When the Going gets Tough, the Unemployed go to the Anchorage Job Fair.
Today at the Egan Center, the Anchorage Daily News put on its annual Job Fair for people like myself, those looking for a new way of making a living. It has been years since I've gone to a job fair, but I dutifully brushed my hair, put on my suit, and was then off to the job fair, with a couple copies of my resume tucked under my arm.
There were several booths set up in the convention center, each boasting the promise of a new career. Construction companies were looking for maintenance managers, the municipality was looking for police officers, and even the military was looking for a few good men, as they always do. At a couple of booths, I tried to explain my plight using euphemistic phrases, but what I really wanted to use as my pick-up line was, "Do you have any jobs for a washed-out attorney?"
I tried to appear upbeat and competent, hard to do when you're coming down with a cold. I flirted with the idea of many new career directions - "Why not?" was the operative theme of the day. But it turned out that out of all the booths in that large convention center, only one had a post for which I was qualified.
Meet Special Agent Madwoman of Anchorage.
It's hard to pass by law enforcement booths without being at least slightly intrigued. I took notice of Anchorage's finest standing in the municipality's booth and even lingered in front of the National Guard table, but they didn't bite. The FBI wouldn't have bitten either if I hadn't walked up to the table, spotted a flyer with the following statement in clear type:
THE FBI IS LOOKING FOR SPECIAL AGENTS WITH THE FOLLOWING BACKGROUNDS
Among the laundry list were the magical words that I seldom see for any job posting that is not seeking an attorney:
LAW SCHOOL GRADUATE.
I was overjoyed. I'm one of those! I picked up that pink flyer and pointed out this line to the man behind the table and asked, "What does the FBI need with special agents who are law school graduates?"
After the Special Agent Behind The Table determined that I had graduated from a legit law school and was not just some high schooler looking for a new career, he asked another screening question, "How old are you?"
I smiled, never before happier to be older than I looked. "Thirty-one. I know I don't look it."
He smiled. "Yeah, most people who try out for special agent are 29, 30."
For a minute, I faltered as my normal anxieties about my age came to surface. "Does that mean I'm too old?"
"No, it means you're just right. Do you speak a second language?"
Once again, I had been racially profiled, but if it was going to make me look attractive to the FBI, I could deal with it. "Yes. Mandarin Chinese."
Special Agent Behind The Table then proceeded to encourage me to apply online, telling me that I would be "very competitive" with my language skills and such. I tried to explain that my Mandarin could be described as proficient at best, since my areas of expertise included only basic bodily functions and all things related to food, but he seemed hell-bent on my candidacy.
"What I would suggest is that you start running."
"Beg your pardon?" I asked.
"You look like you're in shape, but we lose a lot of people to the physical fitness tests."
All of the sudden I became somewhat self-conscious of the rather form-fitting top I had chosen for the job fair. And I saw my hopes and dreams for a life as an FBI special agent go quickly down the toilet because if there's one thing I really hate in this world, it's running.
Here I had found the one job that considered the last ten years of my life remotely relevant to the position, but it would mean that I'd have to run. Why? I suppose running is essential to chasing down criminals, and that's the business of the FBI, isn't it? To chase down criminals?
I guess I had been hoping for more of a desk job where I would use my brain and where my runty athletic abilities could remain hidden. It is conceivable that with months of training harder than I have ever trained in my life, I could scrape by as the absolute bottom of the barrel of FBI trainees. The last time I thought about such sacrifice was when I briefly contemplated applying to West Point. And of course, if I should decide to become a bodybuilder.
A closer look at the pink flyer revealed that my dream job was not really all that dreamy. Here, I now noticed the requirement, "Be in excellent physical condition." I have enough flexibility to bend steel, but I bet they are referring to more conventional attributes such as strength and speed. "Able to pass a polygraph regarding truthfulness in all aspects of the application process including FBI's drug policy." Some of my friends have had to take polygraphs as part of gaining security clearance, and the feeling I get from their tight-lipped experiences is that it's a miserable thing to do. "Be willing to be transferred anywhere in the United States." Oddly this is truly non-negotiable. I was at the Anchorage Job Fair, for goodness sake. The point is that I'm trying to find a job in Anchorage. And besides, the only chance I could have being a Big FBI Special Agent Fish was if I was in the Small Pond known as Anchorage.
There was also a bit of interesting fine print at the bottom of the pink flyer:
"Cannot have used marijuana more than 15 times. Cannot have used any other illegal drugs more than 5 times OR during the last 10 years. Cannot have used any illegal drug while in a law enforcement or prosecutorial position."
On Point 1, marijuana: Well, it's good to know that you get 15 freebies. I haven't availed myself of any, but it's nice to know that my potential FBI career is still safe if I should choose to lightly experiment.
On Point 2: I read this as if you used crack, cocaine, meth, heroin no more than 5 times or you gave up that stuff a long time ago, you're now qualified to chase down your fellow users and bring them to justice.
On Point 3, drug use and positions of authority: Let's hope not! That this word of caution was even included begs a sad question.
I bet there are a lot of people out there whose FBI careers have been precluded because of one of these points. In fact, I bet these are the most common reasons why many FBI-hopefuls don't make it.
The rest of my time at the job fair was cut short by my cold, as it had progressed into some kind of liquid nasal drip that would release itself suddenly without warning. Not exactly the kind of first impression I wanted to make.
So I left the booths and hopeful job-seekers, not exactly less confused about the Direction of My Life, but knowing at least, that it was not time to start running, not even for the FBI.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Friday, September 7, 2007
Flush Away!
Returning home as a thirty-one year old adult is like visiting the insane asylum from which I escaped many years ago, except that all the current residents are clearly related by blood. During my latest recent stay at my parents' home, I was housed in a different ward; my erstwhile bedroom, while still nominally containing a bed, had become a storage facility so crammed of things unrelated to me that I could not have lain horizontally anywhere. So I was asked to sleep instead in the living room and to not complain (which I have not to any significant degree, except for noting these facts in this blog).
It had been months since I had last visited southern California, and it is good, bad, and ugly that things have not changed much. I happened to be there on what turned out to be the hottest days of the year (the local news repeatedly referred to "life-threatening heat"), and heat never agrees with me, particularly since I have learned to adapt to Alaska's chillier clime. In addition to reacquainting myself with lower 48 weather, a visit down South always promises to be a history lesson of some sort - a reminder of where I left my life before coming to Alaska.
Often when I go home, I have in mind that I'd like to bring something back, a memento of my youth that now seems dear enough to keep close, a useful tool I do not wish to purchase new up here, or something I simply can get only in California and not Alaska. Among the list during this trip was a green stuffed toy parrot that used to belong to my little brother. (The need for this item may or may not be disclosed in a later entry.) I had in my mind what I thought was a clear vision of this green parrot sitting on a shelf above my bed in what had become the Public Storage that was once my bedroom, but a quick glance revealed that it was full of books, empty computer boxes, a ukele, a stuffed bear, but alas, no stuffed green little parrot!
I am genetically incapable of really throwing things away, although I do throw away more things than my fellow asylum residents. Certainly, none of the permanent residents would have been able to throw away my green parrot. So I proceeded on a mission to find this parrot, despite the stockpiling that had overtaken my bedroom and despite the sweltering heat.
I began with Under-The-Bed where I had, on a previous visit, stowed away the Most Undesirable Childhood Toys. These included the freakish dolls made of plastic that had since lost their clothes or had lost the ability to fully close their eyes - the stuff horror movies are made of. Why didn't I just throw this junk away, one might ask? Well, frankly, these toys were so scary that I was afraid to throw them away, in fear of what retribution might lie ahead for me by their plasticky arms.
For whatever reason, accidentally stowed away with the Freakish Undesirable Dolls was a stuffed parrot - but it was a small bright orange parrot, not the green parrot I was looking for. For reasons that I may or may not disclose in a future blog entry, I decided to push on in pursuit of my green parrot. I moved boxes, thrust my hand into shelves, opened sealed up bags, opened drawers, but nowhere was the green parrot to be found. In one drawer, however, I did make a remarkable discovery: a set of puffy Star Wars stickers, still in original plastic, no doubt now worth a fortune!
Perhaps it was delirium caused by the heat or perhaps it was because I was back at the insane asylum, but the discovery of a Star Wars treasure did not satisfy my curiosity or make me abandon my ultimate mission: I remained determined to find that green parrot. The sliding doors of my closet, however, were completely blocked off by a table covered with boxes. I managed to slide the boxes over a few millimeters in the necessary direction to pry open the door just enough to let my body in. Once inside, I turned on my flashlight and squeezed past old dresses worn once at piano recitals and now very unfashionable suits worn many times at Model United Nations debates in high school. In this Narnia, I found a large brown Samsonite tucked behind the dresses and thought maybe I had stowed away something important in the suitcase.
With flashlight in my mouth and body flush against the walls of my tiny closet, I snapped the Samonsite open. I found, crammed wall to wall in that brown Samsonite, 20-30 of my Most Desirable Stuffed Animals, namely the ones with white fur which my young self had always tried to keep clean. Opening the suitcase was like opening a Pandora's box of stuffed animal names - Dandee, Brownberry, Shaggy ... names I thought I had forgotten but whose huddled bodies were now staring up at me. Sadly, among these treasures I did not find the holy grail, my little green parrot.
What proved to be a real challenge was getting that Samsonite to close again after 20-30 stuffed animals had been given the opportunity to refluff themselves. The closet was getting claustrophobic, the interior temperature was climbing, my jaw muscles were tired of holding that flashlight in my mouth, and I was quickly depleting what little oxygen was available in that small space.
But the Samsonite in the closet was not the only time capsule I uncovered while home. In the guest bathroom, I noticed several magazines available for perusal (yes, we're that kind of asylum), and on one particular visit, noticed a copy of Newsweek was opened to its entertainment section. What gave me pause were photos of a very pubescent Lee Ann Rimes and a sexy Toni Braxton winning a Grammy. (Braxton has since declared bankruptcy.) Confused, I flipped to the front cover, and lo and behold, I was reading a copy of a 1997 Newsweek in the bathroom.
Others might find it unusual to come across such dated material under such circumstances, but those people have never been in the bathroom of an asylum, of course. Against all common sense, I did not throw away this relic, nor did I even put it down.
I actually read it cover to cover and found it somewhat fascinating.
Cloned sheep Dolly had just made the headlines, with the ethical question, Are Humans Next? The answer ten years later, no. And not much hullaballoo has happened in the genetic world since aside from gene mapping. One article spoke of the likely disappearance of conventional used car dealerships; a chain of dealerships called AutoNation was supposed to revolutionize car buying through computer kiosks, thereby sidestepping haggling with the dealer.
I have never heard of AutoNation.
In 1997, the Internet was just gaining speed. The first online degree programs were being offered. Fundraising by the Democratic Party was under microscopic scrutiny. Toni Braxton was flush with fame and cash. As for Lee Ann Rimes, I think that girl was still wearing braces.
As much as I plead with my parents to throw away old junk, I can't say that finding the 1997 Newsweek time capsule in the bathroom wasn't a unique and worthwhile experience. I suppose there might be both pros and cons to not letting go. My father recently gave a lecture full of philosophical truisms about enjoying life, and among the concepts he tried to impart to his audience was the importance of letting go. His penchant for toilet humor, however, translated this idea into a particularly catchy phrase:
Flush away.
How the brain chooses what to flush away and what to write permanently onto the hard drive, I don't know. The names of my stuffed animals get stored for eternity, but all of physical chemistry from my freshman year of college? Most definitely flushed away. But who is to say that today's junk might not be tomorrow's interesting bathroom read?
Fortunately for my little green parrot, he was a bit too big to flush away. I know that somewhere in the cluttered asylum, he's waiting for me to find him.
It had been months since I had last visited southern California, and it is good, bad, and ugly that things have not changed much. I happened to be there on what turned out to be the hottest days of the year (the local news repeatedly referred to "life-threatening heat"), and heat never agrees with me, particularly since I have learned to adapt to Alaska's chillier clime. In addition to reacquainting myself with lower 48 weather, a visit down South always promises to be a history lesson of some sort - a reminder of where I left my life before coming to Alaska.
Often when I go home, I have in mind that I'd like to bring something back, a memento of my youth that now seems dear enough to keep close, a useful tool I do not wish to purchase new up here, or something I simply can get only in California and not Alaska. Among the list during this trip was a green stuffed toy parrot that used to belong to my little brother. (The need for this item may or may not be disclosed in a later entry.) I had in my mind what I thought was a clear vision of this green parrot sitting on a shelf above my bed in what had become the Public Storage that was once my bedroom, but a quick glance revealed that it was full of books, empty computer boxes, a ukele, a stuffed bear, but alas, no stuffed green little parrot!
I am genetically incapable of really throwing things away, although I do throw away more things than my fellow asylum residents. Certainly, none of the permanent residents would have been able to throw away my green parrot. So I proceeded on a mission to find this parrot, despite the stockpiling that had overtaken my bedroom and despite the sweltering heat.
I began with Under-The-Bed where I had, on a previous visit, stowed away the Most Undesirable Childhood Toys. These included the freakish dolls made of plastic that had since lost their clothes or had lost the ability to fully close their eyes - the stuff horror movies are made of. Why didn't I just throw this junk away, one might ask? Well, frankly, these toys were so scary that I was afraid to throw them away, in fear of what retribution might lie ahead for me by their plasticky arms.
For whatever reason, accidentally stowed away with the Freakish Undesirable Dolls was a stuffed parrot - but it was a small bright orange parrot, not the green parrot I was looking for. For reasons that I may or may not disclose in a future blog entry, I decided to push on in pursuit of my green parrot. I moved boxes, thrust my hand into shelves, opened sealed up bags, opened drawers, but nowhere was the green parrot to be found. In one drawer, however, I did make a remarkable discovery: a set of puffy Star Wars stickers, still in original plastic, no doubt now worth a fortune!
Perhaps it was delirium caused by the heat or perhaps it was because I was back at the insane asylum, but the discovery of a Star Wars treasure did not satisfy my curiosity or make me abandon my ultimate mission: I remained determined to find that green parrot. The sliding doors of my closet, however, were completely blocked off by a table covered with boxes. I managed to slide the boxes over a few millimeters in the necessary direction to pry open the door just enough to let my body in. Once inside, I turned on my flashlight and squeezed past old dresses worn once at piano recitals and now very unfashionable suits worn many times at Model United Nations debates in high school. In this Narnia, I found a large brown Samsonite tucked behind the dresses and thought maybe I had stowed away something important in the suitcase.
With flashlight in my mouth and body flush against the walls of my tiny closet, I snapped the Samonsite open. I found, crammed wall to wall in that brown Samsonite, 20-30 of my Most Desirable Stuffed Animals, namely the ones with white fur which my young self had always tried to keep clean. Opening the suitcase was like opening a Pandora's box of stuffed animal names - Dandee, Brownberry, Shaggy ... names I thought I had forgotten but whose huddled bodies were now staring up at me. Sadly, among these treasures I did not find the holy grail, my little green parrot.
What proved to be a real challenge was getting that Samsonite to close again after 20-30 stuffed animals had been given the opportunity to refluff themselves. The closet was getting claustrophobic, the interior temperature was climbing, my jaw muscles were tired of holding that flashlight in my mouth, and I was quickly depleting what little oxygen was available in that small space.
But the Samsonite in the closet was not the only time capsule I uncovered while home. In the guest bathroom, I noticed several magazines available for perusal (yes, we're that kind of asylum), and on one particular visit, noticed a copy of Newsweek was opened to its entertainment section. What gave me pause were photos of a very pubescent Lee Ann Rimes and a sexy Toni Braxton winning a Grammy. (Braxton has since declared bankruptcy.) Confused, I flipped to the front cover, and lo and behold, I was reading a copy of a 1997 Newsweek in the bathroom.
Others might find it unusual to come across such dated material under such circumstances, but those people have never been in the bathroom of an asylum, of course. Against all common sense, I did not throw away this relic, nor did I even put it down.
I actually read it cover to cover and found it somewhat fascinating.
Cloned sheep Dolly had just made the headlines, with the ethical question, Are Humans Next? The answer ten years later, no. And not much hullaballoo has happened in the genetic world since aside from gene mapping. One article spoke of the likely disappearance of conventional used car dealerships; a chain of dealerships called AutoNation was supposed to revolutionize car buying through computer kiosks, thereby sidestepping haggling with the dealer.
I have never heard of AutoNation.
In 1997, the Internet was just gaining speed. The first online degree programs were being offered. Fundraising by the Democratic Party was under microscopic scrutiny. Toni Braxton was flush with fame and cash. As for Lee Ann Rimes, I think that girl was still wearing braces.
As much as I plead with my parents to throw away old junk, I can't say that finding the 1997 Newsweek time capsule in the bathroom wasn't a unique and worthwhile experience. I suppose there might be both pros and cons to not letting go. My father recently gave a lecture full of philosophical truisms about enjoying life, and among the concepts he tried to impart to his audience was the importance of letting go. His penchant for toilet humor, however, translated this idea into a particularly catchy phrase:
Flush away.
How the brain chooses what to flush away and what to write permanently onto the hard drive, I don't know. The names of my stuffed animals get stored for eternity, but all of physical chemistry from my freshman year of college? Most definitely flushed away. But who is to say that today's junk might not be tomorrow's interesting bathroom read?
Fortunately for my little green parrot, he was a bit too big to flush away. I know that somewhere in the cluttered asylum, he's waiting for me to find him.
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