I had been brainstorming this big post on how I hate my job. And how I hate to hate my job, since I kind of knew when we moved to Israel that it was going to be mandatory for me to work full time and take whatever fell in my lap since my husband was going to school full time for at least two years. And how fortunate I was to find work that paid pretty well in my field 10 days after getting here. And I’m the only income we have, so it’s not really an option for me to get my panties in a bunch and quit.
In a nutshell, we lucked out on a major level. It could have made our first few months in the country very difficult, but instead there was my job to pull us through it.
But I don’t like it.* It has exceptionally little to do with my employer or even the people I work with. It has everything to do with the fact that I am sick of working night shifts on a news desk at a newspaper. I want a normal job with normal hours and normal perks and normal everything else.
So I took a technical writing retraining class. It trains you, in a nutshell, how to be a technical writer, which is an industry in Israel where good grammar and native English skills net you a hell of a lot more than working nights. But I started cycling half way through my class and I missed a few classes here and there and I still have unfinished homework and I was basically a big disappointment to myself. I thought I would shock and awe everyone – including the instructor, who is a bigwig in tech writing in Israel – with hitherto unsuspected skill. I had hoped she would pick me up after the course for some freelance work, the goal being to pick up a bit of extra money while I got my feelers into this new field. Build some contacts. Find a good employer. And then make the real leap of quitting my job as an editor.
I just got off the phone, which just started to ring again. It’s been wonky for a few days. I answered a number that I didn’t recognize, mainly because my husband is getting dinner for us and I am convinced he will, chas v’shalom, get hurt.
It was one of the bigwig’s coworkers. They are bringing me in on a project. The details of how many hours and when and where are going to be worked out at the first team training session next Sunday, but I am being offered at least a month of solid work (which will be extended to two or three months if they like me) and am going to be paid about 20 percent more than I am getting in my current position.
The best part? I really like these people. And I was told they have high hopes for me, that I am an excellent prospect as a technical writer. And they know I went through infertility. And they know that I am pregnant. And they still want to hire me – now. Not a year from now.
I have to figure a bunch of things out (such as, how I am going to do both jobs at once for awhile and how to get to the training place in Kfar Sava), but I’m not worried. I’m filled with hope in a way that I haven’t been since I learned we were moving to Israel. This is a chance at a career, not just a job. And I don’t have to wait until everything else works out to pursue it. I’m so happy I could cry.
* In fact, I would have killed for this job just five years ago. I work for a really highly respected newspaper that is a boon to have on my resume. The level of writing is excellent. People in the industry would argue that I work for one of the top newspapers in the world. But I’m sick of nights. And to a lesser extent, I’m sick of working at a place where I don’t believe in the politics that we’re publishing. This is not my employer’s fault. This is my fault for taking a job at a place where I wholeheartedly knew what I was getting into. When I told a couple folks where I was working – people outside of Israel that have know me and my politics for years – they thought I was kidding.
Yes, it’s true that most newsrooms in the U.S. are uberliberal too. The difference is that in the U.S., I really didn’t give a damn about most of it. My heart lies (and has for years) with Israel, and now I find myself having a very strong opinion on a whole mess of things. I care more here. And that makes it just too hard sometimes.