Unemployment, New York City and Psychics

After graduating from graduate school, I spent a week in New York City. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to visit the city that never sleeps. After sacrificing two years of my life to the intellectuals, fulfilling a lifelong goal seemed appropriate. Although, NYC is not a place you visit to clear your head, it offered me the distraction I was in desperate need of.

Despite an ambitious pursuit of employment, I had failed to reach my goal of landing a job before graduation. The fear of financial hardship was becoming difficult to shake. It would only be a matter of time before my savings ran out, and how would I pay for my place in the cities without a good job? Such questions would keep me up at night, as I obsessed about a problem that seemed to have no immediate solution.

I had reason to be frustrated. I had greatly underestimated the impermeable Minneapolis job market. I had applied for nearly every job I was qualified for, and despite the low response rate, I soon grew tired of the interview process. The interviews I had been on were disappointing and sometimes certifiably humiliating. One interview led me to a loft in Minneapolis. When I arrived early, I was shown to the waiting area, which consisted of two plastic kidﾒs chairs. Sitting low to the ground with my knees alarmingly close to my face, I begrudgingly thought to myself: this is not going well. The little dignity that I had preserved was robbed from me when I found myself awkwardly ignoring the fact that the ownerﾒs dog was molesting the pant leg of my overpriced suit.

You have to be thick skinned to endure the Minneapolis job market ﾖ especially if you are applying for a creative job. I quickly learned that I was competing against hundreds of qualified applicants. Overwhelmed by job applicants, employers have little incentive to treat prospective employees well, call them back or even pay attention to them in interviews. I watched in awe as one overworked marketing manager communicated with her BlackBerry while conducting an interview with me. Through the interview I was distracted by my own urge to state the obvious: this is not a phone interview; I can see you.

My crash course in job searching has also taught me that phone interviews are nearly always requisite to face-to-face interviews. To survive phone interviews, you first have to recognize that they are not real interviews ﾖ they are a calculated screening process. Employers want to determine if youﾒre worth any effort beyond picking up a phone and dialing a number. The worst treatment is reserved for the phone interview. The employer is so disconnected from you that they hardly remember youﾒre a living, breathing, human being ﾖ who is becoming increasingly more fragile. Once, I was forced to recite my resume when a job recruiter confessed that he forgot to review my background before he misplaced my resume. Yep, itﾒs a humbling process.

As graduation approached, it became more difficult to accept the harsh reality that finding a job could take longer than I had expected. I developed weird habits. I became increasingly more interested in my cell phone. I would find myself staring at it, willing it to ring. Like a girl desperate for a call from a guy she knows will not call, I entertained thoughts of false hope. Perhaps there was something wrong with my phone? Should I call Sprint and demand to know why I was not getting job offers? In the end, I became resentful at my phone because its failure to ring represented the overall failure of the job search.

I had gone from hopeful to pessimistic, rational to irrational, sane to insane. My mother suggested that I listen to my intuition, which made me laugh. I had over thought things so much that I could no longer distinguish between a gut feeling and wishful thinking. I left one job interview so confident that I called my closest friends to announce that it was over; I knew I had this job. I could feel it my gut. When I was turned down a week later, I was baffled. I even pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. How could this be? They called my references; they asked me to send over my college transcripts. I inaccurately interpreted such requests as a done deal, but I was wrong.

Nothing seemed more appealing than jumping on a plane and escaping the emotional rollercoaster that had become my life. NYC offered just the cure I was seeking. The over-stimulating streets kept my mind occupied and off depressing subjects like money and unemployment. I attended Broadway plays. I ate street-vendor pretzels. I visited the center point of Americaﾒs heritage. However, I would find true solace in Greenwich Village. Strolling through the quant streets, I came upon a building that proclaimed the words ﾓpsychicﾔ in the window. This is a sign, I thought to myself, forgetting the fact that I had recently started labeling nearly anything that happened to me as a sign. Regardless, I wanted to capitalize on the opportunity to look into the future. After all, the most difficult thing to accept in all of this had been the uncertainty of it all. If anyone was in need of an intuitive guide, it was me. I quickly convinced my two friends that they too needed to know their futures, and off we went to see the psychic.

This was not my first experience with psychics. Every year, my friends and I visit Winnipeg. Itﾒs become tradition to eat at an outlandish restaurant called the Chocolate Shop, which offers substandard food and cheap tarot card readings. I personally enjoy tarot card readings because you can pick and choose what you want to believe. If I receive a positive reading, I tend assume that the reader is an intuitive genius who is connected with the deepest realms of the universe. If the reading is negative, I assume that the reader is an idiot who took my money. If the reading contains a hybrid of negative and positive comments, I simply assume that the reader got the bad stuff wrong.

I would follow the same formula of believe and disbelieve in my Greenwich reading. I was presented with two facts 1) I would have four kids 2) I would become successful. I quickly disregarded the comment about the kids, and zeroed in on her second prediction. ﾓDoes that mean I get a job?!ﾔ I asked with obvious excitement in my voice. ﾓYouﾒll get a job,ﾔ she confidently responded. That was all I needed to hear.

I left the psychic feeling confident in my $20 glimpse into the future. I was unexplainably relieved. Why would a strangerﾒs assurance in my future change my attitude about my current situation? It would not be unreasonable to assume that I was so desperate that I was willing to believe anything or anyone. More realistically, the psychic simply stated a fact that was obvious to everyone but me. Of course I will get a job. Why wouldnﾒt I? Iﾒm qualified and educated. When it comes down to it, my struggle had little to do with employment, and more to do with things not working out according to my schedule. Although it may not happen right away, things will work out for me. And if they donﾒt, I am fully prepared to demand my $20 back.

Posted by: Former Fargoan on 5/29/2007 at 10:11 PM | Comments (2) | Permalink

Dispelling the Myth of Concordia Bling

As an alumna of MSUM, I am supposed to hate Concordia. Itﾒs an unspoken rule. Every student at MSUM would much rather be a fire-breathing dragon than an asexual cob of corn. My best friend is a Concordia alumna, and when she graduated, I was all-but required to attend the ceremony. Of course, I wanted to support her, but the process was particularly painful.  I found myself grimacing through the ceremony as I listened to the president declare Concordia College the best college in Minnesota. According to his claims, Concordia graduates were superior to those who had chosen other educational options. I felt personally attacked. I resisted a strong and compulsive urge to interrupt the ceremony by shouting, ﾓyou pompous fascist!ﾔ

Itﾒs not so much Concordia that bugs me, itﾒs that damn ring. The ring is lame. I hate the ring. Because I grew up in the Fargo-Moorhead metro, I learned long ago about the mystical powers of the Concordia ring. Wear it to an interview and the prospective employer will be blinded by its beauty and hire you on the spot. Oh, please. If Concordia is, in fact, superior to any other educational institution in Minnesota, youﾒd think its students would resist such superficial logic. Perhaps this is the case, because up until recently I had never seen a Concordia ring up close. A few weeks ago, I was visiting Fargo and having a late dinner with a group of friends. I could not help but notice that one of my male acquaintances was sporting a gaudy maroon ring on his right hand. Dare I ask; is that the infamous Concordia ring? It was.  

So there I was, in the presence of the Holy Grail. I suppose I should have been humbled, but I wasnﾒt. I proceeded to mock the ring and the person wearing it. I mean, why would a 30-year-old man willingly wear the equivalent to a high-school class ring? Ironically, my friend was an official alumnus of MSUM; however, because 75 percent of his coursework was completed at Concordia, he could technically be considered a Concordia graduate, rendering him a technical ring-bearing candidate.

I hate to dispel a great myth, but the Concordia ring is not exactly an impressive accessory. It certainly does not posses any unique power nor does it guarantee employment. And while I am at it, Concordia is not a particularly competitive school, either on a nationwide or statewide scale.  Itﾒs a fine college, perhaps a great college, but it simply canﾒt compete with institutions like the University of Minnesota, St. Olaf and St. Thomas. Concordia is a small, private school in Moorhead, MN. That's the reality of the matter. How glamorous does that sound?

Concordia seems oblivious to its true status. Its perception problem has always perplexed me. To my knowledge, only a few schools are so credible that an employer will hire you solely because you attended them. Graduates of Yale, Harvard or Brown can flash a ring and get job. Concordia graduates? Well, they are not even in the same league. The real difference between a Concordia education and state school education can be summed up with a few additional zeros on a tuition bill. Despite this, Concordia maintains a nonsensical ego.  

Of course, Concordia graduates should feel proud of their school. After all, I am proud of my mine. But the Concordia ring illustrates more than pride. It symbolizes a pompous notion of superiority. It represents someone who has determined that entry-level positions are belittling. It presumes that employers will hastily hire the first Concordia graduate who applies. Itﾒs not a desirable accessory. And contrary to popular belief, it does not warrant a competitive edge. Ask my ring-bearing friend: he sells furniture.

Posted by: Former Fargoan on 4/19/2007 at 10:11 PM | Comments (6) | Permalink

If the Suit Fits, Buy It!

The Limited thinks I am freak, so does Express, Macys and Ann Taylor. I was not aware of my freakishness until last week when I was in immediate need of a power suit, and nothing fit.  For the past three weeks, I have engaged in a compulsively ambitious job search. In fact, my job search has transcended into a certifiable addiction. I canﾒt stop searching Web sites like Monster and Career Builder. I realized I had a problem when I started making budgets based on my expected, but still fictitious salary.

Itﾒs possible that my job search is a bit premature. I wonﾒt be able to start with any company until mid-May, but the uncertainty of graduation is proving to get the best of me. Plus, new technology makes the prospect of finding a job easier than ever. With a few clicks of button, itﾒs possible to apply for ten jobs in less than five minutes. The process is so simple, it almost seems imaginary. Itﾒs all too easy to lose perspective and forget the idea behind the action. The more job descriptions I read, the more I became a high-powered executive in my head. Job searching became a fun game and a reprieve from homework. I continued to hit send until I ran out of companies to send anything to.

Distracted by the thrill of applying for jobs, I failed to forecast beyond that. When a company called last week to request an immediate interview, I was completely unprepared. I had spent so much time contemplating potential job titles and salaries that I forgot to finish my portfolio or purchase a suit. In my head I might have been a high-powered executive, but in real-time I was a job seeker who had nothing to wear and nothing to show in an interview.

The lack of wardrobe was a significant concern. My pervious employers maintained a very liberal dress code. My professional attire was limited to the summer season and consisted of bohemian skirts and sandals. Somehow I did not think that would make the right impression ﾖ especially in the dead of winter. I was in need of quick consultation, so I called my sister and begged her to meet me in the cities for some expeditious shopping.

I had only a few hours to find the perfect suit, but I remained confident. Between my sister and the helpful sales associates, I would surely find the right suit in no time. It was then that I encountered another rude awakening ﾖ I am a freak. No suit, and I mean no suit, in the entire Ridgedale mall fit me. My body is portioned in such an unusual way that the fashion industry refuses to acknowledge it. I am too tall, too small and virtually un-sizable.  

Through this grueling process, I also learned that I have no real perspective on my size. After grabbing what I thought was my size pants and a matching jacket, I emerged from the dressing room only to be greeted by horrified looks. ﾓThat suit is way too baggy on you,ﾔ the sales associate exclaimed. To me, the suit did not look baggy. In fact, it looked to be about the same size as all my other clothes, making my entire wardrobe too big for me. The sales associate convinced me to try a smaller size, which exposed my wrists and ankles. This problem continued despite the cut or label I chose.  

After visiting three major department stores and trying on hundreds of suits, I truly wanted to cry. I had come to mall with a budget in mind, but that was before I knew I was an un-sizable string bean. The first suit that fit properly, I planned on purchasing. As closing time emerged, my sister and I discussed the options. We agreed that I would have to purchase a larger suit and have it tailored. Because I had a limited amount of time to work with, the chances of getting it tailored before the interview were slim. Although, I had to plea, I finally got my sister and the sales associate to endorse the idea of wearing the suit as is to my upcoming interview.

By the time we left the mall, I felt insecure about every fashion decision I had ever made in my life. Furthermore, I was convinced that employers would judge prospective employees solely on how well their suits fit. Despite my qualifications, it was all going to come down to my suit. A feeling of disheartenment set it as I digested the shallow habits of our society. However, reality swung in my favor on the day of my job interview. Wearing an overly priced suit, I pitched my lifeﾒs work to a man wearing jeans.

Posted by: Former Fargoan on 3/1/2007 at 4:35 PM | Comments (3) | Permalink

I Donﾒt Need MySpace, Thank You

I donﾒt like MySpace; I think itﾒs lame. This statement surely renders me an anomaly among my peers. Although I have tried, I simply cannot find a purpose for MySpace in my life. In fact, I find it a bit alarmingly that this whole MySpace movement is strikingly similar to the 1994 chat-room phenomena ﾖ you know when half the country realized they did not need physical friends because they had thousands of virtual ones.

From a design and functional perspective, itﾒs hard to believe that MySpace has achieved its paramount success. After all, the interface is cumbersome and unattractive and the server is exceptionally slow. During its infancy, the site was hardly a cause for excitement. In fact, it was nearly exclusively used by independent artists as a networking tool. MySpace has since transcended into a conglomerate monster, attracting thousands of users for one reason ﾖ its ability to create image.

On an intuitive level, I can understand why MySpace appeals to the masses. Itﾒs a tempting public relations tool that allows everyday individuals to control and strategically disseminate messages about themselves. Browse through the site and youﾒll find thousands of people attempting to cultivate a sort of cyber image. Page after page reveals polished pictures and good times among friends. The generic message is always the same: I am fabulously fun and gosh darn it, people like me.

Thatﾒs all fine and good, except that itﾒs hardly a reflection of reality. The majority of MySpace personalities have undergone some serious airbrushing. Using the simple technology, any character defect can be addressed and quickly spun into an asset or eliminated all together. MySpace encourages people to be whatever they want to be, not what they actually are. Maintaining this cyber persona is unoriginal and sad.

Serving as the poor manﾒs publicist, MySpace allows users to brand a public image in the hopes of achieving some superficial status. If the efforts are successful, the user will compile an impressive list of ﾓpretendﾔ friends ﾖ cyber buddies who will post comments or annoying graphics on your personal page. I suppose having 1,269 pseudo friends may slightly boost oneﾒs self-esteem, but itﾒs a bit depressing to think that these relationships lack substance and quality.

Call me old fashion, but I prefer interacting with humans on a sincere level; I have no need to create my better self via the Internet. I appreciate phone calls and meeting for coffee. I enjoy late nights and deep conversation. After a crazy day, I want to be able to vent to a close friend. I like living in the real world in real time; and therefore, I donﾒt think I will ever find it necessary to reserve my space.

Posted by: Former Fargoan on 2/12/2007 at 11:46 PM | Comments (4) | Permalink

Minnesota Nice is a Luxury I Can't Afford

Since New Yearﾒs Day, itﾒs been all over the news. Beware! The obscure St. Paul raper prowls the east side of the city, praying on the vulnerable. A 54-year-old woman and 13-year-old girl are among his victims. It was just another headline until it dawned on me: I work in east St. Paul.

Until then, I enjoyed working in my downtown neighborhood, which maintains both historic and interesting qualities. Unlike its pretentious sister city, St. Paul captures an accurate portrayal of civilization. Middle-class workers walk among the high-powered executives. Coming from a working-class background, I find the balance refreshing. I never thought the area of town was unsafe, not for a minute.

Letﾒs get one thing straight, I am tough ﾖ well, I like to think I am anyway. My bad-ass credentials include living alone in downtown Fargo ﾖ above a morgue of all places ﾖ for four years. My apartment building neighbored the Salvation Army and Labor Ready. I lived in an area of town many would consider unsafe, yet I can only recall one time when I truly feared for my safety. While I encountered bums nearly everywhere I went, I quickly learned that they were nothing more than a public nuisance. Sure, they may urinate in your elevator or pass out in your basement, but at heart they are gentle souls. It is much more realistic to be afraid of the cognizant.

When I first moved to downtown Fargo, my dad gave me a can of mace as a precautionary measure. I am sure he slept better knowing that I could severely obstruct the vision of anyone who intimidated me with the push of a button. I, however, felt less safe carrying the mace. It made me unnecessarily paranoid. I became suspecting of everyone who passed me by. After living downtown for three months, I realized that a confident strut and a highly held head ensured my safety much more than insecurely fumbling with the mace in my pocket.

Back in St. Paul, the setting sun symbolized the approaching five oﾒclock hour. I would soon be walking to my car, which was parked four blocks away in an unlit church parking lot. I longed for my displaced mace. Although, the media was buzzing about a potential serial rapist, it could not report information of any real value. The police were truly baffled and were unable to provide basic details, such as the attackerﾒs physical description. It was even possible that there were two attackers. The only thing the media could report was a disturbing common denominator: all attacks occurred in alleys. So there I had it -- watch out for alleys and all men everywhere. Whew! I felt relieved.

On my walk to my car, I began to entertain an anxiety-inspired logic that makes little rational sense. After nearly passing an alley, I would quickly turn my head to face it. I tend to engage in the same behavior when I suspect someone is in my apartment at night. I muster up enough courage to turn on the light then enjoy a sense of relief when I see that no one is there. It was all a figment of my over-reactive imagination.

Of course, this logic is fundamentally flawed in that it assumes your biggest fear does not exist. Itﾒs more of a see-I-knew-everything-was-okay strategy. It leaves no room for a plan b. So, you can imagine my fear when I passed one alley, swiftly turned my head and was greeted by a well-dressed man standing on the edge of the alley, perfectly positioned to grab the first unsuspecting woman who walked by. I nearly jumped a foot.

After I had successfully passed the alley, the well-groomed, potential raper began to follow me. I began considerding all the helpful emails I received over the years, detailing what to do in the event of an attack. I could scream fire, pee my pants, kick him in the balls, or simply make my body as heavy as dead weight. In the end, I chose to cross the street to determine if he was indeed following me. My peripheral vision confirmed his veering off and I let out a long sigh of relief. In retrospect, I realize that the man in the alley was, in fact, someone just standing innocently in an alley -- not the raper/serial killer I had concocted in my head.

As it turns out, my downtown Fargo residency hardly renders me tough. The truth is, I never had to be tough in Fargo, and to say otherwise is ridiculous. When living in Fargo, I could trust my surroundings. I trusted people in general. Now, when a strange man greets me at a stop light, I give him a look that suggests I have a machete in my backpack. Of course, I am bluffing. But that is not the point. The point is that I can no longer afford to be Minnesota nice. And thatﾒs a luxury I really miss.

Posted by: Former Fargoan on 1/17/2007 at 10:02 PM | Comments (12) | Permalink