Job Search, Part One

It has been seven years since I’ve looked for a job. Seven years for my interviewing skills to get rusty. Seven years of not having to “try out” to get a part. I hate trying to find a new job. I guess that’s why I stayed in a job for a year longer than I should have.

When I decided I was leaving my current district in March, I applied EVERYWHERE. I spent weeks figuratively biting my nails, waiting for a call for an interview. For those of you not familiar with education, we work on a contract system. We usually get contracts at the beginning of May and have four weeks or so to sign or resign. It wasn’t even rational for me to expect a call so early in the game.

Me, except without the newspaper, suit, or coffee mug

Me, except without the newspaper, suit, or coffee mug

When the first call came, I was ready for it. The call, not the interview. It was set up on a Monday at noon. Don’t they realize that I would have at least six hours of waiting. SIX HOURS! I experienced the same feelings that I’m sure everyone feels while waiting for an interview—anxiety, nausea, an overwhelming sense of doom, and impending failure. Wait? Do you mean not everyone feels the last two? Huh. Interesting.

The day of the interview came. I gussied myself up—even putting on a little bit of mascara and lip gloss—and went on my way. I arrived, a little shaky, but feeling surprisingly good myself. The campus was pleasant, and I felt very comfortable there. The “feeling” of a place matters more to me than it probably should, but it was okay. This school felt wonderful. I enjoyed sitting in the main office watching the students stroll past me.

My interviewer told me at the beginning that, because they had received so many applicants, the interview was for screening purposes. The interview went very well. Our educational philosophies meshed well. We talked about the direction the school was going with the new Common Core standards. We talked about curriculum. We talked or about an hour—much longer than a typical screening interview. I left feeling confident and with a promise for a call back early the next week.

I figured that I had it in the bag. I was wrong. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday rolled by, still no call. Finally on Thursday, I got an email letting me know that I did not get the job. I was a little distraught. If I had such a good interview, how come I didn’t get the job? Did I not do as well as I thought? Was I deluded? I was trying to be brave and strong, but all I wanted to do was cry. So I did. It helped me to feel better.

I replayed the interview in my head, trying to focus on what I did incorrectly. Then it dawned on me: I wasn’t the reason why I didn’t get the job. Well, I was, but it wasn’t me. She kept on asking me what sports I would be willing to coach a sport. My interest in sports is even lower than my interest in the growth of yuck in an untidy college student’s toilet.

They were willing to turn down a master English teacher with 12 years of experience because I wasn’t a coach. When I asked why I didn’t get the job, they confirmed my suspicions.

I am glad I didn’t get the job. It is apparent that they value athletics over academics. I don’t want to be part of a school with skewed priorities.

Thank you, Universe.

———————–

**Coming soon: Job Search, Part 2.**

Thanks, slightly everything, for sharing your photography on creative commons.

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Interview

I am a fraud. I am a FRAUD. Iamafraudimafraud. The words race through my head as I sit, waiting, for my second job interview, my confidence disintegrated by the rejection from my first interview.

I am a fraud, that part of my brain chants over and over again—so many times that I believe it. I try to think of something else; I try to get that part of my brain to change its chant.

What if they figure out that I am a broken teacher? That I am not sure if I can fix myself? That there is a good chance that I’ve always been broken and I am only figuring it out now? The chant is gone, but the doubt still tumbles around in my head.

Fingers clench, clammy, twisting and turning. My breathing comes fast and shallow. It needs to slow. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7—stop! If I start counting, I won’t be able to stop. My fingers twitch, wanting to tap out the rhythm of the numbers. Stop!

I focus on the feeling of inhaling, lungs expanding. Exhaling, lungs compressing. Breathe in, 1, 2, 3, 4. Breathe out, 1, 2, 3, 4. I focus on the air instead of the numbers. My pulse slows down, calming some of my anxiety. Breathe 1, 2, 3, 4. My hands start to settle, moths instead of mosquitos.

“Come on in and let’s get started.”

With a final deep breath, I wipe my hands on my pants, put on my best “I’m awesome” smile—the one that hides my fear—and follow him into the conference room.

Taking the Leap

Whelp… I resigned from my job. I wrote this super-long post explaining the reasons why and, I have to admit, it was a wee bit ranty. No, that isn’t accurate. It was a whole lot ranty and a little bit bitchy. I decided not to post it because it wasn’t me. I am usually only a little bit ranty and pretty much never bitchy. I didn’t want to post something completely out of character. It did feel really good to get it out of  my system, but it definitely was not something that I should share.

So, in case you are interested, I resigned because my philosophy about education no longer meshed with the district’s philosophy. Trying to change my beliefs to mesh with theirs was making me physically ill and preventing me from being the teacher I know I can be.

This is something that’s been coming for at least three years. At the end of each of those years, I’ve thought about resigning. Every year, the part of my brain that hates change convinced me not to. Just give it one more year, it said. Things are going to be so much better next year, just you wait! 

This year was different. When I thought about leaving at the end of this year, that part of my brain was a cheering section chanting “Do it! Do it! Do it!” All of the parts of my brain reached a consensus: it was time to move on.

The scary(?) part is that I have no anxiety about my decision. None. That’s right; little Miss Freak-out is completely calm about it. Friends ask me what I’m planning to do, their faces crinkled with concern. When I tell them I have no idea where I am going to work next year, they look at me in disbelief. I should be having a panic attack– that is what I usually do– and they wonder what in the world is wrong with me. I can see the concern in their eyes. I’ve put in applications for teaching positions. I’ve had one screening interview and another one scheduled for next week. If teaching doesn’t work out, I’ll sub until I find a job. I have backup plans for my backup plans. I know I will go where I need to go.

For the first time I can remember, I am relying– without fear– on the Universe to take care of me.

Light Echoes From Red Supergiant Star V838 Monocerotis – October 2004
Source: Hubblesite.org