One act of service
We work from our homes most days. Unlike most days, 120 of us sat together this morning at my local office.
This collection of humans had become a single “team” in March of this past year, but had never gathered in person before today. Name tags were essential, to aid with introductions (and reintroductions). Even those who’ve known each other as Slack handles, or as flat faces in onscreen rectangles, can experience a moment of disorientation in the presence of one another’s human form (and height!).
Forty two of these humans—more than a third of those assembled—sit “beneath” me in the org chart (eight more on the team I lead could not join us this week).
I am paid to optimize the work output of these humans, in service of the goals of the business. I am paid to keep them engaged in their jobs, so that they choose to keep working here, and saving the company the cost of recruiting, backfilling, and retraining a new person in their role.
But as I learned from @Rands a long time ago, these people do not work for me; I work for them.
The corporation that employs us at will will never love us. On a day like today it asks us to spend 12+ hours wearing our work faces, meeting and mixing and “building the team.” It asks parents to travel on Sunday, leaving partners behind to wrangle children who are home on Veteran’s Day.
What the corporation will not pay for
My salary did not pay me to sit up at the sound of my first alarm this morning. The company did not ask me to add extra hours to the long day ahead.
To roll out the dough, after resting and rising in the refrigerator overnight. To heat the oil on the stovetop. To cut, to fry, to cool, to glaze, to decorate and fill.
I have enjoyed a few different forms of “stunt” cookery: Smoked meats, 3-day ramen, lumpia, hand-pulled noodles. This year I discovered the startling magic of presenting someone a donut that I made myself. The disbelief that this thing could exist, the shock at how good it is, the simple joy in sweetness.*
Yes, I would prefer it if America (or humanity, more broadly) were more interested in the work of collective action to improve the lives of one another, and of the generations that will come after us.
But today I can choose to bake. To invest my time and care and intention and labor in service of bringing to others an unanticipated experience of momentary delight.
It is late. My feet ache from standing, my reserves are emptied from mingling, and there are too many wire racks still to clean.
It has been a good day.
You can make your own donuts! I recommend 1.75" rounds—akin to a two-bite donut hole. Big enough to decorate or fill; small enough not to feel like a commitment. One batch nets me 50+, so go where there’s a crowd.
All of the @#$%ing things
Night 5: Opted into a paid Buttondown tier
Night 4: Reviewed my local election results
Night 3: Deactivated my X account
Night 2: Contributed to my local nonprofit newsroom
Night 1: Started by starting
*I do work to modulate the sweetness (and add plenty of salt)
Words, sorts, and thinks by Chris Ereneta, from Oakland, California. Thoughtful feedback and questions are welcomed at that.often@gmail.com