Unbought, Unbossed, & Unemployed
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As part of my weekly unemployment requirements, I went to a job fair at City Hall. My partner circled the block while I indecisively pointed out a new place to drop me off every minute or so. Maybe I was stalling so I could gather myself (I had been actively holding back tears for the last 5 minutes of our ride, and who wants to be the crying lady at a job fair? Not me).
My tears were sitting somewhere between my throat and my sternum, and if I got out too quickly, I feared I might have a full-blown panic attack. Granted, if I stayed too long, I might fall into the debilitating quicksand of my own emotions and be pushed further in by his pep talk and caress, which almost always give me permission to fall apart.
I had been experiencing intense anxiety all morning; maybe it was the fact that my phone stopped working, and so I was feeling cut off from the world (right when I decided I’d just lean into making content). Or maybe it was the $650 quote Apple gave me to fix the phone, which added pressure to go to this job fair I didn’t want to be at in the first place. Maybe it was knowing all the work I had done to unmask from the performance capitalism requires to ensure our financial security, and now I would have to shut up and mask up if I wanted to keep my house, my car, and my kid in her school.
I took a deep breath, tucked my regular glasses into my shirt between my breasts, and put on my prescription sunglasses just in case a tear dropped as I walked the one block to City Hall. I noticed someone from my childhood standing outside and had the fleeting thought that I hoped he wouldn’t notice me; I wasn’t supposed to be there. I had to explore that thought. Was I feeling superior? embarrassed? lost? All three?
Here I was, educated, with a myriad of experiences, degrees, and certificates, making my way up these slightly curved stairs to hear about jobs that I am either overqualified for or I lack the necessary qualifications for altogether. Me, in this building where my resume already lives because I interviewed for a position on May 21, 2025, and as of September 29, 2026, I was still waiting for HR to reach out and tell me that they hired somebody else. Foolishness. Though, at the writing of this, I’m unsure if the fool is them or me.
“Are you here for the career fair?” a youngish man asks me at the top of the stairs. His cheery demeanor annoyed me, and I assumed he must be an intern, or maybe this was his dream job, or maybe his whitemanness was enough to put a smile on his face that morning. I responded, “No,” likely with an air of disdain. I wonder if he noticed, but I didn’t really care; I can admit I have not been actively working on how sharp I can be at times.
Especially to men.
“You can go right in,” he says, gesturing and inviting me further into the den of iniquity. To my left, the police department is recruiting the next group of questionable individuals to their ranks. I consider going over there just to troll them a little, a hit of dopamine, but I wouldn’t dare bother wasting my time by pretending to be interested in any job opportunities they have. (Also, I’ve aged out.)
I move table to table. “Here’s the QR code you can scan to see our available openings.” I smile and nod at each stop; it seemed like the most polite thing to do, considering what I really wanted to say was, “Actually, my shitty iPhone stopped working, so I can’t scan your QR code, but I’ll be sure to check out the website,” knowing I already have and likely won’t again.
Next department, “Here’s the QR code you can scan to see our available openings.” I wish I had a way to tell them to save their precious breath before they could open their mouths about these QR codes.
I make it to the last table on the left, the library. They have a position printed out for me to read. Finally, no QR code. Part-time, working with youth, minimum required qualifications- so far, so good! I wonder which branch because it doesn’t say, and if it’s the downtown library, I think you have to pay for parking, and I really don’t want to pay to park for a job that requires me to be in person.
I see the hours: Monday- Thursday, 1–6 PM or 3–8 PM, and there it is: conflict. Between school pick-up, extracurriculars, and my classes on Thursday, that position wouldn’t work for me. I look up from the back of the hall; the sounds are muffled, except for the occasional phrase “QR Code,” which my ear picks up almost tauntingly.
It’s a colorful space, and by that I mean literally; I look around, and all I see are people of color. My social scientist brain chimes in: this is indicative of the disparity in unemployment rates nationally; you see that, right? I hush her with an offer to write about it later so we could get through the last few tables without flipping one over. I’m certainly no Jesus, and this space was no temple, but I am confident in categorizing the current state of our labor market as a den of thieves because what do you mean you want a resume, cover letter, and time away from my only child for $19.25/hr?
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I worked my way back down the hall, scanning left to right to make sure I didn’t miss anything, while debating the best way to exit the building with the least human interaction. In my final glance left, I recognized someone, and I quickly ducked my head toward my right shoulder to avoid being seen. Another moment to explore, but I decided to leave my therapist something to do Thursday,
As I made my way toward the stairs, I saw a white woman in an ill-fitting black suit, her face set in determination. Damn, you too? I thought as I walked down the opposite staircase, hyper-aware of the man behind me, wondering if he just happened to be leaving at the same time or if I was being followed. The woman ahead of me held the door open; I thanked her and quickly booked it to the library across the street, glancing back to make sure the man was headed in another direction that wasn’t mine. My conditioning to be cautious and alert means I move through the world with a high level of skepticism; it's probably not a great trait for a job seeker who needs to be relational, but it does make me wonder if I may have missed my calling to be a detective.
As I made my way to the library, I ran over my to-do list in my head: check the job postings for the departments you saw today, send an inquiry email about adjunct positions, work on your paper for class, if there’s time, see what you can update on your consulting website, maybe you can just generate your own income.
That list remains untouched, as I instead dove into recent unemployment data for the United States and found that my state, Connecticut, has the largest 12-month increase in unemployment in the country since August 2025.
I dove deeper.
I see the unemployment rate for Black or African Americans currently sitting at 6.6 percent, a stark contrast to the 3.6 percent unemployment rate for white folks and Asian folks (U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, 2026). I look even deeper: the unemployment rate for Black women is sitting at 6.1 percent, with further age disaggregation showing that Black women between the ages of 25–34 years old have a current unemployment rate of 8.3 percent, with Latina/Hispanic women of the same age range coming in second with an unemployment rate of 6.1% (U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, 2026).
I remember being in that age group and experiencing my first layoff in 2023 at 33 years old. I didn't get another full-time job until May 2026, a job I was laid off from just one month after I started. If you’re still following and did the math, you know I’m in a new age category now: women aged 35–44. Our unemployment rate? 4.8 percent for Black women, 3.4 percent for Latina/Hispanic women, 2.9 percent for Asian women, and 2.5 percent for white women.
The numbers aren’t surprising, but like the familiar faces at today’s job fair, I had been avoiding them. I rarely look at myself through the eyes of a statistic, another trait of my conditioning: “don’t be a statistic.” When I was a kid, that meant: don’t be a high school dropout, don’t be a teen mom, don’t get an STD, don’t do drugs, so I didn’t, and I became a statistic anyway.
I am one of the 6.1 percent of Black working-age women pushed out and kept out of the workforce. I am one of the many diversity, equity, and inclusion practitioners impacted by the ongoing attack on our field of practice. I am one of the many parents of young children trying to find flexible employment that understands the 9 AM-5 PM workday doesn’t actually work if school is out at 3 PM. I am one of the millennials navigating a late ADHD diagnosis who is having to learn new skills and build better systems to support my executive dysfunction. I am one of the millions still needing to find a way forward from the trauma of COVID-19, anti-Black racism, gender-based violence, and compounded burnout while still experiencing COVID-19, anti-Black racism, gender-based violence, and perpetual burnout.
And I am among the percentage of those of us who need a damn minute to pause, lament, and breathe through all that has been lost and all that we continue to lose before I read another job description, write another cover letter, attend another fair, and am pointed to one more QR Code to scan.
I do have more to say, but the dogs need walking, the dinner needs cooking, the paper needs writing, and the unemployed need to continue job searching. Please do let me know if your employer is hiring. I promise to keep my opinions to myself, and if you see my application says “white,” just go with it.
As of today, September 29, 2026, I am not employed in a traditional 9–5 after being laid off in July. I also haven't received an unemployment check yet. Today, I am deciding between repairing my car, replacing my phone, being late on my mortgage, and skipping my classes next semester, so if you're moved, feel free to send me your lunch money or check out my website and hire me!
