If you’re like me, your parents are starting to nudge you out the door of the house where you grew up. They want to make sure that you’re not going to fall flat on your face while there’s still time for a Plan B (read: seminary school).
As such, they’re pressuring you to set down the Wii-mote, put pants on, get your own place, pay your own rent and learn the value of a dollar.
Well, in case you haven’t heard, the dollar isn’t doing too well at the moment. Jobs usually reserved for students making a trial run at independence are all filled up by people trying to feed their families.
To us, employment is primarily a way to glean life lessons and build our resumes — not absolutely, positively, 100 percent necessary for survival.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not living off my father’s trust fund or anything, but I’m not worried about where my next meal is coming from either. But it is undeniable that there are people who feel like they should have jobs, and then there are people who need jobs.
I was rooted in the first category when I moved down from Dallas on a late Sunday night. I’d interviewed with the Austin branch of a non-profit over the telephone and was offered a field manager position, one level above the job I was originally pursuing. Field managers get paid $15 an hour, my interviewer told me, and I did the mental math pretty quickly.
At this point in my life, a steady $600 per week seems like a lot of money, to be perfectly honest. I was ready to call myself a working man, punching a time card and pulling in a weekly check.
I got to work on Monday morning only to discover that I had misinterpreted their offer — to put it diplomatically. When the woman on the phone told me, “You’d be a great fit for a field manager,” she didn’t mean “this is your job” as much as she meant “if you work hard, you’ll get promoted in no time.”
My real job turned out to be door-to-door fundraising, eight hours per day, for $6.55 an hour.
I was of two minds as I wandered through the suburbs of north Austin three hours later, broiling inside my black slacks and button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up as high as they’d go.
On one hand, I already signed a contract to work a perfectly good job, which is more than many people can say right now. Yes, I hated it, but lots of people hate their jobs.
I felt like I ought to man-up and accept it as one of those “well, that’s life” moments, refusing to quit out of indignation and self-righteousness.
On the other hand, my train of thought was interrupted at this point as a woman shouted at me through her door that she was sorry President Obama had brainwashed me into believing that global warming is real.
I wish I were kidding.
The question is simple: How badly do you need work?
For those of us still free enough to be able to pick and choose, at least to some degree, I urge you to let your inner idealist have its say. Don’t waste a summer, or a year, or five years, loathing what you do because you feel like you have something to prove.
We’re too young to hate what we do. That’s not supposed to happen until we have spouses and kids to motivate us instead of “The Beatles: Rock Band.”
By the way, my moral dilemma was resolved. I didn’t meet my expected quota on my second day and was summarily let go. I couldn’t be more relieved.
Jones is a plan II honors and communication studies senior
