I. The Assignment
R. meandered his way to the supervisor’s office. The halls are a drab, gunmetal grey, which was ironic for a building that housed an organization committed to peace. Every corridor was plastered with posters, colorful reminders of previous good works thought up by those that have inhabited this building for the past three decades.
He sat down in Frau S.’s office. R. didn’t know a lot about Frau S. He knew, like most people he worked with, she was here not because she grew up here, but because she believed in the wider mission statement of peace and dialogue. That’s why they were all there.
She had him sit and wait as she finished an email about a project that wasn’t hers, but a project she had interjected herself in none-the-less.
“What do you know about supplementarity?” She asked.
Was that even a word?
“Nothing, but I have a feeling that is going to change.” R. said with a smirk.
“We want nations to have the resources to deal with their own war crimes, instead of international bodies taking care of it.” She stated dryly. “What I need you to do, is line up the projects we currently do and then write about how those current projects can be used in supplementarity. We might want to do a project, we don’t know yet. It will be like a menu of services.”
A menu of services? For a service we don’t provide? For projects that don't exist?
“OK, I’ll get it on it.” R. left the tomb of an office not quite sure what this topic was, the purpose of the project or the long term goal of Frau S. Google was only going to have an answer for one of those questions. Bad start.
A few days into the assignment R. began receiving emails and documents from others in his department involved in the project. Stacks of paper began to form. The idea made enough sense: give countries the tools to deal with their recent history. However, no one in the department seemed to know what to do with this idea or who to try it out on or if the project even belonged in the field. R. thought a country like Absurdistan could benefit. Coming out of their recent civil war, they were surely going to want to show the rest of the world that they were committed to democratic or Western ideals. Currently the country was in chaos with only a governing council that didn't seem to communicate well with it's Western allies or the people it supposedly governed.
As the documents piled up, R. got to reading. The more he read, though, the less the project made sense. The department had no extra money and was already tight on resources and, come to find out, it wasn’t even clear if the department had the OK from headquarters to put this project in Absurdistan—or even write the proposal for that matter.
As the days passed, the document began to grow. R. didn’t know if he was on the right track. All he knew was that the papers unfurling on his screen were on the same topic.
A few times a day a new email would arrive. “Make sure you add this”; “Don’t forget to mention this.” At this point it was just a smattering of expert reports and academic papers; it was a quilt with no stitching. On account of this inundation, the document R. was making began to take a weird shape; it was without fluidity and without direction. This was no surprise to R., because the instructions he received seemed without purpose.
It was an hour before the meeting to discuss the draft on this amorphous project. The muscles between his shoulder blades tightened as he tried to edit over the sound of another coworker in his office speaking in a foreign tongue to someone back home.
R. knew it was just a working draft, but as a new employee, and a young one at that, he wanted to put together something he could exhibit without having to feel ashamed.
With copies made and stapled for the others, he headed upstairs. Back through the grey corridors to his supervisor’s office.
II. The Meeting
A few minutes early, R. again interrupted Frau S.’s frantic emailing. He took a seat and waited. Moments latter, Herr M. arrived. R. hadn’t worked with Herr M. before, but found him to be convivial enough. With Frau S., these were the two heads of this project on supplementarity.
They silently looked over the 10 page memo R. had put together. They scribbled notes in the margins as they read with pained faces. R. anticipated negative feedback.
“Why did you decide on this structure?” asked Herr M.
“I told him to use our handbook,” Interjected Frau S.
“But the structure isn’t right, the Good Democracy Project put together a different handbook that we should be working off of,” Said M.
There was another handbook? On this topic? Why would you even base our work on someone else’s if the new product was just reinventing the wheel?
“Well, I don’t even know if we have the OK from headquarters to do this,” said S.
“This isn’t anything different than what we’ve already been doing. We should be able to move forward,” said M. in a way that let you know they had had this conversation before. Clearly, no consensus was found the last time they had this chat either. Which raises a broader question, if the heads of this project don’t agree on whether or not this project can exist, why are they going forward as if it can? There is a saying about a horse and a cart and where the two should be put, but I forget the order.
They went back and forth for awhile, never conversing, but simply restating what R. was sure they have told each other before. Frau S. sketched a design on her draft of the memo, uninterested in the comments made by Herr M. The word supplementarity was used as a verb, a noun and an adjective. R. figured since the word was made up, it can be whatever it wants to be.
“The purpose is to see if there is interest and if we could pilot this in some post-conflict place, like Absurdistan,” said M.
“The purpose of this is to create guidelines, so people in Absurdistan or any field office can do this themselves,” S. spoke at M., still doodling.
R. couldn't believe the fundamentals hadn't been agreed upon. The department is writing a plan that it might not have the power to write, that has already been written by another group and for a purpose no one can agree on. After 45 minutes, these issues remained unresolved. The only agreement at the meeting was that R. needed to have an updated draft by Tuesday.
Each said they would send R. their revisions. It sounded like death by Track Changes.
R. didn’t know what to think. Clearly his uncertainty over this project was not misplaced. He wasn’t misunderstanding the assignment, because he now knew there was no understanding to misunderstand. The project was in reality as nebulous as it felt on paper and in his head.
Stunned at what he just witnessed, he took the stairs to try and clear his head. The stairs came at his feet in a logical and appreciated progression.
Back in his office, he stared at the document unsure what to do or how to progress. Luckily, it was near the end of the day and R. was set to go home. At his transfer station in the metro, he saw his train coming from a distance so he rushed to get on bored. Barely making it, and with the doors closed behind him, he realized he was on the wrong train, going the wrong direction.
R. meandered his way to the supervisor’s office. The halls are a drab, gunmetal grey, which was ironic for a building that housed an organization committed to peace. Every corridor was plastered with posters, colorful reminders of previous good works thought up by those that have inhabited this building for the past three decades.
He sat down in Frau S.’s office. R. didn’t know a lot about Frau S. He knew, like most people he worked with, she was here not because she grew up here, but because she believed in the wider mission statement of peace and dialogue. That’s why they were all there.
She had him sit and wait as she finished an email about a project that wasn’t hers, but a project she had interjected herself in none-the-less.
“What do you know about supplementarity?” She asked.
Was that even a word?
“Nothing, but I have a feeling that is going to change.” R. said with a smirk.
“We want nations to have the resources to deal with their own war crimes, instead of international bodies taking care of it.” She stated dryly. “What I need you to do, is line up the projects we currently do and then write about how those current projects can be used in supplementarity. We might want to do a project, we don’t know yet. It will be like a menu of services.”
A menu of services? For a service we don’t provide? For projects that don't exist?
“OK, I’ll get it on it.” R. left the tomb of an office not quite sure what this topic was, the purpose of the project or the long term goal of Frau S. Google was only going to have an answer for one of those questions. Bad start.
A few days into the assignment R. began receiving emails and documents from others in his department involved in the project. Stacks of paper began to form. The idea made enough sense: give countries the tools to deal with their recent history. However, no one in the department seemed to know what to do with this idea or who to try it out on or if the project even belonged in the field. R. thought a country like Absurdistan could benefit. Coming out of their recent civil war, they were surely going to want to show the rest of the world that they were committed to democratic or Western ideals. Currently the country was in chaos with only a governing council that didn't seem to communicate well with it's Western allies or the people it supposedly governed.
As the documents piled up, R. got to reading. The more he read, though, the less the project made sense. The department had no extra money and was already tight on resources and, come to find out, it wasn’t even clear if the department had the OK from headquarters to put this project in Absurdistan—or even write the proposal for that matter.
As the days passed, the document began to grow. R. didn’t know if he was on the right track. All he knew was that the papers unfurling on his screen were on the same topic.
A few times a day a new email would arrive. “Make sure you add this”; “Don’t forget to mention this.” At this point it was just a smattering of expert reports and academic papers; it was a quilt with no stitching. On account of this inundation, the document R. was making began to take a weird shape; it was without fluidity and without direction. This was no surprise to R., because the instructions he received seemed without purpose.
It was an hour before the meeting to discuss the draft on this amorphous project. The muscles between his shoulder blades tightened as he tried to edit over the sound of another coworker in his office speaking in a foreign tongue to someone back home.
R. knew it was just a working draft, but as a new employee, and a young one at that, he wanted to put together something he could exhibit without having to feel ashamed.
With copies made and stapled for the others, he headed upstairs. Back through the grey corridors to his supervisor’s office.
II. The Meeting
A few minutes early, R. again interrupted Frau S.’s frantic emailing. He took a seat and waited. Moments latter, Herr M. arrived. R. hadn’t worked with Herr M. before, but found him to be convivial enough. With Frau S., these were the two heads of this project on supplementarity.
They silently looked over the 10 page memo R. had put together. They scribbled notes in the margins as they read with pained faces. R. anticipated negative feedback.
“Why did you decide on this structure?” asked Herr M.
“I told him to use our handbook,” Interjected Frau S.
“But the structure isn’t right, the Good Democracy Project put together a different handbook that we should be working off of,” Said M.
There was another handbook? On this topic? Why would you even base our work on someone else’s if the new product was just reinventing the wheel?
“Well, I don’t even know if we have the OK from headquarters to do this,” said S.
“This isn’t anything different than what we’ve already been doing. We should be able to move forward,” said M. in a way that let you know they had had this conversation before. Clearly, no consensus was found the last time they had this chat either. Which raises a broader question, if the heads of this project don’t agree on whether or not this project can exist, why are they going forward as if it can? There is a saying about a horse and a cart and where the two should be put, but I forget the order.
They went back and forth for awhile, never conversing, but simply restating what R. was sure they have told each other before. Frau S. sketched a design on her draft of the memo, uninterested in the comments made by Herr M. The word supplementarity was used as a verb, a noun and an adjective. R. figured since the word was made up, it can be whatever it wants to be.
“The purpose is to see if there is interest and if we could pilot this in some post-conflict place, like Absurdistan,” said M.
“The purpose of this is to create guidelines, so people in Absurdistan or any field office can do this themselves,” S. spoke at M., still doodling.
R. couldn't believe the fundamentals hadn't been agreed upon. The department is writing a plan that it might not have the power to write, that has already been written by another group and for a purpose no one can agree on. After 45 minutes, these issues remained unresolved. The only agreement at the meeting was that R. needed to have an updated draft by Tuesday.
Each said they would send R. their revisions. It sounded like death by Track Changes.
R. didn’t know what to think. Clearly his uncertainty over this project was not misplaced. He wasn’t misunderstanding the assignment, because he now knew there was no understanding to misunderstand. The project was in reality as nebulous as it felt on paper and in his head.
Stunned at what he just witnessed, he took the stairs to try and clear his head. The stairs came at his feet in a logical and appreciated progression.
Back in his office, he stared at the document unsure what to do or how to progress. Luckily, it was near the end of the day and R. was set to go home. At his transfer station in the metro, he saw his train coming from a distance so he rushed to get on bored. Barely making it, and with the doors closed behind him, he realized he was on the wrong train, going the wrong direction.
