A friend’s business that’s been growing for more than ten years is dangerously close to collapse. This friend, who is responsible for her own and her extended family’s survival, just moved into a new apartment. The rent she was paying—once a reasonable spend—is now too high. If business doesn’t turn around quickly, there will be more difficult decisions ahead.
A small apparel company my husband and I patronize has stopped manufacturing new products. They’re selling off existing inventory. The trade war between America and China means their existing supply chain model no longer works, and until the tit-for-tat comes to an end, it’s lights out.
A family friend who works for a government agency was fired, then rehired, then put on probation with the rest of his team. They’ve been asked to quantify just how many more people they can lose before essential services fail, which means they’re writing their own exit plans. He lives in a constant state of alarm. Obsesses over the news. Checks email nonstop. Has a hard time talking about much beyond the morbid morale in his near-empty office. After serving in the military for years and working as a civil servant since, this disruption is more than unsettling. It’s a kick in the gut. A slap in the face. A rug pulled out from under him and a concrete slab beneath.
A good friend just lost her job. Not because she wasn’t good at it. Not because the company was forced to cut costs. Not because a reorganization rendered her skills and experience void. But because a few wealthy men determined to erase racial progress in America decided to demonize all work designed to open doors, remove barriers, and enable contribution that might otherwise go untapped. Sounds dramatic, maybe. But true.
The way I’ve been describing the phenomenon we’re watching unfold?
Manufactured chaos.
In the world of work, the manufactured chaos—or disruption by design—is getting harder to navigate. To avoid risk, leaders are backing way up from the line. And for the many employees shocked by a sudden departure from purported values, that gap—the chasm between the law and the letter of it—is thick with grief.
People are in self-preservation mode. We are hoarding not only money, time, and materials, but also generosity and care. Relationships are withering with each tough call we make tougher by discarding far more of our hard-won progress than required. More than is right or good or sustainable.
Employees are reading both decisions and indecision as signs of what matters to leaders and to companies. On one hand, the departure from inclusion work is understandable. Who wants to deal with a constant barrage of threats from a powerful government? On the other, it’s confounding to witness. The wounds being inflicted will last far beyond this moment. Do leaders think it will be easy to rebuild what is so readily being torn down? They can’t possibly. I’m guessing the plan to cross that bridge when they get to it. That is, if they’re still around to get to it.
This past Sunday, John and I sat in an airport terminal waiting to board our flight home from Nashville. The middle-aged man seated to my right wore a t-shirt that read, “Trump Won: Get Over It.”
A man in a wheelchair who looked to be about ninety was desperately trying to get his attention, and when the man in the t-shirt finally looked up, he mouthed, “I love your shirt!” They began a conversation I wasn’t trying to overhear but did.
“We’re going to feel some pain,” the t-shirt man said in a calm and even tone. “But it’s for our children’s future. For their freedom,” he added, gesturing toward his teenage son. “And so they can have high-paying jobs.”
The man in the wheelchair whispered something in response that I couldn’t make out. Was the whispering because of me?
The t-shirt man continued. “They claimed they wanted inclusion, but didn’t include me,” he said sarcastically. “That’s my issue.” (I’d heard this song before.)
The old man, slightly hunched and leaning to the side, remained silent but looked hungry for more.
“It’s not perfect,” admitted t-shirt man. “Like, a bunch of social security workers were just fired, but if you’re retired, you have plenty of time to wait six hours on the phone. It’s not that big a deal.” He then uttered the slogan I’ve heard countless times over the past few weeks:
“It’s short-term pain for long-term gain.”
This is it, I thought. This is the narrative anchor that’s been set. This means that no matter how bad things get, people will believe it’s a step toward something better. And the better will always be on the way.
Then, the proof that the narrative is working: “My wife and I just lost our manufacturing jobs. But this will be great for our children. Trump is going to turn it all around. He knows exactly what he’s doing.” Beyond the shirt that advertised as much, I could tell by the sound of his voice that he was at peace with his posture, which was a far cry from my own.
I wondered what narrative anchor we—those of us who believe in connectedness and community care—must set if we have a shot at holding the line. Nothing is sticking as universally (or repelling arguments as easily) as the one my airport neighbor offered his new friend.
Do we still believe “we are inextricably linked,” as Dr. King wrote in his Letter to a Birmingham Jail?
Do we still believe “we but mirror the world,” as Mahatma Ghandi said?
Do we still believe Jesus’ words in Matthew 25:40? That “whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me?”
The word person in me was brainstorming on the spot. Of course, I know the road to interdependence will take far more than a good slogan.
Just then, the agent called our flight to board, and as we stood to walk toward the gate, t-shirt man’s last sentence reverberated in my brain: “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”
On this point, we agreed.
Tara Jaye Frank