How Capitalism Broke My Heart

WorkEmotions

Oct 29

As an accountant in a small company, I was privy to much of the behind-the-scenes decision making since, at some point, the money had to come through me. I also doubled as the Human Resources department since I processed payroll and employee paperwork. Sometimes I got pulled into termination meetings because they needed another person to witness a contentious firing. Employers can be scared of angry employees finding ways to sue them for a bad breakup.

When times were good, it was a fun place full of camaraderie. We threw jokes at each other in the open office. We troubleshooted problems together. We commiserated the bad days. My co-workers were my comrade-at-arms in the war zone that is a distressed company. I tried to take care of people and made sure they got paid on time (often a challenge). I helped plan company holiday parties or put on potlucks in times we didn't have money for catering.

The best part about that place was that everyone got to be themselves, thanks to our CEO, Mauricio (not his real name, of course). Mauricio was a thirty-something big kid who swore a lot and who loved weed, partying, and people. Because Mauricio was totally himself at work, he gave tacit permission to everyone else to be themselves, too.

We had an extraction coordinator who started multiple businesses and used to run his own grow op in the black market. A grouchy warehouse lead who performed blood-splattered death metal shows on weekends and had a soft heart underneath. A controller who buried his head in work who was also a kind listener everybody felt comfortable talking to. A clean-cut, well-spoken sales manager who could probably work anywhere but enjoyed this industry. An inside salesperson who was the office mom and shared whatever she could even though she wasn’t paid much. A blue-haired pixie of an executive assistant who loved people but had a hard time with any amount of stress.

There was also me, the frazzled accountant who passed out payroll in a wicker basket and just wanted everybody to get along.

Me pretending to smoke a big joint (which I later did smoke).

But there were also things that bothered me. Because I felt responsible for my work, and my work was related to everyone else's, I tended to identify with the managers. I adopted the attitude that the workers owed us their productivity since we paid them for their time — slightly above minimum wage, which was $12-13 at the time in Seattle, Washington. When the money was tight (which was almost the entire time I was there), the owners angered easily and yelled at the production staff for making mistakes or at the sales staff not trying hard enough to meet goals.

I thought the yelling was justified, even though I didn’t like it. I myself would grow frustrated when people did shoddy work, made mistakes, or wasted supplies because I knew how little we had and how much every bit mattered. I wondered how we could get them to care as much, too.

We hired people too quickly during the good times and laid people off too easily during seasonal lows. Sometimes people were let go because they couldn't do the work well enough even though they otherwise got along with everybody.

Many might consider these normal and necessary business practices. Financial analysts regard layoffs as a good thing, making businesses more “efficient.” I knew it was what had to be done for our company to survive, but it always saddened me when people left. And people came and went very quickly in this industry, with most lasting three to six months. I hoped they could manage until they found the next job.

It wasn't until after I left that I understood it wasn't justified to treat people this way. Just because we paid them for their time didn't mean we owned them. People had a choice to go elsewhere, and they deserved respect no matter how low they were paid, since one's wages have nothing to do with their inherent value.

At the time, I tried to figure out how a company can be a real community, not just united when times were good then fractured into anger and resentment under stress (although I suppose that's what real communities do, too). I paid attention to how managers treated their staff and how the staff responded, and I learned a lot about what not to do.

Being a manager was lonely. There was always an unspoken barrier between them and the staff. I liked having responsibility and influence in a leadership position, but I also didn't want to be separate from others. Even though I was friendly with everyone, I knew there were things people wouldn't confide in me. Being an owner seemed even lonelier — no on else quite understood the burden on their shoulders. Everyone else could walk away, and they'd be the ones left holding the bag, for better or for worse.

Even though I saw myself as a manager (which I was at times), I didn't want to manage the way they did. I wanted to be honest and transparent about my challenges and have collaborative discussions with my staff before making decisions. But the reverse was also needed — employees who cared enough to own their work.

I observed that employees who owned their jobs were better workers and rose quickly into managerial positions. But there tended to be fewer of these people, and I wondered if there was a way to motivate them to care. If they owned their work and cared as much as the managers, they would be more or less on equal footing. And they might care more if the owners were more transparent with the company’s financial situation and involved the employees in the decision making process.

But that begged another question: why would owners willingly share power if they had skin in the game (their investment in money and time) and the employees didn’t?

I didn't find my answers at that company. I left after two years because the stress of ups and downs was too much. I dreamed that one day I would start my own company and hire all the people I loved, so we could be a family again without the heartache and stress.

For my next job, I had hoped to find another community like it without the high stress — in my mind that was somehow possible. I did land at a company that treated me well and paid me far more, but it was not the same. I sorely missed the camaraderie.

There, again, I didn't like the invisible barriers between managers and staff. I didn't like being at the mercy of the ownership for dictating the company culture. I realized that no matter where I went, the company culture was influenced from the top-down because the owners always had the last word about how they run things. I couldn't just rely on hope and luck to find the next company that was more right for me.

Heartache, again, when I left. I wanted a community that didn't get taken away from me when I changed jobs.

The modern business was designed to be hierarchical, with one person or a few people in control. Some owners might be very open and collaborative. Some managers might have great relationships with their staff and be totally loved. These people are the exception, not the rule, because the system itself was not designed for equality, but to extract money from other people’s work and funnel it to a few at the top. When people don’t make the owners enough money, we cut them off and justify it for the survival of the company. Although this doesn’t have to be the rule, it is the vast majority of what we have now.

When I started working for myself, I realized my relationships were finally close to equal. No one I networked with, no customer or vendor, had more power over my life than I do, nor I theirs. I felt like I no longer had to put on a “work” version of myself, like the button-down shirts I used to wear. Even though being real and authentic in business still took practice, if someone didn’t gel with my approach, I could try to find a middle ground or simply move on to the next person.

My dreams had changed. Instead of owning a company and hiring people I loved, I saw that we would be more equal, at least in our current capitalist system, if we were each self-employed and collaborated with one another. I run a networking group for women entrepreneurs that allows people to be vulnerable and share their struggles because I share mine. I belong to a group of CPAs that refer clients and help one another troubleshoot tougher issues even when they should be competitors.

I no longer had to squeeze myself into a worldview that doesn’t work for me, and break my heart in the process.

This story was about what capitalism does to us, but it was also about finding my heart and myself. What I value is not what everyone values, so I had to find my own way. I thought I was supposed to act professional, be a hard worker, and rise up the ranks. But doing that didn’t make me happy. Each time my heart broke, I realized that I care about increasing love, connection, and community with everything I touch. It took me a long time to recognize that.