The Good Men Project

 

It's the agreement we made. You be Mom; I'll be money. You take care of the homestead; I'll go rustle up some cattle. 

When I married Kathryn, had children with her, and removed her from the salaried work force, I was essentially telling her: Don't worry. I got this. You do the dinner-cooking thing, the late-night-feeding thing, the lunch-packing thing; I'll do the office-politics, mortgage-paying, and saving-for-retirement things.

So what becomes of that pact when the demand for cattle wanes and rustlin' ain't your job no more? And if cattle rustlin' is all you know, what becomes of your identity?

Getting laid off wasn't the hardest part. Asking my in-laws for a loan so I can keep a roof over their only daughter's head—that's when my manhood got punched in the face. I reneged on the promise. I signed my name, crossed my heart, and shook on it. And now, it seems, my word was worthless.

I don't think women internalize a job loss the same way men do. Even when they are the primary breadwinners, I suspect, women focus much more on the bread than on the winning. Money is a means of putting food on the table and kids in college. It doesn't have the same symbolic value that it has for men. For us, bread winning means winning. Sure, we have the practical fear of being unable to provide. But we have a stronger, more visceral fear of losing the ability to provide. 

Buried in our caveman subconscious is this need for victory. At every turn of our lives we're competing—for attention, grades, athletic victories, job openings, status, awards, promotions, earnings. You either can or you can't. You are or you aren't. You're a winner or a loser. When we lose a job, we don't mourn the loss; we mourn the defeat.

We may be fathers and husbands and volunteers and Little League coaches, but nothing defines us more than our jobs do. Social introductions never start with, "Nice to meet you. What instrument do you play?" Or, "Hi, I'm Erik. I'm a Unitarian." No. Instead it's, "I'd like you to meet Erik Proulx. He's an advertising creative director."

I know this is where the story is supposed to arc. I should have some great reconciliatory revelation. Now is when I'm supposed to tell you how my manhood is being repaired as I pursue a master's in the unemployed arts.

But I'm not there yet. That debt I owe Mom and Dad In-law still bellows like a fog horn in my head. Our 401(k) is still erased. My employment status is still "isn't." I'm not yet comfortable calling myself an "entrepreneur" or a "contractor." Both feel like euphemisms for "failure."

But I have forever changed my view of the employer-employee relationship. 

Employers want dedication. They demand passion and loyalty. They want to know you're gonna work the late hours, put vacations on hold, skip parent-teacher conferences. You'll be there for them. You think they'll be there for you, for as long as you both shall live. 

Despite the clear disclaimer that employment is at will and can be terminated at any time, a fresh, new offer letter still feels like a mutual contract. But there's no give and take. Instead, workers give, and employers take. Clients leave. Workers are canned. The moment things grow a little rocky on the new business front, an employee's commitment and sacrifice become invisible. You're just another line item, as easy to strike from a balance sheet as a photo copier. 

That might be why I have this weird, blind drive to make Lemonade (credit score and marital harmony be damned), a documentary about sixteen advertising professionals doing something inspirational in unemployment. Maybe it's because I'm getting a return on my emotional investment for the first time in my career. The more I give to this project, the more I receive from others working on it. The better I make this story, the more people talk about it. The more I tell people, the more they want to hear. For once, the commitment is working both ways.

When I'm going through transcripts until 2 AM, it's not because failing to do so will get me fired. It's because I'm making something for the pure joy of making it. I'm trying to inspire people instead of trying to win awards. I'm telling the truth instead of manipulating it, which, if you work in advertising, is an unwritten bullet point in your job description. 

So there it is. I guess that's my arc. I spent the first 15 years of my career dedicated to my industry. Maybe I'll spend the next 15 redefining my relationship with work. 

Not to mention my relationship at home. 

I had a long catch-up chat with an old film-director friend of mine yesterday. I was sharing the story of how making this movie was the most rewarding experience of my career, but that it was putting a huge strain on my family life. 

Turns out, when you have a mortgage and a $1,400-a-month health insurance bill, having no money creates some tension. All of our peccadilloes now seemed impossible to ignore. Nag here. Snap there. No sex, um, ever. 

My friend had two very interesting things to say to me. 

The first was that making a documentary was perfectly suited to my personality. What endeared him to me, he said, was that when we first met, I could tell something was on his mind. I knew right away that he was upset about something. And even though I didn't know him, I wanted to hear what was wrong. That empathy, he said, is what separates documentarians from other film makers.

The next thing he said was that if things at home aren't right, things aren't right. He told me to focus on my marriage first and let everything else fall where it may. 

The irony is not lost on me. While empathy serves my role as a film maker, I'm finding it harder and harder to show it at home. 

Fish rots from the head, they say. And if I don't find some peace soon, Lemonade is going to start stinking up the joint.

 

 

Erik Proulx has spent nearly 15 years in advertising agency creative departments across the country, including Madison Avenue (literally) conglomerates, Main Street (literally) boutiques, and everything in between.

Today, as founder of Please Feed The Animals, he is an activist for those who have been laid off, including himself. He recently completed filming Lemonade, a documentary about people whose unemployment was the single best moment of their lives, even if they didn't realize it at the time.  Lemonade is scheduled for release in November.