when I leave, and I know it's true. I pay attention. That's more than I can say for a lot of people. I guess this is the other side of the coin from last week's blog - this is my I-love-you-but-can't-stand-you-sometimes letter to Drip.

Transitions

The title, which is, obviously, the story of my life. All the time transitioning from one thing to another - I guess this phase of my life is just comprised of changes. Steadily, things are changing for me, in ways I both like and don't like. I guess mostly ways that I think are beneficial, but that doesn't mean I find them comfortable. When have I ever been comfortable with changes?

I know it's been a long time since I've written, but I also know most of you are familiar with my circumstances. I'm sorry I haven't written more about Drip, really. Drip is . . . my ideal, in a lot of ways. And in a lot of ways, this may be my farewell love letter to it.

I love just about everything about this little coffee shop - the polished marble with that oh-so-particular early-morning shimmer; the dark wood tables that we buff every few hours with love; the large-pane windows that give the place such a wonderful natural glow. The aesthetics of the place are, without a doubt, the most wonderful thing I've ever seen. Watching coffee drip into a Hario, silhouetted against the cool morning light, is a somehow cinematic experience. Every time I walk into the place, I want to shoot a movie. Aside from everything aesthetically beautiful, the people are really what I will miss the most. At any point, I can go back in and look at that place. Probably shoot that movie, too - Sean remains my biggest fan, and has offered me a shift or two a week. He's such a generous man, and the thought of leaving a boss who already loves me and respects me is terrifying.

All of my co-workers have their flaws - they're crazy or they're frantic or they're passive aggressive - but I love each one of them and will dearly miss them. The bonding that occurs between people struggling to keep up with a giant mass of customers is priceless; it's a kind of in-the-trenches camaraderie that then quickly gives way to a comfortable joking when business becomes slow. We're a tiny family, by far the smallest I've ever been a part of, but one that I'm proud to have been accepted into. Leaving that family, after such a short but strong relationship was forged, breaks my heart. But the offer came in, and was too good to say no to. The only thing less than desirable about it was the timing, and my love for Sean and Drip had to be tempered by the fact that this sort of opportunity only comes around once in a decade. Someone has to die for the Nickelodeon to take resumes, and the odds of the Nickelodeon offering you a job out of the blue without you having actually turned in a resume? One in a million.

Even if the offer hadn't been massively flattering - Andy told me he wasn't interviewing anyone else unless I declined the position - it's the sort of thing that is either so awesome that it delays your grad school plans, or makes your grad school application look a thousand times better. Are you trying to apply to a Film and Digital Media Studies program? Everything about your application looks the same as everyone else's . . . except for the fantastic letters of recommendation and the five times you drop that you worked for one of the top independent non-profit theaters in the Southeast. Oh, and that you were deeply involved several years in a row with the renowned Indie Grits Film Festival. I agonized. I guess I agonized less over the decision - which was more or less made the moment Andy and I walked into Hunter Gatherer - and more over the fact that I was leaving my ultimate comfort zone.

It's not just that I love this job. It's also that I'm damn good at it. I'm not just being arrogant here, but I understand the mechanics of it. I'm good at the busy moments, as I can multi-task. I'm good during the slow moments, because I'm personable and I can jump right in for conversations. I make good drinks and I take pride in the job. Everything about it is in my comfort zone. Andy asked me pointedly if I was ready to start a 9 to 5 job where I'd spend lots of time in a windowless computer room ("I worked at the Film Archive for a year," I said, which got a good laugh), and even as I was saying yes, I was wondering if the answer was really no. The first week at Drip presented me with a bit of a learning curve, but this is a different curve entirely. Nothing about this will be familiar. Not the software, not the job description, not the people. Yes, of course I'm scared.

It is important to note that I have attained the holy grail, though - a job in the field I graduated in. Less than six months after graduating, no less. Getting back to the point, I want to say a few things about the customers: the people that I can't build relationships with any longer. Co-workers I can text and hang out with. The customers, the ones who I spoke to only for a moment or two every day, are the ones I will miss the most, in a way.

Every morning when Whitney came in, as I was pulling shots and handing her skim iced latte to her, I slowly built that relationship. She doesn't sit at the bar - she's not easy to get to know in the same way. But those little moments, like when she told me about her daughter's fourth birthday breakfast, mean a lot in this world. Marty has become important too - along with his sweet wife who has somehow managed to have five children (under the age of 11) and still look perfectly gorgeous and fit, and his three year-old son with disheveled blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. Marty gets a large coffee, and often one for his lady, and even though he's some sort of big-shot businessman or lawmaker or some such with monograms on his shirts and computer case, he takes a moment to connect with us. Or Jessica and Jame, who are board members at the Nick and two of the most loving, genuine people I've met. They came in two days ago to celebrate their ninth anniversary ("nine years of bliss," they both said), congratulated me on my new job, told me stories about their adorable kids.

Or some of the even more obscure people, like Jo. Jo just started coming in recently, and there's something unmistakably mysterious about her. She's tiny, with straight hair and beautiful dark skin; she speaks very softly and just ordered a small coffee. It's hard to explain what about her is so interesting, but yesterday was the first time I had the opportunity to ask her about herself at all. Or Heyward, the awesome web designer who asks for four shots in his lattes and always shows up at the same events I do. I'm fascinated by his crazy blonde hair, but also by how he's managed to be one of our best customers without us knowing much of anything about him.

Maybe the moral of this story is that Drip has reminded me that I like people. Cool Beans drew a frustrating crowd, college made me lose a lot of respect for people in my age range, and New York was just overwhelmingly over-peopled. But Drip was sort of the opposite experience for me - it made me remember that there's an art to food service and to connecting with people. There's just something so priceless about those moments of human connection between relative strangers. I'll miss that more than anything.

thesis voice-over draft 809

Almost a year later, I look back on my summer in New York City with a sometimes crushing sense of nostalgia. At risk of sounding wildly cliche, those memories are some of the most bittersweet that I can imagine. There's a ghost, one comprised of my memories, that follows me around even now. I want you to feel my ghost too - I want you to be left with a sense of haunting in the same way I have. Maybe that's more important than telling the actual story anyway.

So when I tried to write my autobiography - again and again, never capturing what I needed to capture to make it right - that formative summer became dominated by my experience with the trains. I didn't like New York City, just to be clear. But I learned to love the trains almost immediately: those huge iron beasts that are simultaneously so claustrophobic and so freeing. Even when the streets terrified me and my own apartment felt further from home than I ever could have imagined, something about the trains enraptured me. The motion, the rhythm, the way that they have a personality of their own - some dependable, some unreliable, some fast, some clean.

When I saw this footage, the old trains with their own peculiar ghost themselves, I was immediately drawn into a black hole of recollection. I imagine all New Yorkers - natives, transplants, expatriates - feel the same way about trains.

So rather than telling my story, I create for you a ghost. There have been many more interesting stories better told, but I hope to achieve the effect of such a story in a shorter time. I hope you will feel the bittersweet as I do, know the haunting as intimately as I have.