Looking for Work - NC woman desperate after being laid off 3 times

 By MIKE KERNELS
The News and Record of Greensboro

GREENSBORO, N.C. (AP) _ Numbers have come to define her desperation.

Like three. That's how many times she's been laid off since 2002. Or 165 _ how many days she's been without work.

She can't believe 400 _ all the resumes she's sent since January. Which leads to zero _ how many interviews she's had.

And then there's 54. Her age.

Meet Donna McCall. Wife. Mother. Statistic.

Like 14 million Americans, she's been downsized. Like one in five area residents, she's living below the poverty line.

How did this former textile supervisor get here? It's a long story. But then, these days McCall has nothing but time.

``I used to call it a train wreck. Hell, it's a derailment,'' she says from a living room chair. ``I had the plan _ a clear picture of where I was going to be today. But it's gone. That's just never going to happen.

``I'm lost.''

The economy created 36,000 new jobs last month and even if McCall _ a heartfelt and headstrong woman _ had gotten one of them, it would've been too late. The damage has been done.

Financially. Emotionally. Psychologically.

Her career and credit are shot. Her self-esteem and savings have wasted away. Her identity and idealism are shattered.

The only goal in her immediate future is survival. When you're in debt and desperate for work, this becomes your American Dream.

``At this point, I'll take anything,'' admits McCall, who has two grown sons. ``I'm resigned to it. I'm doing what I have to do. The passion is gone.''

Most days, you can find her at home ``living in sweat pants and pajamas,'' lighting an occasional smoke, drinking a glass of wine _ usually more _ and trying to maintain her sanity and contain self-pity while telling herself one thing: ``It's not my fault.''

And she waits. For an e-mail. A phone call. A letter. Something. Anything. An acknowledgment that she matters to someone, somewhere.

At 46, McCall went back to school _ ``I cried the first six weeks'' _ to pursue a degree in hotel and restaurant management. She graduated from GTCC with honors.

All for nothing.

She's applied to be a bartender, greeter and even a staffer on a cruise ship.

Not that it mattered.

``After the first few applications and you don't hear anything, you begin to feel like you're cast aside in society,'' says McCall, her gaze intense. ``You're just a shell left here to pass away. You lose yourself. You want to feel worth.''

The phone rings. McCall has a pretty good idea who it is _ and it's not an employer. ``It's probably a bill collector.''

When your employment is as sporadic as McCall's, debt collectors become a part of life.

It's a hole she's been trying to climb out of since 2002 _ the first time she was laid off _ and it gets deeper each time she's unemployed.

Once McCall had drained her savings, like many who are jobless, she resorted to credit.

But it was a trap. It only created more bills. And more debt.

Before McCall knew it, she and her 67-year-old husband, who is retired, joined the 20 percent of people in the region living in poverty.

Between McCall's unemployment check and her husband's Social Security, it's not enough to cover the basics, much less anything extra.

McCall has quit taking certain medications to save money. She wears clothes from Goodwill. She's trying to squeeze a few more miles out of a car that already has 170,000.

She's let her house _ and herself _ go.

``Anything else that breaks down,'' McCall says, ``it'll just be broken.''

November 2010. McCall enters a local food bank for the first time.

``When I walked into the pantry, I recognized half the people there _ my neighbors were volunteers. I sucked it up. Pride has gone by the side.''

Time was, she saw herself at this age looking forward to retirement. Now, she tries not to think beyond tomorrow.

``You get knocked down so many times, it gets to the point where you can no longer worry about where you're going to be 10 years from now.

``My future is lost. I don't think I can get that back.''

Blue Bell production plant. Several years ago.

McCall was a successful salon owner fresh from Blacksburg, Va., with no experience in textiles her first day at Blue Bell, maker of Wrangler jeans.

Her job: Operate a machine that put waistbands in pants. Look good doing it. And not freak out.

She remembers thinking: ``Oh, my God. What am I doing here? I'm making a change. This is for my boys. I can do this. This is for them.'' Within two weeks, she was promoted to inspector.

After three months, she was a salaried employee who helped oversee shipping and manufacturing.

``I loved it,'' she says with a smile. ``It was a mental challenge, something I hadn't done before. I walked the floors a lot, and ideas would come to me about how I could make things better. I would take it to management and often, it worked.''

By 1992, when a headhunter convinced her to be a quality-control supervisor at another clothing manufacturer, McCall had a realization.

``This was what I was going to do until I retired. I was damn good at it.''

It wasn't long after McCall arrived, though, there were signs that her company was preparing to jettison most of its work force.

Expenses were up. Profits were down. Layoffs had begun.

``I actually had to walk a supervisor out to their car,'' McCall says.

Still, business went on. McCall came in early, left late and took work home without pause.

``I wanted management to know that if I said I can do this, it will get done.''

A decade later, McCall had just helped implement a new pay plan when she got a call she remembers as if it were yesterday.

``I knew the day they asked me to come to the conference room and I saw the manila envelope in my boss's hand, that was my life. I had seen it before. I was going to lose my job.''

This time, she was the one being escorted out.

``I cried all the way home. I stopped at the liquor store. I shut my myself off. I felt betrayed, used and ignorant to have thought all I had put into it would make a difference in the end.

``And now, I resent the hell out of it.''

That was on March 2, 2002.

``I was totally crushed. I felt like less of a person _ that part of me was gone,'' she said. ``You begin to become a split personality with your family. You have to be the person you were, but inside you're not. You pretty much lie and put on the happy face.

``You get with friends and they start talking about their job. You start asking yourself: What do they have that I don't?

``You base your life around what's on TV at what time ... drinking wine in the middle of the day ... wasting away.

``You lose yourself. Whether or not you're going to make it depends on how strong you are.''

That was three layoffs ago.

``I'm still fighting,'' says McCall emphatically. Then she pauses and her voice becomes somber. ``Really, I'm scared. ... I may never work again. I don't know.''