Branded With the ‘Scarlet U’

My days now start at 7:45 a.m. when my 8-year- old explodes into my room, yanks the beaded metal chain on my bedside lamp and yells, "Get up, Dad!" Up I get. I might shower, I might not, but I do always comb my hair and brush my teeth. Down the stairs for a quick cup of coffee, get my three daughters into the car and we're off to school for their morning drop-off ritual.

I pull up carefully in front of the local grammar school: stop No. 1. I've been doing this for several months now and I'm still not comfortable. There are no fewer than 4,000 SUVs and minivans pulling in and out from the curb, like a synchronized-swimming routine for boxy robots. Threading between them are mothers who walk their kids to school. Some are pulled by a dog. Some use the crosswalk, some don't. Rarely do I see another father. The whole scene is daunting.

There is a protocol to the chaos, but no guidebook. Am I moving too slow? Too fast? Can I pull up here? Did that woman just glare at me? How long can I idle? I find a spot and my two older daughters jump out: kiss, kiss, bye, bye. They are weighed down by backpacks the size of small bank safes, and they walk with a distinct forward lean to counterbalance the load. Have a good day. Don't pull a hamstring.

As I start to ease out my car, another one pulls alongside me. The mother behind the wheel stares at me, waiting her turn to steer in behind me. Two more mothers subtly glance my way. The self-consciousness kicks in. "Yes," I shout inside my head, "there is an unshaven dad in the car and he doesn't have a job!"

The week before Thanksgiving last year, my job at a large investment bank in New York was eliminated. My house is outside the city, in a suburban factory town where the factory is Wall Street and the business is slowly shuttering. But life does not stop. The kids still go to school.

After I drop off my third daughter, I contemplate going to the gym. I always see other men there. Are they the "voluntarily retired" who have made their money and no longer need to work? Or have they been laid off too?

As a man, as the sole source of income for my family, I feel, well, a bit emasculated by unemployment. My wife works tirelessly as the kids' logistics manager, the treasurer of a local education foundation, the choreographer of the upcoming school play—all pro bono. Bills need to be paid, money must be put aside for college, and these responsibilities still fall on my shoulders. That may be an old-fashioned thought in the modern world, but it crosses my mind a lot, and I'm sure it occurs to some of the moms I see around town, who must wonder why I'm not at work. My shoulders slump a little more, my stride is less purposeful. I'm a proud man, but sometimes I feel like a likable family pet that's been neutered.

To make things simpler and clearer for everyone, I'm thinking of stitching a big scarlet "U" on my clothing. When I pick up my kids, a woman I know stares at me and casually asks, "So did you join the ranks of the unemployed?" Yes, I confide, I lost my job, tough times in the financial services sector, blah, blah, blah. As the days roll on, I'll get the same look from others and tell the same story. It happened recently at the local gas station while I was talking with the owner. "Yeah," he said, "but at least you guys on Wall Street made your money." Nope, not all of us. I'm a marketing guy, out of work along with administrative assistants, customer-service personnel, janitors. Struggling businesses, whether on Wall Street or in the Rust Belt, impact people at every income level.

Still, I'm not a particularly sympathetic figure, and I get that. I'm a guy with a wife and three kids who lives in a nice house in a nice town who lost his job. I'll get over it. I'm not alone. I just can't shake the feeling that I'm out of step with the world. I keep cycling through the five stages of grief—depressed on Tuesday, accepting on Wednesday, maybe the reverse the following week. Losing my job is not necessarily the worst thing I've endured, but I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

I'm 50 years old—no kid anymore—the job market in financial services is tight, maybe even nonexistent, and the U.S. economy is struggling. Yet I'm hopeful that there will be a happy ending to all of this; I'll work hard to ensure it.

My message? Nothing more than this: if you're out of work and you feel crappy, you're not alone. And to the rest of you: when you're in that car line, waiting for your turn to drop off the kids, please smile and wave to the unshaven guy in the baseball cap.