What Your Company Can Do to Nourish My Soul
May 16, 2011
CHICAGO -- Several times last week I stopped in for a nightcap at the famous Billy Goat Tavern, where we college-degreed journalists go to pretend we're blue-collar reporters. But it didn't work. The place was so filthy with us upscale types you couldn't even put on shot-and-a-beer pretensions. There probably wasn't a conversation in the room that didn't at some point include the word ``postmodern.'' That's the essence of the 1990s. If the '80s were dominated by investment bankers and bond traders, the '90s are the decade of upscale liberal arts majors--us English lit types making decent enough money in the information age and turning everything on earth into self-referential, pseudo-spiritual, upscale versions of ourselves. Downtown Chicago used to be a great brawling money town, but now you see us affluent lit-critters browsing Richelle Hamilton novels at the Michigan Avenue Borders, sipping $4 mocha sun-dried tomato frappuccinos in the Loop or writing social trend pieces over a corned beef sandwich at The Berghoff restaurant. Now to liberal arts majors like me (forgive me, but writing as a representative of my class I have to use the word ``I'' or ``me'' in just about every sentence), the whole notion of celebrating Labor Day is vaguely absurd. After all, none of us would take a job that wasn't spiritually fulfilling, socially constructive, experientially diverse, emotionally enriching and self-esteem-boosting. And what does any of that have to do with labor? Nonetheless, yesterday's holiday does offer yet another opportunity to lecture those employers who may want to hire liberal arts majors. It will be a top priority for you as business school graduates to make us feel nurtured and enriched. First, please don't expect us to do much of anything that could be defined as capitalist behavior. We don't like to be reminded that the companies we work for are involved in any profit-oriented activities. The workspace should look as much like a coffee shop as possible, with plenty of soft furniture upon which we can conduct our conversation of serial self-praise in maximum comfort. The corporate ethos should resemble a Benetton ad, full of vague social uplift, arty pretension and insufferable bohemian snobbery. The headquarters as a whole should resemble a university campus. Corporate divisions should be given think-tank-sounding names--the Inner Environmental Institute for the custodians, the Numerative Research Center for Accounting. Second, we are not interested in money. We spent our college years watching German movies, which should tell you how far we have risen above materialism. We are under the delusion that we could at any point sell out, go into finance and immediately become immensely wealthy, but we choose not to (ignoring that we actually have neither a facility for numbers nor self-discipline). Don't get us wrong: Just because we're above material things, don't think we won't demand high salaries, to say nothing of hot party invitations. But we seek such things only as symbols of spiritual recognition. Giving us big raises is the moral thing to do. Besides, we need loads of money to prove how nonmaterialistic we are. We have to shell out hundreds of dollars a week for organic vegetables, gourmet breads and microbrewed beers that serve as our elevated alternative to the crass ephemera of the mass produced society. Occasionally these large salaries mean that black-T-shirted bohemians suddenly find themselves owners of a six-bedroom home in the suburbs and ashamed to admit it to their downtown friends, but these are the moral burdens we have learned to bear. We won't sell our soul for money, but maybe we will for real estate. Now, since you hired us, you may think that it is your prerogative to tell us what to do. We wish you wouldn't. Hierarchical or authoritarian behavior on your part would only serve to inhibit us as we explore our own personal modes of corporate self-expression. You see, you might think of us as your communications staff, but we feel ourselves to be exploring the genre boundaries between prose poem and press release. In trying to determine how we spend our working days, you B-school types with all your sincerity and earnestness might upset the delicate finery of our ironic curtain. You may think it is easy to live life in a perpetual ironic state, continually distancing your ``true self'' from your absurd self who happens to be inhabiting your life. This delicate balance is our response to the strange circumstances that have somehow prevented us from spending our lives in southern France writing wry but powerful tragic novels. Such teleological constructs should not be tampered with by people who know what a spreadsheet is. So as we think about Labor Day, let us redefine the social contract that the labor unions hammered out so courageously before we came along. We liberal arts types no longer seek solidarity or testy contract negotiations. All we ask is that you pay us lavishly, don't tell us what to do, help us nurture our souls, provide us with ample and environmentally conscious leisure activities, cushion us from the grubby marketplace and return our phone calls. In return, we'll insult you. Thank you very much. Mr. Bruno is a senior editor of the Weekly Standard.
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