Every 10 years it is required by the United States Constitution that census be taken (made? had?).
And every 10 years thousands of hard workers across the country get the door slammed in their face.
I never thought I'd work for the government. That was definitely number three on my list of things I never would do (Number one being murder, and number two shovel horse manure). But then came Census 2010.
Up to 40 hours a week.
$18.75/hour.
Moral and qualms be damned. I need to eat. And buy new clothes.
First up a bureaucratically ridiculous (is that redundant?) government (definitely redundant) one week training. The manual containing an innumerable amount of errors and inconsistencies- convenient- after it is stressed exactly how important it is that we do our job with utmost care and accuracy. Obviously our government runs on a "do as I say, not as I do" philosophy.
Class hasn't changed much since when we were kids. There still is the person who doesn't understand anything, and must ask all the obvious questions (no such thing as stupid questions, only stupid people). The giggly girls. The class clown. The guy who dozes off. Funny how we keep our roles throughout life.
I am an address canvasser. Lister Zachary. Yes. I have a title. I feel so official. And yet slightly creeped out all the same.
The first operation for the census is making sure that all addresses- or rather living quarters- are in the database, so that mailings can be mailed and interview follow ups can be made. Apparently 4 million people were missed for the 2000 census. (Wonder how they figured that number out- raise your hand if you're not here... 1, 2, 3 ...4 million). "We'll do better this time" around is our motto. Every person or place they may live must be accounted for. The man who lives in the cave up in the park. The narcotic and chemically challenged people squatting in the old abandoned building. All.
In order to do this job, I go door to door (falling at number 12 on my list of things I would never do, right after spending a day of watching a marathon of reality tv) and confirm the number of units contained within, comparing and editing with a listing on my nifty handheld computer. A computer that probably cost the government millions to produce but still can't perform a simple copy and paste job- and thus I must enter every unit separately. So a building with, oh say over 100 units= carpal tunnel syndrome.
The computer contains a nifty GPS feature, which they call a YAH (You Are Here). The government is quite fond of acronyms- LQs, OLQs and HUs oh my! This tool is for the final step in address canvasing- map spotting the location so that it can be found again. Generally I would assume this function would be more useful in a rural or non-urban setting. In the city one address, or building usually follows another. My YAH apparently gets bored with the monotonous door to door canvassing, one spot right next to another, so often goes wandering off on its own. Not the most convenient thing for a GPS signal. My fellow listers joke it actually stands for "You
Aren't Here." Thus I'm left waiting outside the apartments tapping my toes until my YAH decides to come back from its travels.
One would think that for an operation that has been done every 10 years since 1790, we might have an actual idea of how to do it without too many blunders. But one would be wrong. Every day I receive a message telling me do something differently, contradicting what has been said before. Speed up. Slow down. This is the first year for the HHCs. The theory being less paper work. But halfway through the process they decided that wasn't working, so now for every address/unit added or removed we must fill out a ridiculous formal piece of paper. Thus far I've written the next great American novel. Boring as hell. But comparable in size.
All this being said, and despite all the craziness, I've actually enjoyed the job. I can set my own hours. Explore my neighborhood and work outside. Sanity is peserved with a lesson I learned months back in catering- turn off your brain. If you think too much about it you'll stress yourself out. Get all worked up over a very simple job. So I just smile and nod, and accept the changes and continue on with my work.
And this is my job.
Or was my job. As it just ended last week. 4 weeks short of the semi-promised two month work period. Somehow, despite the mess, we completed ahead of schedule. And now I'm back unemployed searching for work.
Maybe it's time I start looking for shovel...
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