ESSAYS ON WORK
EXPERIENCE

 

Janet Dix
College: Brown University

“So, you have no previous work experience?”

“Nooo…”

“And this would be your first job?”

“Yesss…”

“Great, you can start Monday! I’ll call you sometime during the week with hours. By the way, Janet, my name’s Stephen.”

All I could think was, but doesn’t it say “Etienne” on his name tag? I couldn’t believe that after wandering around the mall for 45 minutes, I had a job. Friends had told me job-hunting horror stories about applying at Christmastime and being turned down for the summer. Amazingly enough, 12 hours into the summer, the day after my last exam, there was a job.

Now, I’m not sure what my original picture of a Barnes & Noble employee looked like, but the difference between it and my current picture is comparable to the difference between a Van Gogh sky and a Bloom County comic strip. There are a collection of people whom I, under normal circumstances, would never have encountered, but now, after only a short while, I’m not sure I could get along without. Together, we teeter the line between truly bizarre and just plain entertaining. When Stephen explained to me that he shaves his legs because it cuts down on wind resistance while cycling, you could have heard a cotton ball hit the carpet in the store. Several of the more insecure males made a beeline for the door.

I imagine WORK, in capital gothic lettering, to be a sentence to be faced; a grim milestone to remind me that childhood was gone, and I now stood before a concrete wall of RESPONSIBILITY, also in capital gothic lettering. After all, my father goes to WORK every day, and his favorite clothing color is dark gray. His second favorite clothing color is gray. I figured that once I walked through the doors of Barnes & Noble, I would shed my trappings and suits of youth and become mature. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

At Barnes & Noble, languid days are spent taking “vertical naps” on the extension ladder, or planning book cart relay races. Rearranging the “whale” is a favorite pastime, especially good for Friday nights, because every book from the huge central display must be moved to the floor directly in front of the door. This maneuver effectively blocks the door, and prevents customers from coming in and ruining our fun.

However, customers do manage to call, and they are quickly classified. Easy phone calls are highly anticipated, seldom received. “What time are you open ’til,” is a favorite. A hard phone call is much more challenging:

“Last month, my cousin from South Dakota was in, and he said that halfway down on the left wall was a stack of pink books, and next to the stack of pink books was a yellow book with blue writing. Well. I want the one across the aisle from that!”

An equally challenging but more simply worded phone question:

“I’m looking for a book.” Long pregnant pause here. It’s almost as if they expect you to tell them that Barnes & Noble is now selling natural vitamins instead of books. One has to reassure them. “I don’t know the title, but the third letter in the author’s name is X.”

Those customers who sneak by our clever road block are classified also. An easy customer buys a book and has a bill totaling $3.76. He hands me $4.00 and apologizes because he doesn’t have a penny. On the way, he actually picks up a book that he didn’t even knock off the shelf.

A difficult customer selects $700.00 worth of books. Each book has all or part of its price sticker missing. Near the bottom of the pile he discovers a sodden piece of wood pulp that his daughter has chewed on. It used to be a book, and now he doesn’t want it anymore. He attempts to pay with a MasterCard that has exceeded its credit limit. “Call for verification” flashes across the machine’s screen. At this point, demonstrating some sort of herding instinct, all the customers in the store lumber up to the register like frightened wildebeest, ready to pay. Within seconds, all of them, including the original difficult customer, are clamoring and threatening to tell the manager of the terrible service. The manager, who has gone to the deli for a snack, walks up to the window, thinks better of coming in, and keeps walking as if he works in the video store next door.

Where could you go for an entree of books with a side order of comedy? Where could the management of a store operate like a five-wheeled vehicle and still survive? Where you can find me even when I’m not working? Barnes & Noble, of course, of course!

COMMENT:

Janet manages to invest in the Barnes and Noble microcosm while sharing her worldview. That latter is funny, irreverent, and at times transcendent (as Van Gogh sky). Some of her narrative is a little forced; one strongly suspects that the real Janet is as much future customer as mischievous clerk. In the end, however, she dismisses the myth of adversary and reveals the insight of a very able and viable young candidate. (SAB)

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This is interesting and well written. It is written from experience in a humorous way. Any reader who has spent any time browsing in bookstores could identify with the incidents described and so would catch the interest of admissions people. (BPS)

 

Celia E. Rothenberg
College: Wellesley College

Detasseling, simply defined, is the removal of the tassel from a corn stalk so that pollinization of the plant can occur and hybrid seed corn can grow. Among midwestern high school students detasseling is infamous because it requires extremely long hours in the July heat, tolerance of “corn rash” and bugs, and a lot of physical strength. I signed up in response to a dare from someone who believed that I would not be able to last the full six weeks. Perhaps it was the growing recognition of my own strength, my pride in being one of the twelve detasslers (out of the original seventy) who were asked to work the entire detasseling season, or the antagonistic nature of the dare that propelled me through all six weeks, but what I learned from that experience has changed me as a person.

Detasseling helped me to look beyond the surface of people who are different kinds of achievers from those I encounter every day. Attending University High School, I have learned to respect academic accomplishments above other types of achievement. Yet many of my fellow detasselers had completely different sets of values and goals that I came to admire. Many of them were working in order to eat, or to buy essential books and supplies for school. Being singled out as a “brain” from the first day because of the stereotype the students held of students from my high school was difficult. Yet I earned the respect of my crew by working hard, and we developed a friendly working relationship.

My partner, Josh, told me that the money he was making from the summer would be his only money for the rest of the year and would enable him to finish high school; college for him was an impossibility. Yet he never lost his sense of humor. Walking the three-quarters of a mile down each row, he would “rap,” “I don’t like to pick this corn, but I’m still glad that I was born.” He gave me a true sense of what it means to make the most out of very little.

Speaking little English and understanding even less, two Thai girls who detasseled that summer never complained; together they could outwork the strongest and most experienced of the detasslers. Their determination to adjust to new surroundings and to work hard earned the respect of all of us.

The dynamics of the crew reflected the responsibility most of the crew felt toward the job and the farmer whose corn we detasseled. There were days when we stayed after dark working by flashlight to finish a field so that it would not have to be plowed under, which would have meant a significant monetary loss for the farmer as well as a waste of three acres of good corn. Only after we finished did I realize that we had worked since 5 A.M. Since detasseling, I have not been a part of a group that requires every member to be as responsible as each crew member had to be then.

While discovering the strengths of so many different kinds of people, I also discovered some of my own strengths. I discovered my ability to respond to physical as well as academic challenges. I realized that I am able to depend on my own inner resources. This discovery of my own physical strength and my ability to endure came as a revelation to me.

Learning to judge people by different standards carried over into the school year when I realized that I did not have a date to the Junior Prom. Not used to staying home, I considered my options and discovered someone who was also dateless. A gifted math student, PLATO programmer, and someone who always carried a calculator, he seemed to have little in common with me. Even so, I asked him to Prom. Detasseling proved to me that different types of people can learn from each other, and we did. A very special friendship evolved after Prom, perhaps partly because of our differences and partly because we had taken the time and effort to discover that beneath the surface we share many things in common.

The concept of detasseling and what it requires is understood by few; yet those who have experienced it share a special bond. After detasseling we did not see each other again as a group, but we parted with respect for one another. I left valuing new things about myself and other people. And I also won the dare.

COMMENT:

The amazing thing about Rothenberg’s detasseling essay is that it worked despite leaning on populist platitudes about the American Dream. It works because it is beautifully organized and the argument proceeds in concrete portions. It works because the writer manages to stay within the actual experience instead of sugarcoating it. It works because the determination and sentience for the writer is real. (SAB)

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This essay is very well written. Through a summer job, which some college students might regard as somewhat demeaning, this student shows ability to adapt and versatility so necessary to adjusting to college situations. The writer shows a willingness to work hard for what she wants and through this she learns much about herself and others she worked with. She demonstrates through these experiences her ability to adjust (adapt) to new experiences, ideas, and people when she gets to college. (BPS)

 

Mina Le
College: Harvard University

“Mice and dice and spice and—” “Rice!” “And rice and nice and—what’s that?—yes, ‘tice’—very good!”

This rhyming exercise sounds like gibberish out of context, but when I was helping 5- and 6-year-olds learn to read this summer at the community center, I had no time to be embarrassed at how I sounded as we worked on phonics and rhymes. “Lll…aww…ggg. Now blend them—lllawwggg. Log.” It wasn’t until I started teaching such basics that I realized how abstract reading is, how hard it must be for kids to learn to connect characters with sounds and with thoughts! I tried to make phonics more concrete by connecting it to their lives, by saying, for example: “There’s someone at this table with the ‘nnn’ sound in the middle of their name—can you find out who it is?” At this challenge the kids only stared at me as though I’d suggested eating leaves off trees, and even little Johnny, whose N’s I referred to, had no idea what I wanted.

Fortunately, a break from the frustration came at recess, when I gladly relived my elementary-school days in crossing balance beams, riding the pulley, and accepting the kids’ invitations to join their games. A girl pulling on my arm for attention would become an excuse to sing “Ding-dong, ding-dong!” as though my arm were a bell rope; soon kids were circling around to watch, enjoying the show until I had to announce that the bell was broken from overuse. So entertaining them was easy enough; the hard part of recess was bringing myself to call the kids back inside, after seeing how much fun they were having at games like the roaring Dragon Tag.

Though all of the children who went through the reading class were great—how can little kids not be—my favorite was a cute first-grader named Grace, whose sweet, affectionate personality gave me a reason to come to work each summer morning. She chattered pleasantly and precociously and was eager to give me hugs or take my hand. No one would have guessed it, but young Grace also happened to have a life-threatening allergy which could flare up at virtually any time, requiring her to carry epinephrine, Benadryl, and an inhaler with her in a pouch purse everywhere she went. In the event that Grace had an attack, one would have to administer all three medicines and call 911, making haste because the epinephrine would only work for fifteen minutes. Even living on the brink of death this way, the six-year-old took her condition in remarkable stride, calmly reminding me to bring the blue pouch purse every time we went out for recess. I had to admire her endlessly positive attitude.

It seems that children in general are like that, naturally imbued with optimism and with a bounding energy for life I couldn’t help but pick up. This summer’s reading students touched me more than they knew, simply by accepting and loving me as I was; and I, in turn, echoed their joie de vivre, encouraged their kind hearts, and tried my best to help them learn. I can already see how fulfilling a life of helping other people is going to be.

COMMENT:

The problem with this essay is that it tells only what the writer did at her job—the actual tasks. It doesn’t say anything meaningful about the writer’s experience of this job, except in ways that work against her. In the first paragraph, she essentially reveals that her approach to phonics didn’t succeed, making her as happy as the kids to “break from the frustration” and go outdoors at recess. Only one child gives her “a reason” to go to work each morning. In the end, the generalities and platitudes about how great it is to work with children don’t ring true because of this disconnect between evidence and ideas. (MR)

 

Ariel Fox
College: Harvard University

She scrunches her nose as she approaches the board, shoulders tensing as she takes another mechanical step forward. She is one of the regulars at the pool, one of the younger ones who comes to swim before dinner. I feel my impatience growing as she tentatively places a toe on the edge of the diving board. Why doesn’t she just dive? I would love to throw aside my rescue tube and jump into the pool, for it is exceedingly hot. All day the sweat has been dripping down my face, mixing with my sunscreen to create a thin film on my sunglasses. All day the blueness of the water has been tantalizing me, urging me to end this heat-induced suffering. I have wondered at frequent intervals why someone like me with an overactive imagination and an almost physical need for conversation would torture herself like this—watching unappealing and practically inanimate objects move in random trajectories around a container full of chemicals (which read dangerously high on the pH monitor this morning). Joe relieving himself in the water was the high point of the day.

With excitement like this and the knowledge that sunstroke is imminent, I find it difficult to understand how this girl, her green hand-me-down suit barely clinging to her meager frame, can resist the lure of the water. Like Alice peering into the looking glass, she fights the unknown. Had I been her, indecision may have seized me as well, but it would have hit before I climbed the ladder—as soon as I had touched the board I would not have dared (or desired) to turn back. Yet she still stands paralyzed with fear. Perhaps she needs to prepare, perhaps she has never hurtled through the air before, arms flailing and knees crooked. Or perhaps she is a perfectionist, unable to tolerate less than a streamlined entry with minimal splash. Maybe she’s not concentrating on diving at all, but instead imagining herself to be a mermaid, her green suit extended into a long fin. Whatever her reasons, she isn’t ready to go off the board.

As she falters back and forth, her feet moving to her mind’s distant drumbeat, I want to tell her to get on with it, to stop thinking about it. The same drumbeat of internal indecision has pounded in my head, subsiding only after decisive action. I can no longer bear the pounding, for as a lifeguard, I have what many in today’s hectic world would give their souls (or their BMWs) for: time to ponder. But self-evaluation has its limits. Unfortunately, I am still vaguely aware of the paradoxical fact that without pondering, I would have never reached this conclusion. Yet why did my mind stumble so? With each stumbling step, the diver risks missing the opportunity to act. What if I blow my whistle and she is still waiting? Yet if she rushes, something may go wrong. Will she forgive herself, if, due to some unforeseen whisper of wind, her left elbow is askew as she enters the water? Maybe the mermaid wants one last look at dry land before she consigns herself to fate. It is difficult to recognize when the time has come to act, for clarity comes with hindsight.

While I can then empathize with the green-suited diver who has now wrapped her toes around the edge of the board, it is difficult for me to watch her internal (or imaginary) struggle. Maybe the answers aren’t always within, and outside intervention is needed (if only to save the sanity of lifeguards working their last shifts). I lift my whistle to my lips, hoping that it is the stimulus needed to set the girl in motion—be it tumbling through the air or hopping back down on the hard, dry pavement. Secretly, I am hoping for a splash.

COMMENT:

Anyone who has been a lifeguard can relate to the combination of whistle-twirling ennui and lengthy contemplative opportunities described in this essay. The writer’s descriptive prose is engaging, and her whimsical poolside reflections make for an interesting read. Her references to Alice and the looking glass and the mermaid are well placed, but the reader might speculate if sustaining either metaphor could have given the essay more impact. The writer clearly sees beyond the usual prosaic decision points at the diving board, but she goes beyond her slightly verbose but important third paragraph to drive home a smart denouement in an imaginative, well-crafted conclusion. (RK)