Glenna Heller
From Victim to Victor

I was prepared for the interview: My nails adorned a perfect manicure – exquisitely squared, short enough to convince even the most doubtful that I could use a keyboard with expert speed. My shoes shone, my hair was perfectly in place. The suit I chose was smart – tan and black. A power suit, but with two embroidered panels to show feminine elegance. This is the job I wanted when I first began working for the company more than 3 years ago. I never thought it would actually be available. The salary was staggering from my perspective: Some $20 thousand more than my present position. Or, rather, what was my present position. I quit my job, with no alternate. One could expect nervousness. I am unemployed, after all.

But I wasn’t nervous. Yes, sure, I wanted the job. Am I nuts? Of course. I convinced myself. Yet, still, I didn’t present my best that sometimes only an edge of nervousness can ensure.

I aced the last interview I had. I asked for a salary in excess of budget, quite on purpose, I thought. I needed to take a stand for the quality that I am. I had finally developed a control in interviewing and a confidence that proved I could have any job I wanted and could convince that I was supremely qualified to fill.

But what was the trash coming from my mouth in this interview? I couldn’t speak! I stammered, asking my interviewer to fill in the blanks in my pauses, and "…you knows". He asked questions. I answered something else that I heard in my head, but definitely nothing he stated. Several quick jerks of his head blinked emphatically in total silence, "What ARE you talking about?"

My perfection was met with his crumpled pink shirt. My elegant earrings stood against his demeanor like diamonds on a camel. What a team we would make, with his tan belt loosened one notch either from a lunch too large, or a recently-relaxed attitude. This man, some 10 years my junior, walked deep into his knees, reminding me of Groucho, until I realized he probably stored his stress in his lower back. Humor of his stance turned suddenly; I could feel his pain.

Acquisitions and mergers were his specialty, while mine was stumbling with a minor in gafawing. But I looked good. I would say I looked more at home than he against the deep red, mahogany-laden office with brass fixtures; that is, until my cartoon-like verbiage spilled into the space. As our meeting continued, I was distressed that we each had our full faculties, for surely if he were deaf and I blind, it would have been a perfect partnership.

That night, last night, I reflected: What was that about? Turning to God, I asked the question sincerely. I got my answer, which is a series of questions. Join me in looking at this, please, those of you to whom the conversation sounds familiar. Am I seeking yet another path away from my Self, my creativity, my heart-work, my family and expect it to be fulfilling? How many alternative routes will I choose before coming home? What is there about my creativity that convinces me of its lack of value and inability to support me? How many such alternative paths must I try (and fail) before realizing it’s here, in me, not outside of my Self! Will I finally answer this call?

I do need to work, of course. I just need work that promotes my ultimate freedom and lightness of being to pay the bills while I soar with the Angels!

© Glenna Heller

January 12, 2000