The Recession Has Many Faces (And One of Them Is Me)

Promptly at 9:30 every Thursday morning, they file in to the nondescript conference room in an office building in Chicago's northern suburbs.  In a country with an 8.1% unemployment rate, they are a just a few of the living faces of the grim statistics.  They are uniformly professional, accomplished and unfortunately, out of job.  And one of them is me.

It is the weekly meeting of my job search networking group.  Although the group numbers around 20, regular attendance is typically half that.  The lucky absentees are away at interviews – from the hopeful initial “phone screen,” on to the exhausting marathon round of second interviews, to the nerve-racking hurdle of the final meeting with a decision maker with whom an agonizingly large portion of your professional and perhaps economic future hangs in balance.

Others are away maintaining a loose grip on their emotional stability with family activities, carefully-budgeted vacations and the other diversions from the grind of the daily search.  And then there are those who stay away because there is nothing good to report to the group.  My recent absences have been for a different reason – to be with my dying father, who passed away a few weeks ago.

We are overwhelmingly middle-aged and male.  Typically, there have only been two or three women in the group at any one time, and I find their presence to be a great plus to lifting the general mood.  One of the group’s recent female members had the lanky appearance and humorous presence of Katherine Hepburn in her madcap movie comedies of the 30’s and 40’s.  She recently accepted an attractive offer, one of three she had at the same time, a true embarrassment of riches.

One of the few rules of the group is that members who find a job (“land” in placement parlance, a term I secretly bridle at) must bring in treats when they announce their big news.  I have eaten a lot of bagels and doughnuts.  The madcap movie heroine made some terrific scones.  My waistline shows the side effect of the others’ good fortune.

You learn things about the group members.  James is always James, never Jim, befitting his gentlemanly demeanor and analytical mind.  Jeff is an awe-inspiring networking machine who could probably identify a highly-placed contact in any organization currently known to man, regardless if your future employment plans run from Al Queda to the more mundane Zebra Technologies.

We share stories of our families, gushing with pride about dance recitals, soccer tournaments, and admissions to sought-after colleges.  There are humorous reports of long-neglected household projects finally being completed now that there is additional time on one’s hands, most notably a heroic effort by one group member to single-handedly reshingle his roof.

By 11:30 the meeting ends, and we all return to our separate lives.   I cannot say we are friends, but we do have the unique bond formed by having shared a difficult life experience.  We are Corporate America’s Band of Brothers (and Sisters), and I root for them every day, and pray for them and their success every night.

You can find more articles from this ongoing series, “Dispatches: The Changing American Dream” from across the country at The Huffington Post.