As a secondary teacher with a career spanning two decades, I know--looking back--that my career has never been easy and has often been lonely. I've stuck with it because I have something to offer and have no desire to abandon my students. But the events of the past few years under the dictatorship of a "reform" board make me feel adrift in new and profound ways.
You see, my school is like a cruise ship. The staff members are the shipboard employees. We spend the summer months mapping the route and destination for the journey that will set sail in late August. We pay for and attend classes to hone our skills and help us prepare for the unique needs of the passengers who will soon be embarking on our craft. We brush up on and expand upon ideas and techniques that have been successful in past journeys, and we analyze the activities and actions that may have led to discomfort in some of our previous travels and figure out new alternatives that promise more success.
When we arrive to board the ship in the weeks prior to the departure date, we are surprised at the deterioration that has happened to the hull, to the decks, to the cockpit. Our engineers and deckhands are highly capable, but we learn that they don't have the tools or money to maintain the aging ship as they see fit. We do our best to cover the cracks in the walls with bright posters, to organize the decrepit furniture neatly, and to make the space comfortable for those who will be arriving soon. We meet together to make additional plans in case of emergencies that could arise simply because of the condition of our vessel.
Our passengers arrive. Though there are fewer shipboard employees that have been hired this season, there are far more passengers than in past years. This will create some new challenges, but we like challenges, so we smile and greet each individual as he crosses the gangplank. Many of these passengers hand us legal documents with a list of specific accommodations required for them to enjoy the trip. We've managed these in the past, but the number is larger and the differences between them are greater. However, there was not enough money to hire as many specialists that give assistance in handling these differences, so we take the forms, say we'll figure it out, and continue to smile and greet passengers.
In the opening weeks of the cruise, we are aware of how many of our passengers have come aboard malnourished and without financial means to buy additional food from the galley. Others brought no luggage and are in great need of sunblock, hats, and comfortable shoes. They, too, don't have money to make purchases at the ship's store. We borrow against the paychecks we won't receive for several more weeks (a monthly system of pay--stretched over the course of an entire year--has allowed the cruise ship to earn greater interest on the funds used to pay us, and we've always agreed to this because it helps keep the boat afloat). We then buy extra food, sunblock, and clothing for these passengers.
Despite the challenges, our new season of cruising is interesting and engaging. The passengers seem satisfied and comfortable. Everyone gets along well, for the most part. Friendships are forged--as happens every season--and the joy of being at sea is contagious. We do what we do, despite the challenges, because we know how these journeys open up a world of possibilities for our passengers--even the reluctant ones. It is worth it in the end.
Somewhere in the middle of the ocean, the cruise company is bought-out by a huge corporation with a different vision for the company. The ship's captain is ordered to halt forward progress until the new CEOs review travel plans, personnel, activity schedules, and the vessel itself. We're stuck for a few hours--adrift under the November sun--and feeling hopeful. Maybe the safety issues of the vessel will be addressed. Maybe additional personnel will be hired. Maybe funds for food and sailing supplies will be forthcoming. We send notes ashore inviting the CEOs to come spend some time aboard. We share the experiences we've had over the years of sailing and offer our knowledge of what works with the passengers and what doesn't. We don't receive a reply. Despite this, we happily go about our routines through this temporary stall, finding ways to keep the passengers' eyes on the promises of the destination and to help them prepare for the things they'll need to know when they disembark in this new land.
At dinnertime, employees are called into an emergency meeting. The new CEOs have ordered additional staff cuts. Some people will be sent home. We will be waiting, adrift, for them to be picked up by helicopter. In the meantime, we are to regroup to accommodate the passengers who no longer have staff assigned to them and to learn the roles the dismissed staff members had so we can pick up their work. We also learn that more passengers are being flown in. We immediately think about the crowded conditions of the ship and the increased responsibilities we now have. We begin figuring out how to best make everyone comfortable. We will make this work.
After days of waiting, the helicopters arrive. Staff members leave and new passengers join us. Finally, we begin moving forward toward the destination once again. As we're working on activities to incorporate these new passengers and their specific accommodations, the power suddenly goes off. Our aging vessel doesn't run very efficiently. Updating the wiring is an investment the cruise company has not been willing to make, so--we learn later--the CEOs have ordered the power off for the remainder of the cruise. We've been assured that passengers on ships for centuries traveled without power. The electric light bulb is a technologic extravagance they feel we can do without. Candles are handed out. Unfortunately, no one carries matches anymore, so we will have to wait for the next shipment of supplies--sometime next month.
We move the passengers out to the decks and enjoy the sunshine. It was too hot, anyway, without any air conditioning in the main activity rooms. We squeeze the bottles of sunblock tighter to help our passengers get the most coverage from what is left. We look forward to the arrival of those supply shipments.
Unfortunately, the supply shipments are few and far between. By March, we have made significant progress toward our destination, but we've only had two new shipments of supplies. We are out of sunscreen--makeshift tents have been erected across the decks. We're out of all fresh food and are stretching the non-perishables in the event that no supplies are shipped again before we disembark. We run out of matches, but that doesn't matter much because we haven't had candles for months. We've tried contacting the CEOs with our maydays, but we haven't had a direct response since they took over.
The following month the passengers are each asked one question administered by an executive from a competing travel company to determine whether they are ready to disembark. Though we don't know what kind of question will be asked, we know our passengers have made excellent connections and overcome significant trials in order to be prepared for arrival at the destination. They will acclimate well in their new environments when they leave the ship. We're proud of how far along they've come since our departure.
On the morning of the questioning session, the weather takes an unusual turn for the worst. The waves are choppy, the rain is falling heavily, forcing everyone indoors into the dark. The questioning executive arrives via helicopter and immediately delivers news from home for a small group of passengers who came on board together: a dear friend of theirs has passed away. He gives these individuals no time to grieve or take in this terrible news, but rushes all of the passengers,one-by-one, into a testing room they've never been in before, sits them down in the dark, and hurriedly asks them their one question--in a different language. Those who fear the dark, new places, strangers, come away from testing shaking. Those who didn't recognize the language of the question are dejected. A few, confident passengers who happened to have grown up speaking the language the questioner uses, feel relieved--they've passed. They are the only ones who will be allowed to disembark. Everyone else will return home via the vessel that has brought them this far. It is a discouraging few months left on board.
When we arrive at the port of our destination, we finally receive our first word from the CEOs. They don't mention our invitation to visit the ship nor the dire circumstance under which we've been operating this season. They don't explain their long silence or thank us for keeping the passengers safe and happy during these months at sea. They have only one thing to tell us: they don't want us to return home with the remaining passengers because we are "ineffective, entitled, and lazy--just look how few passengers are able to disembark," they reason. We can stay here at the destination and pay our own way home (though our final pay check is stretched over the summer and won't be enough to cover the full cost) or we can return to the broken ship for the journey home and continue working to receive the remainder of our annual pay but at a significantly reduced wage. If we don't return, a new crew will be hired--they will begin right away, with only two weeks of training and no experience.
The passengers left on board are concerned about the return passage and the proposed new crew. They beg us to return home with them. They know us and trust us to do our best for them. They've had glimpses at the shortcomings we've adapted to, and they know the sacrifices we've made during this past year. Likewise, we can't imagine turning these passengers over to a new crew. We care about the well-being of these passengers and have honed a number of strategies that minimize the shortcomings of the craft to make the journey more comfortable. It will be a challenge, but we like challenges. Though we are tired and ragged, we look these familiar passengers in the eyes, smile, and reembark on the journey together. It will be worth it in the end.
Afterword:
After our return, we learn that the cruise corporation has been stockpiling millions of dollars from the passengers for decades but are refusing to use it to improve conditions so they can prove how inadequate the staff is and force a merger with another corporation that can fire everyone and profit from the acquisition. There is no consideration made for the thousands upon thousands of passengers or shipboard employees these actions have irrevocably damaged. --SJ
No comments:
Post a Comment