Standards, or expectations, are these seemingly overwhelming high points of contact and achievement we have to reach in our lifetimes to prove our worth. I absolutely despise them. For a long time, I was blind to what it meant to be a truly independent and aware individual of society. I was accustomed to blindly following whatever my superiors told me, especially my mother because she is terrifying to defy. Naturally, I did what most good children do and I complied with my mother’s every order and standard. The first order of business was to get my first job. The process was exhausting and despairing.
Upon entering high school, I was around the age of 15 when I began researching what a resume and cover letter meant to any future employer -- essentially a glorified profile of one’s achievements and experience. At that moment in time, I had no credible experience beyond babysitting. That did not stop me from applying to many jobs. My mother approved of my ambition, but encouraged me to look for unpaid experience to expand my resume. In the meantime, she connected me to other babysitting or housesitting opportunities from her social group. Their payments of free food and internet were assumed to quench my wiles for actual compensation. I was not entirely satisfied. In addition, my mother’s constant watchful eye made me paranoid about my ability to efficiently take care of another human for a short evening. If I could not do this, what would I be capable of?
Volunteering took me into various realms throughout the small community of my hometown. I worked out in the countryside, frolicking in the wetlands and collecting water samples for a local reserve. When I was not playing with emerald tadpoles, I was digging into the earth and planting trees along local hiking trails. I found serenity and care in my ability to plant something that I worshiped. Trees were like the souls of the natural world, living across generations as large and silent characters with whispers full of wisdom; one only had to listen to them sing on the trails of a spring breeze. I took the same calm, care, and peace with me into my other adventures of volunteer work.
I have never been particularly crafty in the kitchen, and my infamous tagline, “I can make ya' mean bowl of cereal” often caused me more grief than giggles from my mother. When she heard about the local social services organization orchestrating a lunch program for impoverished youth around the community, I was the first person to get signed up. Daunted by the idea of kitchen duty, I armed myself with what cutlery I could find before I groggily raced to catch the 7 a.m bus. It was surely going to be a dangerous adventure.
The volunteers were given a set weekly schedule of lunches to make every day before two o’clock in the afternoon. Thursday was my favorite day because we made lasagna. I was handed a cheese grater and anywhere from 20 to 45 boxes overflowing with mozzarella and parmesan cheese. One might think that by the end of the day I would be sick of cheese, so nauseated that I would not even want to hear the names of them! On the contrary, it was the more enjoyable portion of the day. Utilizing the caring and introspective moments I experienced planting trees, I became a master of cheese grating. The physicality and simplicity of it became a rhythm, a task where I was able to enjoy the routine. It was a benefit that I happen to enjoy cheese more than most, as the aroma mixing with the scent of garlic and beef about four stations down from mine bothered me none. The other meals we created, such as sandwiches or veggie wraps, quesadillas, assorted bagel pizzas and smoky sloppy joes made my beginning level of knowledge a bit more in depth. I befriended many other students throughout the community, and even earned the title of volunteer of that season. Another task completed, I ventured off for new opportunities. I had finally finished my sophomore year of high school and my summer was wide open for new opportunities seeing as I still had not found an employer.
For that upcoming summer, I spent my days in the local public library peeling off old identification stickers and replacing them within the new updated system. My hands were often marked with nicks from the minuscule blade I used to peel off the old stickers from the spines of novels. Frozen in time, these old stickers would burst open with a rain of clumpy dust often ensuing eruptions of sneezes. In my tiny cubicle it echoed loudly throughout the top floor of the office above the library, my only companion a humming ancient windows browser. Later I would shuffle the new stacks of systematized cargo down to their representative sections, tediously filing them away while listening to whatever music played through my headphone ears. Little did I know that I would be doing this similar task for my first job.
It was the beginning my junior year in high school, and finally turning seventeen pushed me closer to the opportunity of part time employment. I was still juggling babysitting duties, three extracurricular activities, and volunteering at the local recreation center on the weekends. However, the escalating level of study proved challenging in my advanced placement courses. I was falling behind, and my mother’s voice played like a broken record in the back of mind.
“Mediocracy gets you nowhere except a job at McDonald's,” she would chime in at every turn. This mantra would echo in my thoughts at the most inappropriate moments, especially during exams or oddly enough, before I would go to rest for the night. Dreams of anxiety were frequent enough, my mother’s towering five foot two shadow following me around on the oddest of dreamland adventures. It was something that I could not shake, conscious or not. Even though I befriended the coordinators at my high school that helped students seek employment, it seemed like I would never achieve the beginning staple element of adulthood.
On November seventh of my junior year, I received a phone call and email from the career coordinator representative at my high school. The email was forwarded from a local printing business down the road from my high school; they were looking for a part time file clerk.
“Theresa mentioned your name to the marketing manager at Shelton Turnbull Printers Inc. I have forwarded your resume and they should call you sometime this afternoon. Good luck!” At that exact moment, my phone buzzed with an unknown number and without hesitation I immediately answered the call.
“Hello! This is Monica Parvin with Shelton Turnbull Printers, I am looking for Bella?”
“Good morning! Yes this is she,” I replied in my most chirpy voice. I slightly cringed at the squeak from my vocal cords, but I was not going to let my nerves get the better of me. I was walking outside by the gym, traveling to my next class. The crispy slash of the autumn winds and the muddy walk along the track disappeared with every step on that phone call.
“I understand you’re interested in our file clerk position here at the office? You see, we are a little behind and could use all the help we can get! Would you be interested in an interview this afternoon?” I understood the gravity of the offer and quickly obliged. Concluding the quick phone call, I began to realize my bedraggled state: slouchy sweatpants and a comical sweatshirt of a "Saturday Night Live" sketch made up my outfit for that day. If there was anything I had learned through my volunteering experiences, the number one priority was to always be dressed appropriately. Of course, today was the day I had my first job interview looking like I rolled out of bed! I was mortified, and began chaotically contacting family and friends for any sort of backup or support. Luckily I was able to scrape together my friend's white dress shirt and a pair of black jeans from the school's lost and found bin. I attempted to assemble a natural face of makeup with what I had on hand, all the while practicing any questions the interviewer would throw at me in the dimly lit restroom mirror. This was game day, and like an athlete I was prepared and trained for the championship.
My interview was scheduled for four o’clock, the short commute to the business within a 15-minute walking distance. Keeping a brisk pace, I constantly brushed and tweaked the foreign dress shirt and my bun up do, incredibly aware of my less than professional appearance. My mother's words of encouragement raced through my mind, as well as her mantra of the consequences if this interview did not go according to plan.
“Be gracious and friendly, apologize for your outfit and don’t forget to shake their hand,” my mother had advised me later that morning. She was impressed by this sudden stroke of luck, and urged me to remain composed in the face of my anxiety. Ironically enough, she was unaware of the fact that the anxiety was solidly rooted in her comments about my work ethic. I took this miracle as a sign of faith that it was time to prove her wrong.
With 10 minutes to spare, I reached the modest looking business of Shelton Turnbull Printers, filled with a sense of hope. Entering the small lobby decorated in a color theme of modern, sleek, and muted shades of blue, black, silver, and teal, made me feel like I had entered a futuristic office of entrepreneurs. An area to the left of the lobby was devoted to an arrangement of gray cubicles, and shortly after my arrival an employee emerged from them. Bubbly and seeming to dance into the lobby, I returned the professional woman’s enthusiasm with my own vigor.
“Hello there, my name is Camas! Monica, our marketing manager -- whom I believe spoke with you this morning -- had to step out of the office early today. So I will be conducting this interview. It should not take to long, feel free to help yourself to the restroom before we begin and I will meet you in the conference room to the right of us.” Like a ridiculous bobble head, I nodded along and practically sprinted to the restroom. Camas was friendly enough, but under the exterior I understood she was a professional ready to execute any false workers. Quickly, I brushed myself off for the last time and confidently strolled into the conference room.
The interview itself was a complete blur, my inner strength put to use of keeping the overly cheery smile upon my face. Camas must have seen something in me that no one else had because the next day I was notified that I was offered a part time position as the file clerk. I remember my mother running home from work, a celebratory cupcake and tub of ice cream in her arms as she congratulated me for finally being employed. You see, my mother is a strong woman and has a unique way of showing her love. There was something in the way she shook my hand that night, the firm grasp of an adult to adult pleasantry exchange. That was the key-- I had finally gained approval, pride, and acceptance in the eyes of the person who mattered the most to me.
Three years of personal growth, change, and new experiences aided me in becoming a more rounded individual. I was no longer someone who needed looking after; that was a task I could do for myself and now younger children. The start of independence was upon me, and I can proudly say I went above and beyond the expectations no longer set by my mother: rather, they were set by me.
