University of Chicago Convocation, 1983
AB degree, English Language and Literature
It was 36 years ago today . . . wait, that sounds like a Beatles song. Anyway, here I am, young, hopelessful, and unemployed. When I woke up on Monday, June 13, it was the first time in my life I had nowhere to go. Adrift. Typical because planning isn’t my forte, but it wasn’t a good feeling. I was too burned out and poor for graduate school to be an option.
After spending part of the summer selling Chicago City Ballet tickets by phone (really), I found a full-time job starting in late September through the classifieds in the Chicago Tribune (really).
One job I interviewed for that I didn’t get — a writer/editor for a dietitian association (if I remember correctly). Why didn’t I get it? I couldn’t type fast enough.
Still can’t.
It’s disturbing to me to think about words-per-minute being the crucial thing even if you have a degree from the U of C.
Once upon a time, I was asked to “crank out copy.” Not “craft” (an expression I loathe) but “crank out” (which I loathe slightly more). I’m not sure what term that association went with but failing the typing test was an automatic out.
An interview I had with a different association started with a lengthy test of my psychology. One question was (paraphrased), “After a work day, do you: go home and vegetate, go out drinking with coworkers, or [I can’t remember but some equally disturbing choice]?” I remember feeling like my choices were to be a hopeless loner, a social alcoholic, or some other unpalatable choice. I didn’t get the job for reasons unknown, and the hiring manager contacted me maybe six months later to say the association was kaput and she was out of work.