Those two words: Put. Out. So many ways they can be heard. As a girl in high school, those words formed a phrase that was used exclusively to demean, marginalize, and signal something very specific. Needless to say, words can be weapons. Now, as an older lady, I look at that combo plate of letters and think, screw that, no. Taking back the phrase in a couple of ways. I’m going with verb usages like putting myself out there, for instance. Or being put out in a way that suggests out of sorts.

This past week I’ve lived in both of those definitions. Last Sunday I challenged myself to get out of my comfort zone and canvas for the Dems in upstate NY (Kingston: Go Pat Ryan, Sarahana Shrestha, Michelle Hinchey). Two things made this the best of all possible ways to put myself out there: 1) I have to keep doing things for this election 2024 and this action, a thing I’ve in the past felt too socially uncomfortable to attempt, was the next step after postcards. 2) I did this with the very best people, my amazing friend, W, along with her sister and niece, who are seasoned election-year canvassers (yes, even the youngest among us). The thought of knocking on people’s doors and both asking questions and making a point is a stress/stomach-churning thing. I didn’t even sell Girl Scout cookies back in the brief period of my badge-earning days because I couldn’t fathom having to convince anyone that they needed to buy four boxes of Thin Mints along with a couple of Peanut Butter Sandwich cartons, even though it was clear that no one said “I hate Girl Scout Cookies” ever. People love ’em, yet still the thought of trying to sell them made my skin actually sweat. So imagine talking to people about something that chances are they’re not enthusiastic about (or at least not as excited about as cookies)? And on a Sunday at that?

But yet, I did show up. Mind you, I now understand that this activity is a challenge for most/many people, which is why I have always been extra-adoring of W and her commitment to speaking and doing things that matter because I know it’s not her regular go-point to be meeting strangers. Instead, it’s the importance of doing what has to be done and not being silent. So that’s why I was there. Putting out: myself, the message, forming words in ways that hold some meaning. And the activity went a little like this: Apartment complex. List of 50 doors to knock on. Very strong start with the first two doors opened and one woman very explicitly and enthusiastically declaring herself a voting Democrat. This was good. The next 48 doors were a mixed bag. Mostly non-answered, giving the youngest (&perhaps most adorable) among us a chance to perfect her roll-the-handouts-slip-into-door-handle technique. The other doors that were cracked open brought some not-altogether surprising messages along the lines of “I don’t vote.” A woman who shook her head at the thought of voting as if we’d asked if she performed a daily colonoscopy ritual: “Oh, no, I don’t do that. Not interested.” When asked (gently by W or her sister) why? “It doesn’t make any difference.” Then the door closed. There was the man holding his very curious&beautiful son who said, “Nah, I don’t vote but I’ll give the information to my old lady.” It was hard for me not to yell “Do it for HIM!” while pointing at the boy. And also maybe to let him know that the term old lady probably went out with the Nixon administration for good&obvious reasons. But there was no yelling. Of course not. I don’t even yell when I actually have every right to (more about that in a minute).

We finished the day at a Mexican restaurant with the acknowledgment that we’d done a good thing, that maybe a handout would be read, a tip toward voting may happen, a Sunday well-spent, and yes, the guacamole was really good too. None of this was small and the level of putting out was large on all our parts.

The other put-out this week had to do with this job I’ve had and loved since July. It ended. Not just for me but for a whole load of folx who were unceremoniously turned out of AARP at the last minute because of a contract mess (or at least that’s what we were told). It’s all very confusing and currently, I have no idea the hows or whys of it. And maybe that doesn’t even matter, although I do recognize that the first reaction at least for me—and who can’t relate?—is to try and get to some logical reasoning around an event that so definitely changes the course of my current day-to-day. Yet when I move off to the left a bit and realize that there are a load of things people—people who I adore—are going through and have gone through where there is no connection to an explanation, I realize that it’s important to acknowledge the frustration and helplessness. That’s not, to my mind, willful inaction but rather things happen. If it does good to raise a ruckus (see above. Election 2024), then hell yeah. If it’s just howling into the wind, then for sure that feels good even if it yields only the result of it feeling good.

This is where the yelling might fit in: and that might feel good because it will let off the steam but because I don’t live in Network and therefore won’t find an audience or window to shout out of where people will cheer for me, I understand that this is just something I would do to satisfy my need. That’s not nothing and I am allowing for the seven stages of grief around letting go of a situation where I enjoyed the work, the people, the hours, the money, the health insurance, and the benefits. A sort of unicorn. An acknowledgment that I like steadiness in my day-to-day life even as I’ve chosen a not-steady career in the publishing industry. I haven’t lost those people I beyond-appreciate who I know in this topsy-turvy industry. The ones I’ll always know who pre-date this job, and even a couple from this gig who I hope to still know into the future.

What I’m reckoning with is the sense of disappointment. Of having a choice made for me that I didn’t choose or want. The realization that to put out in the way I want is a decision I make while being put out is uncomfortable. Maddening even. And so goes the merry-go-round, which I will ride, fastening the safety bar while yelling, screaming, thinking, perhaps laughing, appreciating, and going forward in the best way I know how.