Other Jobs

Megan Mayer

I’ve always led two lives: my dance life, and full-time jobs unrelated to dance. The dance world can be intimate and intense, and the job world provides a more anonymous outlet. I appreciate that straddle.

My family has a strong work ethic. Like most people, my jobs stem from financial necessity. But they’ve also been a source of pride; it’s satisfying to do good work. They’ve ranged from janitorial to curatorial and many things in between.

I took jobs that fit into my busy school and dance life. In my teens, I cashiered at a grocery store and sold bread and cannoli at a bakery in an Italian neighborhood in Milwaukee. In 1986, at 18, I moved to Minneapolis and put myself through college, working about 30 hours a week in addition to full-time coursework and rehearsals. I didn’t know anyone in Minneapolis, so a rigorous schedule was something of a comfort.

I got really good at managing my time when I worked my way through school. On walks/bike/bus rides home I reviewed dances in my head, I studied while at the laundromat, I ate as I walked to my next class across campus. For comp class, I made dances late at night, in my tiny bedroom, incorporating the furniture by necessity. To compensate for my procrastination anxiety while writing school papers, I composed on my typewriter the night before they were due, often staying up nearly all night: one draft, no mistakes. I’ve gotten slightly better at doing drafts when I write grants. Slightly.

None of these practices were sustainable – but I see their influence in how I make dances today. I still procrastinate (this essay is due tomorrow, btw), but I am more realistic and forgiving with myself about it; I know I’ll get it done. I’m better at taking care of myself and knowing when it’s time to stop working. I try to recognize when I’ve done a good job. I still make dances in short bursts of creatively focused time, and I’m not sure if this is a learned behavior from a lack of time, or that I just work better when wrangling multiple deadlines.

My first paid job in Minneapolis was at St. Anthony Main movie theater in 1987. I was sexually harassed by the assistant manager (who was my manager’s boyfriend) and turned down a projectionist job offer because it would have meant possibly getting trapped in the booth with him, which one wanted to avoid at all costs. All the young women who worked there knew this so the projectionist jobs typically went to men (hello, #metoo). I worked tons of weekend late shifts. This meant I got to spy on other, cooler young people as they stood in line next door for Pracna Underground, an ill-fated 18+ basement dance club. I remember sweating in my polyester uniform at the ticket counter while Technotronic’s ​Pump up the Jam​ echoed from the club’s hallway.

Once, an obnoxious famous comedian who frequented the theater left his candy wrappers on my ticket counter and I scooped them up and marched them right over to him and said “I think you forgot this.” I was 19 and it was hard to stand up for myself, but I was making $3.35 an hour so I felt justified.

My favorite thing about that job was there was a speaker right next to the ticket counter that allowed you to dial into the audio in each theater. My coworkers and I would memorize the sound from the movies and I’d imagine the visuals and let my mind wander. I can still recite much of ​Married to the Mob​. I still make almost all my dances in my head instead of a studio. Another great thing was that many of my coworkers were Aveda students so I got a lot of free haircuts and giant perms.

In my twenties I was a phone interviewer in Epidemiology at the

U of M. I asked strangers intimate questions about their angioplasty, breast cancer, smoking during pregnancies, and gambling habits for public health research studies. Most of these were cold calls and we’d miraculously get people to talk to us. The training for conducting these interviews was fantastic and thorough. I credit that job with being at ease on the phone and for being able to hear subtleties in someone’s voice and to know when to not push and to just let them talk. I was really proud of myself at that job; they didn’t hire just anybody, after all, and I got over some shyness and introversion. After graduation, I was promoted to supervisor. I learned that I was good at this type of work: connecting with people, gaining their trust quickly, and getting them to open up.

I briefly worked weekends as a janitor at the U of M Hospital. I took two buses there to make my 6 am shift. I learned how lonely people can be in hospitals. I overheard intimate confessions from patients’ families desperate to talk to someone. The clinical setting was so sterile and draining, though it provided useful and realistic lessons about the body. The difference between my dance colleagues who were in prime physical health and the hospital patients was stark and shocking at times.

I experienced some serious snobbery and class commentary from medical staff about struggling artists and janitors which to this day pisses me off. This was an incredibly isolating job. I was always exhausted and my then boyfriend would complain that I worked too much. One Saturday I mopped an empty patient room and, creeped out by the staggering amount of plastic medical waste and the ​Saved by the Bell​ episode on TV, I thought to myself: “This is not a good job for you.”

In my late 20s-early 30s, I managed Garden of Eden on Lake and Hennepin, a local bath and bodycare store. My work and dance life began to merge as many dancers were regular customers. I learned about alternative care: sea salts for sore muscles, yogurt for yeast infections, tea tree and peppermint essential oil for worn dancer feet. This store was much like the dance world: small, committed staff, low pay, great people. I adored this job. I created window displays and noticed my brain was working on choreography and staging, focusing on placement and framing.

From 2001-2012 I worked in an Accounting department at The Thymes. I made more money here than at any other job, but being stuck at a desk, office politics, and personal tragedies took their toll. Ironically this was one of my most prolific growth spurts as an artist. I won a Jerome Travel/Study grant and the Momentum commission and directed my video ​Over Time​,

(​an unrequited love letter to a job)​. A McKnight Choreography Fellowship and an impending MANCC residency ultimately allowed me to quit this job, but it still took me two years to work up the courage to do so.

I’ve definitely had that “grass is always greener” envy over the years when I’ve had to work instead of taking class or workshops. But self-imposed dance exile has helped define my choreographic voice. I make work from that straddle, and I (sometimes) feel I’ve found my place.

Currently, I work in Human Resources for the Wedge Co-op. The work is hard and challenging. I adore my coworkers and rabidly support the cooperative business model and ethics in these uber-capitalistic times. I learn a lot of private things about people, and try to maintain discretion and trust while getting them what they need. Many of the people I work with are young enough to be my kids, and I get nostalgic for my younger self who worked so hard for herself and had to be so tough.

The same things are fascinating to me in both HR and dance: the messiness of human behavior, humor as a coping mechanism, and the attempt to bond (or not). My experiences in dance prepared me well for this job, and vice-versa; I’m able to meet people where they’re at and change gears quickly. When there’s conflict, I think of dancers’ soft skills and how well we negotiate those intimate spaces. I’m able to work 4 days a week and maintain the best work/life/dance balance I’ve had to date. Most days I think I do a good job.

Megan Mayer is an award-winning artist based in Minneapolis working with dance, experimental video and photography. She obsesses over minimalism, mimicry, tenderness, wry humor, loneliness, fake bad timing and exacting musicality. meganmayer.com