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Writer's pictureJen Sullivan

You Can't Work Here


My "denied" email

In my desperate attempt to find work, I applied to Joann at least three times. This last time was for a part-time key holder position, which was the first job I held with the company when I started at the end of August 2016.


I was promoted to store manager in March 2017 and eventually left in March 2020 to take another job that gave me more free time. My departure is a story of its own, and someday maybe I will tell it here, but it is told in detail in my book, The Fabric Manager.


Our local Joann had been closing early last year, and even earlier this year, due to staff shortages. I had already applied for a position as just a Team Member, not wanting the responsibilities that go with management. At least, not at that place.


When I had applied before, I was immediately denied, likely due to the assistant manager's input. We got along when I worked there, but since I left, the woman had distorted her opinion of me, becoming a downright bitch to me when I would stop in. She was angry that I left because it meant she had to work more, especially since I happened to leave right as the pandemic was shutting things down. Everything but our Joann. Again, that is a story for another day.


After the assistant manager left, I thought maybe I could get hired. It isn't a good job and the pay is crap, but I needed a job and I missed the discount. I had been working at Michaels, whose employee discount is shameful in comparison and whose corporate culture was appalling, even more so after the company was bought by large investment firm Apollo Global Management. As much as I hated Joann, it was still better than Michaels, and if I was going to work in the craft world, I would rather it was with Joann.


Today, I received yet another email that I have been denied a position. I have no doubt this is the district manager's doing, a woman that I never liked. Her life seemed to be entirely focused on the company and she never respected that I had dreams that did not include Joann. In fact, I had never wanted to be the manager there, or at least not as early as when I was promoted. I had just come from a manager position that nearly killed me, both physically and mentally, and I did not think I was ready. I only accepted the job to help my family.


The district manager once encouraged me to fight with my husband a mere three months into our marriage. I didn't want to go to his parents for Thanksgiving due to my busy work schedule that week, and he thought otherwise. I knew the basis for the district manager's opinion was that I should be dedicated to the store and not my husband, though she acted like it was a feminist issue. My husband has never tried to hold me back or assert dominance because he is a man. Quite the opposite actually: he is a follower and I am a born leader, though we work more as a partnership most of the time, unless he indicates that I need to take the lead.


I suppose I can never work for that company again, or at least not as long as that same district manager is there. I cannot say I really want to go back; I just need a job, and I already know how to do that one. I already know many of the customers and some of the employees. I was willing to take the stressful key holder position for the pathetically low pay I expect would come with it, unless the company has raised its $10-an-hour wage cap.


But no, I am not good enough to do a job I use to train others to do. I am not allowed to work for peanuts in a position that is the hardest to fill in that company, with new key holders leaving for full-time work after getting a little experience. I only ever wanted to buy groceries and pay rent, not sabotage the store or its new manager, or the one after that in the revolving door of store managers.


That's fine, district manager. I don't like you anyway, with your condescending attitude, your poor treatment toward me as if I were some dumb kid, or your comments about my hysterectomy "vacation." No one wants to work for you or your shady company.

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