Canned: Conversations about Getting Fired

Notes on a month of Canned

I got “removed from my role” the third week of June; the following week Amy and I kicked off Canned. Amy had the first two episodes cut by June 30th. A little over a week later we did an official launch with six episodes. People asked me how I managed to get this thing into the world so fast. The answer is simple but not easy to replicate: Get you a partner who thinks your ideas are fantastic and has the skills to make them real.

Here we are, a month in. We have nine shows online and we’ve gone to a once a week schedule. You can now get Canned every Thursday morning. There are another ten episodes in the production queue and I have a pile of interviews to set up. We have scheduling tools and tracking tools and this website and a backlog.

Our most downloaded episode is with Shauna, the English Teacher. I learned things talking with her that, well, you should just listen. But out in front on the WTF index is Frank, the Air Guardsman. What a story. I got email from Frank yesterday; he got a good job and I’m so happy for him.

Canned has unlocked something big.

We tapped a story filled vein. It’s funny sometimes, often infuriating, occasionally weird, and in some cases quite painful. Getting summarily fired kicks off an existential crisis. I loved talking with Grant, the Therapist, because it helped me understand that we can — should — treat this as a loss. His insights are valuable, but every single person who has shared their story also has brilliant advice. Every time I record an episode I have to stop myself from rushing to Slack to share spoilers with Amy. Every single time I hit Stop Recording, I think, I can’t wait to post this. I can’t wait for people to hear this story.

Making Canned feels a bit like running a confessional. I’m Jewish, we don’t do confession. Our sins are between us and whatever god we believe in, there’s no intermediary — and oh, maybe between us and whoever we owe an apology to. I’m not qualified to absolve anyone of anything, plus, in these stories, the fired person isn’t the one who sinned.

Lack of ordination aside, I feel both responsibility and gratitude towards everyone who’s made the time to share. I started Canned by talking to people I know, but that shifted quickly, half the episodes are with strangers to me. It’s amazing to be trusted with stories about such a vulnerable place. I believe in saying the quiet part out loud — and in fact, I believe that’s why I got canned — but I’m also very familiar with how much nerve it takes to do that. Whenever I end a call, I feel like I’ve received a gift.

But it’s not a gift just for me, it’s a gift for anyone who has been canned.

We always chat for a few minutes before I hit record; everyone who’s listened in advance says the same thing: I feel better. It’s not just me. I don’t feel so alone. People say that when we’re done recording, too: I feel better, thank you for letting me tell my story.

Same, friends, same. Thank you for letting me listen. Canned has made me feel so much better about getting fired. I won’t say it’s the best thing that happened to me, but it’s been pretty fucking great.