Teetering on the Fence: Hiring and Firing The Older Worker

 Here’s one of those places where I am really teetering on the fence.

I spend my workdays preparing students to be the critical thinkers and decision makers for my future as well as for theirs and their kids.

It’s only fair.

I’ve taken my turn, done my work, and figure I have to trust our youth to take their turn. Hopefully, recognizing that they have a stake in the decisions they make as they contribute to their community.

And then I think about my 60-something friends who have been pushed out of jobs due to suspected ageism, or found themselves without jobs coming out of the 2007-08 financial crisis that wiped their positions off the map, took their homes in foreclosure, and their savings as they struggled to stay afloat. In 2007, these folks hadn’t yet fallen into this ageism gap and would have continued successfully in their work and careers had then economy not come crashing down on their unsuspecting heads.

Several relocated in hopes of better prospects, some tried changing careers and still others settled for minimum wage or retired earlier than they planned.

The Intern (2015)

At 59, I was newly divorced and settling into my condo when my 40-something house painter announced to me that he’d just hired a 59-year-old painter. He was, he told me, pleased and surprised by the professionalism, level of experience, and quality of work. His tone told me he had been skeptical that a 59-year-old would have the stamina for the work.

The 59-year-old me had to take a moment to let that announcement sink in. My 26-year-old mouth (and brain) wasn’t as patient.

(No, I didn’t fire him on the spot, are you kidding me? He was doing great work and he was almost done!)

I did have a bit of a “come to Jesus” moment diplomatically with him though. Pointing out that 59 is the new 49 (hitting him where it hurts ;-).

I did point out that I was 59.

I did point out that fully capable people come in all ages.

I stew over the wealth of skill, experience and knowledge that mature professionals have and the value that is lost when we let go of these people.

I acknowledge that 12-year-olds (OK 30-somethings) don’t want to hire, train and manage employees who are old enough to be their grandparents.

I acknowledge that I don’t want to work for a 12-year-old whose knowledge base and experience aren’t sufficient to instill confidence in me, let alone respect.

Both have to come to respect what each brings to the professional table in terms of knowledge about the marketplace. Both have to recognize the other for the resources they possess and the value to them individually as well as to the organization.

A forty-something student recently shared that he found campus job fairs disappointing because the younger recruiters didn't understand why he would want an internship after successful careers. Yet, like every other student seeking internships, he is in school to update his skills and knowledge and the internship is as important to him as it is to the 20-something in line behind him.

In a conversation with a media colleague recently, who was pushed out of her career position with age as a possible factor, I rattled on sagely about pitching professional maturity, experience, institutional history, etc. She all but slapped me across the face with a far more reasoned and brilliant strategy. Sheesh!

Twelve-year-olds don’t want to hear about what older applicants have done and the baggage of outdated accomplishments they drag around with them. Twelve-year-olds want to hear what the applicants --- all applicants, any applicants --- can do for them right now with contemporary work tools and resources to accomplish the organization’s mission. Older workers must be prepared to satisfy the contemporary demands of the employer.

A 55-year-old worker didn't understand why he was let go after his six-month probationary period. His employer had tracked him carefully because while he had the skills, knowledge and experience that the company wanted, the worker refused to update his approach to the work. Each time he was counseled to approach the work with contemporary practices, he returned to the work with a "I've always done it this way." Works for him no doubt, but it doesn't work for the company for which he was working.

At the same time, employers do have an obligation to their employees to provide workers with opportunities to develop their skills and maintain relative to technology and current standards within the field. Employers need to encourage this development as well. Even if, then, the older workers leave their positions for whatever reason, they have, at minimum, an understanding of the needs of the current marketplace and the confidence that they can make the changes and acquire the skills necessary to compete there.

I remain on the fence here. How do we best utilize and not lose the skills and knowledge of our aging workers?

How do we trust younger workers who we don’t quite think have enough experience and skills yet to best understand and service our needs?

How do we take down the fence and benefit from the best of both?

The Intern (I) (2015)

70-year-old widower Ben Whittaker has discovered that retirement isn't all it's cracked up to be. Seizing an opportunity to get back in the game, he becomes a senior intern at an online fashion site, founded and run by Jules Ostin.

Director/Writer: Nancy Meyers

Stars: Robert De Niro, Anne Hathaway, Rene Russo

On David Bowie and Alan Rickman

David Bowie and Alan Rickman died this week. Both 69. Both of cancer related causes. Sigh.

Although they were 10 years my senior, I still consider them of my “gen-generation” (© The Who, 70s) artistically anyway. We are so lucky to have grown up along such creative strength.

I wasn’t introduced to Rickman until “Madly, Truly, Deeply” in 1990, but I’ve been madly, truly, deeply a fan ever since.

From leading man to comedic characters, stage to screen, Rickman’s style and form always entertained and left generations of actors plenty of lessons about owning and creating the character, immersing oneself, and telling the best story.

He wasn’t a star; he was an actor.

He wasn’t a celebrity; he was an artist whose catalog of exceptional work generated well-earned attention.

I remember David Jones on the Ed Sullivan Show in the 60s.

I tracked him from early folk artist to Ziggy Stardust (1972), Aladdin Sane (1973), Diamond Dogs (1974), Plastic Soul Man (1975), Thin White Duke (1976), and his Berlin years into the 80s, and on to his continued David Bowie explorations in music and art ever since. (New York Magazine, Jan. 10, 2016)

He crossed genres and genders and just about any other line he could find to step over provocatively.

David Bowie was immortal to me. He successfully reincarnated himself time and creative time.

We classified him as a singer/musician but he was so much more. He tried everything to continually reshape and define the art he created. The Key: he did it for himself --- regardless of the critics --- and in doing so, he gave voice and power to so many young artists who couldn’t understand while they couldn’t find mainstream acceptance for themselves and their art.

He also stood up and expressed strong stances for equality and respect for artists across genre, gender, race, culture.

I followed Bowie but must admit to having been challenged by him, even fearful and put off. I didn’t understand the make-up and the costuming, and the flamboyance of his work in those times.

Fortunately, Bowie sustained by doing what he wanted not what others expected or preferred. Fortunately for me, I was afforded the time to gain perspective on the impact of this artist icon in my midst. Not an artist out of history books to study from beyond the grave. But one whose work was ongoing, growing and “cha-cha-changing” right along with me in my lifetime.

British Actor Simon Pegg wrote: “If you’re sad today, just remember the world is over 4 billion years old and you somehow managed to exist at the same time as David Bowie."

Bowie just released his latest jazz-exploration in the album “Blackstar.”

New York Magazine’s Dec. 28, 2015 – Jan. 10, 2016 issue included “All the Derivative Dudes,” Bowie and his characters' influence on other artists across the genres and year.

Fortunately for us, the artistic voices of our generation are well preserved even as we lose their persons. What do you think?

Lessons my mother taught me without saying a word: #1 - Mobility = Independence

Ugh. Just finished the first week of a cardio interval step class at the campus rec center and discovered that my toilet is too low.

After class, my usually brisk walk home has turned into a struggled stroll through the snow-covered sidewalks. My thigh muscles scream as I ease onto and off of the couch but going for my 1940s toilet requires the kind of squats I couldn’t get anywhere near in class. Pain and urgency – HELP! I've squatted and I can't get up!

Since the class is on campus you are correct to assume the majority of participants are 12 --- OK, 20 something (same thing).

You are also correct that their trendy spandex stretches only so far --- around their already toned bodies --- not mine. I’m the one in the back row in men’s sweats and an oversized t-shirt down to my knees. Hey, every class needs a Frump Model. I’m helping everyone else in class with their self-esteem.

I exercise for two reasons:

1.     I’m afraid of losing my mobility, and

2.     I’m afraid of not turning into my mother.

At 95, she runs --- not walks --- on her walker throughout her managed care neighborhood. I have a newspaper front-page feature photo of her here on my desk. She’s in her 70s with her leg in the air nearly over her head during a Tai Chi class.

Once she retired from running around after four children, she swam three times a week, rode her exercise bike 10 minutes every morning while singing hymns, played shuffle board, and walked all over town to pay her bills --- because why waste the postage stamp? Let’s not even get started on lawn care, snow shoveling, or just about everything else she did to stay busy.

Her independence depended on two things:

1.     Her physical mobility, and

2.     Her driver’s license.

Collectively, they were freedom and independence.

Until while in her early 80s, the earlier symptoms of dementia --- memory loss and confusion --- led to two auto accidents where no one else was hurt but the time had come to surrender the driver’s license. *

Depression quickly followed as did further decline into dementia. Her freedom, her independence had been yanked out from under her. I felt them and understood fully how stranded, powerless, even valueless she felt. I never get into my car now without understanding that while I still have another good 20 years at least, this privilege is going to be lost by necessity eventually --- and with it, my independence.

Fortunately, she’s still running strong on her walker and swimming once a week. So, while I may be late coming to the whole value of exercise lesson (She was a childhood athlete, I was not. Enough said), she modeled fitness very well.

I’ll always have her hips. Just as long as I can have her health as well.

Lesson learned.

*     Michigan has a program that allows non-family members such as family doctors to make recommendations for the state to reexamine an individual who’s driving may now be of concern. This program takes the burden off of family members from confronting the issue with elderly family members and redirects the anger away from the family as well. You may have to find another doctor but family relationships are preserved.

Michigan Secretary of State – Senior Drivers in Michigan

What lessons have your elders taught you without saying a word?

Memory loss is on our minds...or maybe not

Memory loss, dementia, Alzheimer’s are on the minds of a lot of middle-agers these days…or maybe not. ;-)

If individuals aren’t aware of their own weakening memory, they have someone in their lives who is noticeably struggling with it.

It’s been 12 years since my mother began her own transition away from this universe and us.

We don’t really know if these diseases are laced genetically through our family since both sets of grandparents and many aunts and uncles died too young. Yet, one aunt on my father’s side did declined into dementia before dying so it has appeared on both sides of our family.

When my mother started to show signs of dementia, my younger brother and I went to a workshop about caring for those with memory loss. Some 20 people had gathered around a large library table when the nurse conducting the workshop settled in and announced, “You don’t have it.”  Paraphrasing her: We spend too much time trying to multi-task when we can still really one do one thing well at a time. Something has to get lost somewhere along the way when we try to do too much at once.

The collective sigh of relief at that table must have disturbed other programming for a moment that evening.

Later during a break, my then 40-something brother admitted that he’d lost the Windex ™ one day. He’d taken a break to get a cold drink and then couldn’t find the bottle so he could get back to work. It drove him crazy. He was sure dementia was already setting in. He found it later, right where he’d left it…in the refrigerator. TIP: It does clean better when chilled (Just kidding but feel free to use this excuse if the opportunity arises).

I had stepped away from teaching for a period of time because I lost my train of thought in front of classes and was sure I shouldn’t be teaching if I couldn’t remember the subject matter --- curse you Menopause!

It’s said that it’s OK if you can’t find your keys but you’re in trouble if you find then and don’t know what they are for.

So far so good on the keys thing but what are those furry, purring balls that keep running around my house? Do they belong here or should I call an exterminator? What’s an exterminator again?

I know my brother and I aren't alone. Share your stories in the comments section below.

The notorious no-show friend

"We must work on getting together this year," demanded a friend during an once-a-year phone call on the eve of 2016.

By that, I thought, you mean I must do all of the work. I said aloud that I was skeptical about it ever happening.

"Oh but I really want to see you. We must make this happen. We'll make it a project for 2000-and-16," my friend replied.

This is a notorious no-show friend. One can invest in airline tickets, show up at vacation spots, get stuck in a blizzard on the way to a meeting only to get a extremely last minute bailing call.

To compound the irritation, the explanation is always urgent and involves me in some way.

"You'll never believe this but since you're a lawyer, I know you'll understand...," 

"Just my luck, but since you're a writer, you'll understand how this can happen," 

"I can't believe it either but since you breath air...."

I have a plan though. Once my friend sends me proof of arrival at said destination, I will dig out my suitcase, consider what I might want to pack, run a few last minute errands, ask for additional proof of arrival and then gas up the car...maybe. ;-)

An author  interviewed on NPR (I don't remember who and I can't find a reference) had catapulted a recurring protagonist of his novels into the character's 60s. It was a time, the character decided to "decommission" friends who no longer "brought anything to his table" and for whom the character could offer nothing in return.

Decommission, downsize, de-friend, unlink, block, ignore... Sometimes it's just time to say "enough" and let go.




I know I'm not alone in this experience. Share your stories in the comments section below.

"I will live"

On New Year's Eve, I got a "sad and bad" email from my sister-in-law. Her doctor had diagnosed Stage 2 breast cancer. Surgery, chemotherapy and radiation will kick off 2016 for her. Still, she wished us all a "Happy New Year" and declared, "I will live."

In 2015, another sister-in-law battled a cancer similar to my own and won. In 2014, a cousin beat breast cancer, following in her sister's footsteps of more than a decade before. The same year my mother's tumor proved to be benign, my father lost his life to the disease.

While we all tend to agree that cancer is everywhere, until it happens to you or a loved one, invincibility remains in tack. Sharing a chemo suite with 12 regulars every other week for four months submersed me in the middle earth that is Cancer World. It consumed 2008 for me. I have no memories of that year that aren't directly tied to my illness. It has given me my superhuman sensitivity to diagnoses suffered by others and appreciation for the life lessons learned in the oddest most unexpected ways.

Today, I'm thinking about my sister-in-law who is just beginning her fight and those who have won and lost their cancer battles. 

Below is an article about one of my own cancer challenges published in 2008. I always knew I would survive. I never considered any alternative. But my hair!


I know I'm not alone. Share your stories in the comments section below.

 
October 2008

(published in 2008)
I'm beautifully bald --- but not by choice --- by chemotherapy.

My fiancé has gone bald as well --- by choice. He surfed the BBC (Bald By Choice) web sites to pick up shaving tips when he decided he was going to go bald in support of my then pending hairlessness.

In May, I had a cancerous tumor removed and am now in chemotherapy for what I and my family and friends hope is a preventative measure --- to make sure no covert cells are hiding out planning to organize into another tumor. 

Still, like the nearly 1.5 million other new cancer cases in 2008, according to the American Cancer Society, I was destined to confront baldness.

To go publicly bald, wear a wig or get a hat has occupied more of my time than coming to terms with the toxic chemicals running through my bloodstream. I will admit my shiny white bob seemed to be one of my very few vanity points.

And yet, when the time came and the hair started falling out and kept falling out, I ultimately chose to go bald. I did so because of those who have gone before me.

I have been fortunate to have known or witnessed others who made the decision that their loss of hair, a limb, a breast has become another life process and nothing to hide. By chance and certainly unwelcome, cancer and all that comes with it must be confronted so that they could move forward in their lives just like everyone else.

"Nothing to hide," I believe my brave predecessors must have said to themselves, and something for all of the rest of us to accept and understand. So while I love hats as accessories, it struck me that on my bald head, they and wigs would become florescent arrows flashing the message, "hiding baldness, hiding baldness." That seemed like avoidance rather than awareness to me.

My inspiration also comes from the late Tony Snow, former White House Press Secretary, Senator Arlen Specter (R-PA) and Pope John Paul II.

Snow and Specter worked throughout their recent battles with cancer; one losing his struggle, the other winning. The ever impeccable and candid Snow was no less in his treatment of the subject with the media. As a result, we were witness to an honest battle not unlike that many private citizens are experiencing every day.

Specter, who is on the winning side at this point, recently published the book "Never Give In: Battling Cancer in the Senate" about working through a re occurrence of brain cancer. He said, and I'm paraphrasing here, he wanted people to understand the effects of his illness. 

Likewise, the late Pope John Paul II is reported to have told his staff that he did not want to hide what was happening to him as he began to fail. He wanted the world to understand that dying was a natural part of the life process. 

And so I've put away the curling iron, the hair dryer, my brush and comb, and shaved off the few wisps of hair left behind. I'm not looking in mirrors much and air conditioning makes my head shiver more than my shoulders ever have. I really think I can feel the heat escaping out of my head.

Since I'm on the inside looking out, I forget that I'm presenting a bald head to the rest of the world. 
Still, those with whom I interact do so with great grace and sensitivity. I imagine them simply connecting the dots: "Bald equals cancer." And maybe that's all they need: awareness that sometimes health issues alter how we expect people to look or act...and that's natural. 

For now, I could just swear my ideas are flowing more smoothly. I think it's because they aren't getting tangles up in my hair follicles. And it will grow back. Long and lush and thick and curly and brunette...OK, white...but I can live with that.

Journaling: What a Gift

Each year on this day Doug sits down and reflects on the year past. He captures his thoughts in his one journal entry of the year. Just one, today, preserved.

I've been keeping a journal since my tween years, when I knew four things about myself: I would never get married (I tried anyway); I would never have kids (I'm the best eccentric aunt); I would live in an apartment (I'm baaack!); and I would be a journalist (well, writing and teaching will have to do).

Now, my journal takes the twice monthly form of a letter to a friend. We have for many decades corresponded faithfully. What I tell him is my record of my life and reflection on it. It's all stored electronically these days (with backup) but I have a storage unit near full of boxes of hard copy journals dating back to the 60s.

I do it to confront an issue or capture an experience. Maybe for someone in the family down the road to understand us all a little bit better.

I had a coworker who wrote brief comments in his day planner about important events in his life and those of his family as a form of journaling. Another who writes notations in her cookbooks about when and why she made a recipe --- someone's birthday, a wedding, other significant turning points...

When my mother's memory started to fail, evolving eventually into dementia and Alzheimer's, she started keeping a "notebook," (she would never have called it a journal) to recall what she did each day. She'd note the date, the weather, her schedule for the day. It sat open next to her place at the kitchen table, always faithfully at her side. We kids started to leave her notes in it as well. If we stopped by and she wasn't there, we'd leave a note. Hidden somewhere in the future pages we'd write "I love you," for her to find as she turned the pages on new days.

I have all of her notebooks but I haven't read them yet. I'm curious about the thoughts that she might have included beyond her daily activities but I'm scared to perhaps witness her decline captured among those pages as well.

Mom's been lost to Alzheimer's for 12 years now and my dad died too young. There's so much about them and our family history that we'll never know because we have no one to ask.

It doesn't really matter whether you think of yourself as a journal writer or how often or faithful you are to the task. It doesn't matter why you do it --- to preserve family history, wrestle your way privately through some personal challenge, make notes to yourself for future use... There are no rules, no requirements. You're the writer, the editor, the publisher. You decide.

What matters is that someday someone will be able to touch your words. Absorb them and the stories and lessons they tell. Imagine opening up your long gone great grandmother's cookbook to find her handwritten notes. What a gift.


Share your stories in the comments section below.