Ok, I know there are far more important things going on in the world that discussing Michael Jackson seems trivial – but there is a memory I wanted to share, that I shared with my son while we were watching Michael Jackson music videos Saturday morning. I was commenting on how he really had transcended generations and his videos were (and still are frankly) second to none and to drive my point home, I recalled a family holiday, when we were all (all of us, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents) huddled around the TV in the backroom watching “Beat It” and amazed at the dancing discussing the fact that he had used real gang members – yadda, yadda, yadda. Admittedly, its a fairly insignificant moment in time, but one that brought us together. With family members now gone or changed as a result of illness and how at one point in our history Michael Jackson brought generations together and created a memory that I could share with future generations.
Music is an interesting catalyst – and while some days I struggle to connect with my teenager, we can always have fun singing Beatles songs together or discovering new bands that we all love, like the Flobots. If there is one piece of advice that I could give about having a teenager, it is to get to know and love their music – stay current with it, because there is still nothing that says I love you like a music mix made just for you – and when they make one for you that’s them saying “I love you” and when you play it back that’s you saying “I love you too”. Turn up the volume and turn down the noise.
There are limits to the virtual world, and those limits are most manifest when a potential employer says: come right on down this afternoon so that we can talk about the job. Skype? I meekly respond. When you’re competing with a thousand other out of work, semi-talented writers for the same job, the ability to show up for a spur of the moment job interview can mean the difference between moving on to the next round of interviews or not. Skype just doesn’t cut it.
Speaking of virtual worlds, I’ve applied for dozens of jobs via Linked-In. “Employers prefer candidates with recommendations,” I am told. I have five now. They prefer to be introduced to potential candidates via their network. I have used my network to get introduced. They prefer active tense to passive tense. Well, damn it, so do I. They want can, not could. Will, not would.
Every time I log in to the site, however, I am greeted with a notice of how ineffective my Linked-In profile is. Three people have looked at it in three months: an attorney in California (my cousin), someone in a leadership position at Manchester University (a fellow blogger), and a senior executive in the arts industry in the San Francisco Bay Area (is that you, Ruthie?). What about that recruiter at Wikimedia? Or at Nike? Or at the other companies I’ve applied to? Why don’t they care about me? Am I too desperate?
Is the job search the new singles scene? Should I be playing hard to get? Have I been too promiscuous to catch a good employer? Volunteering services I should have been paid for? Being indiscriminate in my search for a good career? What was it that my grandmother used to say about cows and milk again?
I would be willing to serve coffee or make change, but since I have not received a work permit in the Netherlands, I am limited to accepting jobs that pay about 4000 euros a month and prove that I am a “skilled worker.” Never mind that even in these times of crisis, there are plenty of low paying jobs available, and I would be happy to do one of them; or that the salaries in the Netherlands are generally fairly modest; or that doctors here make about that.
This month, I am applying for several “skilled worker” jobs a week. I have applied for three research and evaluation jobs at three different non-profits, two UI designer jobs, about five development (non-profit) jobs, and a job as a community planner for a pretty cool sounding project involving highway one, Big Sur, and California history. The thing is, I really want almost all of these jobs. I *do* genuinely feel that I would bring unique skills to each one and that I have been developing the necessary skills for each particular job my whole life. I am sooo multi-talented. Just in case any of my future employers is reading this, I want your job more than any other that I have applied for. Oh yeah, and I do have a home in California.
I had only one recent interview. That one was obviously a flop or I’d have a job now. The interviewers were tough and knowledgeable, and I totally deserved to be knocked out of the running. Especially when I screwed up an answer to a question about the importance of supporting groups that target sex workers. I said something silly like “They’re not going away, no matter what you think.” What kind of answer was that? In addition, one of the three interviewers told me that they were concerned that I was too focused on Iran and not enough of a generalist. Wow! That was a first for me: being accused of NOT being a generalist.
When I asked why I was not selected, though, the director of that particular non-profit told me that it had to do with my weak evaluation skills. Maybe she was too tactful to tell me that I was an idiot or that she just did not like me. Especially given the fact that we did not delve into my evaluation skills, which are, in fact, pretty damn good for a non-academic. I know they are, because I have actually been alive long enough to see how effective some of my evaluations have been. But maybe those reports just have not been public enough.
My Facebook friends might know that I have decided to elevate my search for employment to an art form. Yes, why not? I might as well enjoy my, as yet, fruitless search.
So we’ll start with this story. I went to an interview for an interaction design position at a major publishing firm in Amsterdam. This was my first interview since returning to Amsterdam from Iran, and I was a bit nervous, especially since I had not yet gotten accustomed to being on-time for appointments. The Dutch are on-time when they arrive 5 minutes early. Iranians are on-time when they arrive 2 hours late. After four years of living on Iran time, Dutch time was proving a bit of a struggle for me. But I managed to arrive just a couple of minutes late despite a delay on the metro.
I was led upstairs where two baby-faced young men waited to interview. Here I am interviewing for a tech-design job, and my interviewers have barely read my resume, let alone googled me. Not only that, they felt that our time was best spent discussing my college education. Uh. College? I graduated 17 years ago. Seventeen. (valedictorian, btw.) S e v e n t e e n.
In the end they told me that I was too “American” for the job. What does that mean?
I rent, I used to own, but now I rent. My house is old, the plumbing is suspect, there is a pile of leaves, dirt, and insects on the roof that worry me to no end. Some of the windows don’t close all of the way and some of the electricity can’t be fixed without a major overhaul. Our shower door is held closed using a huge binder clip and the kitchen is the original and dates back about 60 years. We cannot broil anything in the oven and it runs about 50 degrees too high, but it is home and we want to stay. We moved in at a time when rents were at their cheapest in years and have lived here almost 4 years – our landlords have never raised the rent and they could. In the recent economic hardships we find our selves living pay check to pay check and the option of moving is out of the question.
So, when my family joined the many of people who have found at least one household member out of work and another barely making enough money, we needed to help. We got help from places we expected to find it – family. Never did I expect that our landlords would be people that would also provide help. If it wern’t for their generosity, patience and willingness to work with us and come up with an agreement on paying our rent, we would surely find ourselves without a home of our own. Not every landlord is slum and I hope that we’re not alone.
This year, with the economy in a tail spin, my travel funds have been depleted and I am unable to make the exodus out of California to the promised land of the midwest for my usual seder with my family, only the second time in my life – the first time I was in my last month of pregnancy with my son. For the first time, I am hosting a seder at my house, with not one single family member present other than my husband and my kids. I must admit, I am out of my element here. I don’t even own a hagaddah – the book that tells the story of Passover. I have invited a couple of families from my community and will hope to find the order in the chaos of hosting. This will be a passover meal without gefilte fish – again a first – we’re spoiled, we’ve had homemade gefilte fish at every seder – can’t even think of buying some. This morning, I got up early to start the chicken soup, and as the morning went on my house started to fill with smell of soup slowly simmering on the stove. And while I will miss my family dearly, this morning I feel more connected to my family both alive and dead as the smells of passover begin to fill my home. Ahhhh – Aroma Therapy for the Soul.
It has always amazed me that even some well educated Iranian women accept without comment the statements made by shop owners and salesmen. Dont they know that these guys will tell you anything just so youll buy? But I must admit, when you try to correct them, youll end up with a fight, so perhaps the ladies would rather ignore them?
Some years ago, my good friend Barbara got me started on quilting. She makes very beautiful quilts in large quantities, and I did my best to talk her into giving one to me. No such luck, but she did teach me the basic principles of quilting and presented me with enough material for several quilts. I have enjoyed quilting ever since, even though I do not produce master pieces. Most of the quilting necessities I must bring from abroad, as cotton thread and materials, quilting needles, magazines, etc., etc., are not available in Iran.
One day I had run out of cotton thread and even though I knew better, I went to the Tajrish bazar in Northern Tehran to see if I could find any. Of course not. In the last shop I tried, I explained to the shop owner what I needed and hallelujah, he had cotton thread. But when I picked up the spool he had put in front of me, I saw that the label mentioned 100% polyester. So thats what I told him. His firm answer was No, theres cotton in it also.
This time I decided not to argue but I couldnt help laughing. That was the wrong thing to do as his verbal abuse was worse than it would have been if we had argued.
Therefore ladies, when shopping in Iran, remember that the shop owner is king.
I know that my grandfather came to America on a ship called the Bremen when he was eleven years old. I only recently learned that his last name when he arrived was Mednik. In the absence of a detailed and well-documented family tree, I have often wondered about my own genetic legacy.
One thing I know is that I am not related to Queen Victoria
It seems that I am not alone, listen to this provocative piece from Radio Lab:
I would be willing to serve coffee or make change, but since I have not received a work permit in the Netherlands, I am limited to accepting jobs that pay about 4000 euros a month and prove that I am a “skilled worker.” Never mind that even in these times of crisis, there are plenty of low paying jobs available, and I would be happy to do one of them; or that the salaries in the Netherlands are generally fairly modest; or that doctors here make about that.
