Trois petits tours et puis s'en vont : le licenciement, the American way

Chers tous, 

Votre Française à New York pourra bientôt vous raconter ses histoires de New Yorkaise qui débarque en France ! Après quatre ans de bons et loyaux services (mis-à-part quand je travaillais sur mon blog les journées trop calmes au bureau, hum hum…), mon employeur se sépare de moi. Le projet principal sur lequel j’avais été stagiaire puis embauchée, vient d’être mis en « coma à durée indéterminée » et mon poste supprimé pour des raisons financières. En jargon américain passif-agressif, « I was let go ».

En fait, j’avais rendez-vous avec le directeur pour parler de ce que je m’imaginais être tout autre chose donc, même si j’étais au courant des problèmes d’argent de ma boite (depuis un an, l’ensemble du staff se prend baisse de salaire sur baisse de salaire, oui je sais, un concept qui n'existe pas en France, ici cela s'appelle des furlough days, fermer la parenthèse), je suis tombée de haut puisque qu’ils avaient engagé la procédure de renouvellement de mon visa H1B pour 3 ans, ce qui ne sert donc plus à rien. Car, en théorie, plus de job = plus de visa = plus le droit de rester sur le territoire américain. Et en pratique, les options qui s'offrent à moi relèvent de la mission pratiquement impossible.

Option A= Recontacter mon ex-Américain préféré, négocier un deal à la The Proposal et perdre le peu de fierté qu'il me reste après m’être faite jeter par mon employeur. 
Option B= Harceler Claire Danes et lui demander si, grâce à son nouveau job à la télévision, elle peut négocier un sursis pour moi directement avec Homeland Security. 
Option C= Voyager dans le passé comme dans Les Visiteurs et faire en sorte de trouver un  autre employeur dans le monde de la culture qui aurait été prêt à payer le coût non-exorbitant de mon salaire, le coût relativement exorbitant de mon visa H1B et, dans un an, le coût extra-exorbitant de ma carte verte, le tout avant même de me faire licencier. 
Option D= Je rentre en France.

Se faire laid-off, on a beau le montrer dans les films américains, et j'ai eu beau le déplorer pour certains de mes collègues au moment de la crise de 2008, quand on le vit en direct, c'est brutal. Pourtant, j’ai été traitée selon la procédure habituelle aux États-Unis: pas de préavis, donc; l’impression soudain d’avoir la peste/d’être une criminelle ; mon email de travail verrouillé pendant que j’étais dans le bureau du directeur ; l’obligation de rendre mon badge (adieu les sorties au musée/cinéma gratuites !) ; mais le droit de reprendre ma machine à café et mes 12 pulls (je vous ai déjà dit que je détestais la clim’ américaine ?) ; et enfin la sortie d’un pas alerte, genre walk of shame, escortée par le chef de la sécurité (mais il m’a aussi donné un hug parce, quand même, il était un peu triste que je parte).

Sur le coup, je n'ai pas dit au revoir à mes collègues. Because guys, I was a mess. De toute façon, le bureau du directeur fait partie de l'open space, ils pouvaient donc entendre tout ce qui s'y passait. Ou comment ajouter l’humiliation publique à l’humiliation privée. Parce que, même si ce n'est pas ma faute, et qu'on m'a bien fait comprendre que mes qualités professionnelles n’étaient absolument pas mises en cause, et que l'on écrirait une lettre de recommandation si besoin, et autres paroles qui se voulaient réconfortantes, je me suis mise à pleurer. J'ai la chance d'avoir un extraordinaire support system, ici comme en France, donc ce n’était pas des larmes de peur ou de colère, c’était le choc lié au fait qu'on ne me laissait pas le choix, on m'arrachait à ma vie ici, non negociable. Je me suis retenue le plus longtemps possible et puis, parmi une foultitude de pensées incohérentes, je me suis rendue compte qu'il faudrait l'annoncer à ma meilleure amie ici, une New Yorkaise avec qui j'ai traversé toute cette expérience incroyable, my emergency contact, my Thanksgiving hostess year after year (et est-ce que j'allais pouvoir faire le repas avec sa famille cette année???, pensée incohérente #38), et patatras, le flot.

J'avais commencé à over-dramatiser la situation dans ma tête (si vous n'aviez pas déjà remarqué, that's my thing) et j'étais devenu incontrôlable. Respire, Marion, respire. Moi qui n'ai jamais approuvé la propension qu'ont les Américains à partager les moindres détails intimes de leur vie privée au bureau (des préparatifs du mariage jusqu'aux détails du divorce, en passant par le chat malade... T.M.I!), je n'avais jamais été aussi vulnérable, malgré moi, devant mes collègues. Bien sûr, cela faisait partie du scenario qui avait été écrit à l'avance, et le directeur a aussitôt poussé vers moi la boite de mouchoirs qui était à disposition pas loin.

Sauf que mes employeurs (et visa sponsor) n'avaient pas dû répéter la scène assez souvent avec une "nonimmigrant alien" dans le rôle principal. Il restait plein de questions en suspens car ils n'avaient pas considéré l'ensemble des obligations liées à mon statut particulier (pour info: notifier Homeland Security, annuler mon renouvellement de visa H1B, me rembourser un billet d'avion aller-simple vers la France, m'informer sur mon droit de toucher le chômage ou non, la réponse est non.) Et de mon coté, je devais appeler mon avocat (de l'immigration). J'aime bien dire "mon avocat", même si là, encore une fois, cela confirmait le fait que mes superviseurs étaient des incompétents dans ce domaine car ils auraient dû passer dès le départ par leur avocat en interne. Nous nous sommes donc mis d'accord avec le directeur pour que je repasse au bureau la semaine suivante (aux États-Unis, ils licencient toujours les gens avant le weekend)... « See you next week, but I'm gonna need this back. », il m'a dit. Toujours abasourdie, je lui ai rendu l’enveloppe qui contenait ma lettre de licenciement et un chèque à hauteur de deux semaines d’indemnités, ainsi que les jours de congés payés que j'avais réussi à économiser (parce que 15 jours de vacances à poser par an, on ne le dit jamais assez, ce n'est vraiment pas beaucoup).

Je savais qu'ils ne feraient pas marche arrière, mais je voulais essayer de négocier pour gagner du temps. Car si ma première décision avait été de choisir de rentrer en France, la décision qui a immédiatement suivi était de faire en sorte de m'accorder, somehow, le délai nécessaire pour boucler plus de quatre ans de vie à New York, et ce, dans les règles, afin de pouvoir revenir ou retravailler sur le territoire américain sans me faire jeter en prison (ma tendance à dramatiser, again). Et j'avais une deuxième chance pour tourner proprement (comprendre, avec moins d'eau salée) cette page de mon expérience professionnelle à New York (sans oublier d'embarquer le rouleau de scotch que j'avais stupidement laissé derrière moi dans la confusion de l'annonce de mon licenciement). Mon dernier jour (bis !) a été mémorable : quand je suis réapparue au bureau, soit mes collègues les plus hypocrites me disaient « I am so sorry » et détournaient le regard, soit mes collègues les plus sympas me disaient « I am so sorry » et m’offraient un petit sourire triste (mais sincère). Le pompon ça a été un de mes supérieurs directs, qui a fait semblant de ne pas être au courant.

Quand j’avais proposé au directeur de prendre la peine d’organiser mes dossiers afin que, si un jour ils puissent redémarrer le projet sur lequel je travaillais, ils sachent où étaient les informations importantes, il m’avait regardée, incrédule, et m’avait remerciée de cette offre « incredibly generous » ! J’étais donc là pour leur rendre service (et officiellement toujours une employée au même titre que les autres) mais j’ai re-eu droit au traitement de choc : une baby-sitter derrière mon épaule lorsque j’ai eu la permission de consulter rapidement mon email de travail, mais sur le poste de quelqu’un d’autre puisque mon ordinateur également avait été verrouillé (c’est limite si on ne m’accompagnait pas aux toilettes). Et quand ils n’ont eu vraiment plus besoin de moi, à 16h précises, j’ai été convoquée par la comptable qui m’a informée que le directeur n’ayant pas le temps (le désir ?) de me parler, il fallait, en gros, dégager le plancher.

Mais cette dernière journée de travail surréaliste (payée, qui plus est) n’était pas en vain. La fin officielle de mon contrat a été décalée de 11, 78 jours car ils ont eu la générosité (?) de poser tous les jours de vacances qu'il me restait (j'avais donc bien fait de me "rationner" pendant plusieurs mois). J'ai fait les démarches nécessaires et payé le prix nécessaire (ah les États-Unis!) pour régulariser mon statut auprès de l'immigration américaine jusqu’à une date ultérieure de départ définitif qui me convenait (car 11,78 jours, quand même, ça passe vite). J'ai fait les démarches nécessaires et payé le prix nécessaire (ah la France! ) pour avoir une couverture médicale internationale temporaire (car ma couverture américaine s’arrêtait 5 jours après la fin de mon contrat, et il m'en aurait coûté 500 dollars par mois de ma poche pour la prolonger). J'ai fait les démarches nécessaires et payé le prix nécessaire (20%) pour récupérer ma retraite américaine, le 401(k). J'ai pris mon billet d'avion, one way, pour la France. J'ai annulé mon abonnement à Netflix. Sur le papier, je suis prête, dans ma tête un peu moins.

To be continued...

Marion

PS: To my "Chers tous", to my support system, un grand MERCI.

Rétrospective: " Le licenciement, the American way" : 
The Immigrant (Charlie Chaplin, 1917) 
Working Girl (Mike Nichols, 1988)  
Mission: Impossible (Brian De Palma, 1996) 
Office Space (Mike Judge, 1999)  
Bread and Roses (Ken Loach, 2000) 
The Pursuit of Happyness (Gabriele Muccino, 2006)  
The Visitor (Thomas McCarthy, 2007) 
Capitalism: A Love Story (Michael Moore, 2009) 
The Proposal (Anne Fletcher, 2009) 
Up in the Air (Jason Reitman, 2009) 
Inside Job (Charles Ferguson, 2010)  
Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps (Oliver Stone, 2010) 
Margin Call (J.C. Chandor, 2011)  
Shame (Steve McQueen, 2011) 
The Queen of Versailles (Lauren Greenfield, 2012)

The Lucky Ones

 
Chers tous,

And dear Sandy, do you mind if I call you Sandy? After all, we're quite intimate now. 

D-1, Sunday. It all started quite anticlimactically. Or should I say anti-climate-ally? It was not love at first sight or, more appropriately in French, un coup de foudre! I knew you were coming, but I wasn't impressed. Your friend Irene had been quite a bust and I am a New Yorker now, I don't like to have my routine uprooted (by wind or otherwise). So the Sunday before your visit, I spent two hours rollerblading in Prospect Park with a friend. Living dangerously? Not really, it was open and full of locals, and I figured I could trust the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. The golden autumn leaves that they had systematically pushed to the side of the tracks were swirling in the invigorating wind. My surroundings were beautiful and quite peaceful. When we heard the subways were closing at 7 pm, that's when I really started to panic... Who wants to be stuck in Park Slope of all places ? : ) (If you don't believe me, you can read Amy Sohn's Prospect Park West and Motherland...)

D-Day, Monday. I spent the day safe and sound in my apartment in the East Village. Didn't set a foot outside. Complained out loud that the latest issue of New York Magazine hadn't been delivered by the mailman that day. Kept checking regularly on civilization, a.k.a the deli and the pub across the street, that were still open. Interacted in an almost non-confrontational way with my roommate about people walking their dogs outside in the bad weather ("New Yorkers and their pets, seriously!"). I set camp in my cosy room (I call it my kingdom). It was bright and warm, and connected to the outside world (Facebook! Skype! Netflix!) until 8.30 pm... when the power went out.

I was so ready. At my disposal I had one rose-scented candle from a fancy store in Paris, and one non-rose-scented candle, also a gift. I had saved a box of matches from the Meatball Factory—even thought I don't smoke—smart move! I had recently showered, and even washed my hair. The dishes were done. In the fridge, I had three bottles of beer and at least four liters of OJ leftover from a brunch I had hosted a few days before (oh, and yes, water). In my pantry, instant coffee, non-instant coffee, foie gras and crackers : ) A mink coat in case I got cold (long story). Anti-mosquito spray (why not?). My iPhone was fully charged. Contrary to when Irene hit, the laundromat across our building was closed so I didn't get a chance to do laundry that day. But five clean pairs of underwear should be more than enough, right? Most importantly, I had watched all two seasons of The Walking Dead on Netflix, so I had gathered a few tips on how to survive a blackout (with or without zombies hanging out in the woods). This is also a good time to mention how grateful I am to my parents who took us camping almost every summer with my brother when we were young.

I found my roommate frantic in his capharnaum of a room, holding a candle, looking for the flashlight I mentioned he should pull out five hours earlier. I decided to take charge and set up our new headquarters in the living-room. From the windows facing Second Avenue I could see that the rain and the wind were having a private party. The only source of light was from the police cars patrolling around my block to make sure no looting would happen. I couldn't even read a book because, although my roommate had lit a few more candles from his own stash, I am not Montesquieu. I usually don't feel like talking to my roommate... which maybe you can empathize with if I tell you that his stash of candles that I was just referring to dates back to when I got home after a long day at work and our apartment (but our apartment only!) had no power. He had "forgotten" to pay the electricity bill. For weeks and weeks, apparently. Con Edison restored our power after 12 hours and ever since then I had held a grudge. But this was going to be a long night, I had to talk to my roommate.

Other strange things happened:
-My iPhone was still working, magic, magic! 
-The New York Times had an online article that included the following quote: "The Oyster Creek Nuclear Power Station declared an alert, the second lowest on the four-step emergency scale established by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission". Reassuring, right?
-The New York Times also had an online article about "A fiery explosion at a 14th Street substation which left roughly 250,000 customers without power." So that's why!  
-Some ghostly figures were walking down the streets with flashlights. 
-We still had water—hot water even!—running and gas. So I made pasta for myself but ate in the same room as my roommate, which I never ever do.
-People I didn't expect to hear from texted me. My best friend didn't text me back. 
-I stayed up longer than I regularly do when I have so many more options to entertain myself. 

At 2 am my phone indicated "no service", something that usually only happens when you are in the subway, underground. I went to bed to the lullaby of the police sirens. I had a dream that the power had been restored. 

Day 2, Tuesday. I woke up early and checked my bedside lamp and cellphone. Nothing and nothing. I woke up again later and made some coffee without using the microwave (yes, don't judge)... My roommate had been outside, far enough (one block to be precise) to bring back some fresh news, batteries and two flashlights. Mine, decorated with a leopard print, was going to allow me to get out of our apartment into the pitch dark hallway without fear of breaking a leg or being attacked. We were making some progress here. The biggest update was that Mayor Bloomberg was scheduled to speak at 11 am. Unfortunately, I had thrown out my almost properly functioning battery-powered radio a long time ago, but our neighbors, who I had never spoken to before, invited us to gather around a vintage boombox from the 1980s. 

Their apartment was like Ali Baba's cave. Even in full daylight, you could barely see anything, piles and piles of... gold (just kidding, books) were blocking the view from Second Avenue. Our host, a self-proclaimed recovered hippie, introduced us to his daughter, and his tenant (?), an Asian woman who probably is in a more complicated visa-situation than me. The walls of their apartment and my apartment touch, but this felt like a parallel universe in which my roommate saved the day (with some batteries), and my neighbor kept calling him a genius. Weird, but friendly. Just like in a World War II movie, we sat around the radio, rapt. Bloomberg made his speech in English first, then to my surprise started to switch to Spanish (people of America, why don't learn the official language of your country?) ! Anyway, it was nice to hear from the outside world, basically, nothing to worry about on our end, at this point it was just the beginning of the waiting-game. Electricity fairy? Brothers Lumière? Flash Gordon? Power Rangers? When were you going to visit us again ? 

Now I wanted the outside world to hear from me, so this time I entered into a scene from a 1970s New York movie and made a call from a pay-phone. Luckily, there are still lots of them in the East Village (but much less drug addicts), so I didn't even have to venture very far (we were still not supposed to go outside). There was not even a line of people waiting, however, it took me a while to figure out how to connect with France (yes I know it's 33, but it's not that easy!). I think my Mom was more puzzled to get a call from an unknown U.S. number than to hear my voice! After that I felt invincible and ready to tackle this impossible task I had put on the back burner forever: go through my pile of unread Time Out New York magazines : ) My roommate was brave (or should I say foolish?) enough to go for a walk as the night was falling. He came back a long time after dark and I was never so happy to see him. Not because I was worried about him, but because, do you realize how boring it is to sit in the dark by yourself with nothing to do? After another candle-lit dinner with my roommate ("I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship"), I went to bed to the lullaby of the police sirens. I had a dream that the power had been restored.

Day 3, Wednesday. I woke up not so early and checked my bedside lamp and my cellphone. Nothing and nothing. I made some coffee without using the microwave... You know the drill. It was time for an adventure, or to put it less emphatically, to go out for a walk uptown! My roommate, you know, the genius, had thought of checking the Chrysler building on Monday night (you can see it from our windows when you bend). So we knew there was power at 42nd Street. And Mayor Bloomberg had confirmed that the dark zone extended from the tip of the island to 39th Street (we live near 4th).

The city was sunny! It was the most beautiful sight, and it was so nice to be able to stretch our legs. A few trees were blocking the sidewalks, but the real danger was crossing the streets with no green or red lights. The cars were driving slowly (relatively speaking for New York drivers) and had never been so courteous to us, pedestrians. As promised, at 40th Street exactly, civilization was waiting for us. Good old New York that never sleeps. People were gathered around power outlets like famished animals, which seemed really over the top because you could also get electricity onward north, at 41st, 42nd, 43rd, 44th Street... etc! Finally my phone was working and I could see who had been emailing me during Sandy... who my true friends were! (No pressure here.) The contact I had most emails from was... my gym: "We are still open". "We are planning on opening tomorrow and will keep you posted". Silence. "We are closed!". "We are still closed". "You are invited to visit our locations uptown at no extra cost!"

I also called a bunch of friends who live uptown because I was craving company, but nobody answered. Really? So I settled into a Wells Fargo bank where I could sit down in one of their puffy chairs and recharge my iPhone. A woman came to me: "Hi, do you need assistance? —Me: "No." —The Woman: "Are you a Wells Fargo customer?" —Me: "No." —The Woman: "OK!"... She probably had seen my invisible badge, the one that said "I live in the dark zone and you better be extra nice to me!" And I was wearing it proudly! Even though I really really really couldn't complain, Sandy had been nothing but a minor disturbance to my everyday life, stepping in this part of Manhattan where it was all like nothing had happened, made me bizarrely vindictive. The one email that really brushed me off was from my other roommate. She had been stranded somewhere outside of Sandy's path and was asking us "Do you have any sense of how soon things in the city will be getting back to normal?" Come on lady, why don't you read the newspaper! I felt like a Second Class passenger on the Titanic, interacting with the First Class people (especially, the Upper East and West siders) who had no clue what I was going through. 

Thankfully, one of my friend was there to prove me wrong. After we met for coffee on 83th Street, almost as far as I could walk (my gym was closed but I wasn't letting my guard down), and had dinner in Marseille (the restaurant), he decided it would be a fun thing to do to voluntarily cross the line at 40th Street with me and enter the other side of the force! So we hopped into a cab to meet some friends who had had the great idea of inviting us to try one of the candle-lit bars that were open in the East Village. The taxi ride in pitch dark downtown Manhattan was quite memorable I must say. The driver wanted to drop us off at 14th Street, which would have been fine on any regular day but with no traffic lights to monitor that major intersection, I corrected him with insistence: "Sir you're stopping on the South side of 14th Street, right? The South side!!!"... I was not going to cross one of the busiest street of the city with only my little leopard flashlight to rely on!

We found our party much more easily than I expected (quick reminder: we were back to no cell reception at all) and started to venture all together towards St Marks Place, following the lead of my friend's lamp: it was much brighter than mine and so heavy that it could double as a mace. Perfect! Some people were gathered around a generator, charging their phones. Some restaurants were attempting to serve food: "Our special tonight is pizza, we also have pizza, and how about some pizza?" Conclusion: you don't need electricity to use a firewood oven.

We settled at a bar that was packed with locals and ordered some really cold beer (probably the best use of the free dry ice that the authorities had been distributing around the neighborhood!). We debated the theory that in nine months there would be a baby boom. I debated the theory that there could also be a peak in divorce rates. After all, it was my married friends' idea to go out tonight! They were probably getting tired of their evenings en tête-à-tête... I know I couldn't stand to spend that much more time with my roommate, which is why I was so excited for the following day. I had been able to get in touch with my best friend and she had invited me to escape the city and spend some time in the suburbs at her parents' house, which had been miraculously untouched by Sandy (they have lots of trees out there, believe me). We walked home under the stars, we could actually see them for once! I went to bed to the lullaby of the police sirens. I had a dream that the power had been restored.

Day 4, Thursday. After a few unproductive hours at my apartment (spent, among other things, scraping the candle wax off of the plates we would probably have to use again before the electricity went back on), I was ready to leave the Second Class. With a spring in my step I made my way uptown once again. I called my friend as soon as I reached 40th Street and we agreed to meet when she would be done with work. Yes, some people had to work! One of my friends' boss was actually being so obnoxious about it that, even though there was still no subway service, he had run all the way from Brooklyn to Midtown Manhattan to prove to his employees that, really, they had no excuse to stay at home!  

I had a few hours to kill so, you guessed it right, I settled into another Wells Fargo bank! Then I went for an aimless walk which happened to bring me to the corner of the Upper East Side where Ladurée had opened a boutique. I swear it was a coincidence! I decided to buy a little selection for my friend and her family who were going to host me that night. Extraordinary weather conditions call for extraordinary sweet indulgences! I knew their macarons were shipped directly from Paris so I dared to ask the sales person how fresh these were, considering airports/ports had been shut down because of the superstorm. Immediately, a man with a French accent jumped in, exclaiming "These are stored at an extremely controlled temperature!". I was relieved to find out that climate change hadn't affected the distribution of luxury French goods in Manhattan...

Me and my friend took a packed train from Grand Central to the suburbs (for free!). Contrary to Manhattan post-Sandy, the city where her parents live wasn't divided into two zones, but into a multitude of pockets of lightness and darkness. So after we got picked up at the station, we proceeded to drive to their house with every other traffic light not working. I didn't even noticed at first, I was just so happy to be there. It felt like I had been finally spotted by the Titanic rescue team. I was one of the lucky ones... 

Retrospective "The Lucky Ones": 

Gone with the Wind (Victor Fleming, 1939)

Grease (Randal Kleiser, 1978)

Groundhog Day (Harold Ramis, 1993)

Twister (Jan de Bont, 1996)

Titanic (James Cameron, 1997)

Bring it On (Peyton Reed, 2000)

Cast Away (Robert Zemeckis, 2000)

Panic Room (David Fincher, 2002)

The Day After Tomorrow (Roland Emmerich, 2004)

127 Hours (Danny Boyle, 2010)