Tell Me Again That The Education System Is Fine And I’ll Knock Your Teeth Out

Well, if you kids follow me at all on the Twittah or the slightly more character-friendly Facebook, you’ve heard a bit about my recent employment saga and know that I’m kind of irritated.  And majorly disappointed.  And disillusioned.  And plain-old, fucking mad.

It’s official, as of today, that I have been completely passed over for a job that I really wanted.

“How badly did you want it?” you ask?

To put a finer point on it, let’s start by saying that I was happy making $10 an hour whilst performing its duties.  Maybe we’ll add that I religiously checked in on the process twice a week for the entirety of the summer and might have bordered on groveling.  And I’ll follow up by telling you that I don’t think I ever even once THOUGHT about complaining about having to GO.  And for someone who can find something to be snarky about in just about every situation, that’s fucking tops.

Was I underqualified?  No.  OVER qualified?  No.  Did I lack experience?  Absolutely not, considering I’d been doing the job for the second half of the school year last spring.  Did I have a record?  Piss someone off?  Were there people MORE qualified or better suited than me?  Had I not voiced my interest and enthusiasm clearly?  No, no, no and NO.  I met all requirements in spades, had a rapport with all staff members, knew the students and their individual challenges and found excitement in my chest instead of dread when waking up every morning to begin again.

I simply did not have enough SENIORITY.

And so, I was passed over, and not even given a chance to interview in favor of people who were already employed full-time in the district.

I was an unwitting participant in bureaucratic, union BULLSHIT.

I don’t expect to make any friends here for being anti-union, but that is now where I stand.

There were people considered who could not read AT the level of the students they were interviewing to HELP read.  Women I’d heard belittling the kids in the classes they’d be assisting: who vocally HATE their jobs and “the little shits” they “deal” with daily.

How is this possible?  How is it RIGHT?  How is this in the best interest of the kids who are having trouble learning?  Do you want YOUR children being taught by someone who has barely received their GED?  Pushed along by individuals who have no concern for quality of instruction or the job they’re doing past the paycheck?

I can’t wrap my head around it.  As a person who has always believed that there is always ONE MORE THING she can do to become successful or attain a goal or get her point across or simply have a productive day, I CANNOT FATHOM why I wasn’t even afforded an opportunity.  It galls me to have no control over a situation in the first place, let alone to be asked to believe that NOTHING THAT SHOULD HAVE MATTERED, DID.

I had no seniority.  Despite the fact that I’d worked in-district for a year and a half.  Despite my experience.  I was not a full-time staff member, and, as such, not in the union and not accruing ‘seniority’.  And to add insult, I cannot get a full-time position and accrue seniority without being a member of the union in a full-time position.

It just doesn’t add up.

So I will fill in as a substitute until the person hired wants to start (two weeks from now), and when she does, I will be paid $10/hour to train her on the job that I wasn’t considered for.  I will then go wherever the dispatch office sends me the next morning and continue to apply for jobs that I have no chance of getting.

Now tell me, why on earth would I want to spend money getting my Masters in Education?

In Which the Universe Reminds Me Who’s In Charge

I just wrote a pretty fucking good description of neurotic, Jen-style Writer’s Block.  It was the best thing I’d written all week.  And it came out easier.  There were flights of phrase that I was really proud of.  I hadn’t meant to write it.  I was doing my 750 Words and it just kind of evolved into a pretty good piece.  I had started by trying to answer today’s Trust 30 prompt, and quickly realized that I was going to ignore it in favor of sudden inspiration.  I was going to post it.  You were going to love it.  There were going to be scads of comments.  It might have made me famous***.

I once caught a fish *THIS BIG*.

Then, I went to the bathroom.  Upon my return, I entered my ‘security word’.  My fresh words popped up on the screen, and after 1 second, popped off.  I sat there for a moment, puzzled.  I checked my open windows to see if they were just re-loading.  They weren’t.  I pressed clicked on my Edit tab to make sure I hadn’t just done something that needed UNdoing.  Nope.  I refreshed my screen.  Nothing.

GONE.  They were all gone.  All that was there was the first word I’d posted.  I got up.  I swore out loud.  I swore on Twitter and Facebook. I contemplated punching the wall.  I stared in disbelief.  I swore some more.  And some more.  When I remembered to breathe, I attempted to recreate what I’d just written.  Only to find that my red-burning anger and shock had completely erased my memory.  Insert annoying blinking cursor here.

I hadn’t saved because I hadn’t expected to be writing.  In my life, I’ve ‘not saved’ only ONE OTHER TIME.  In college.  A 35 page English paper (something to do with the Restoration) and I’d waited until two days before it was due to start it.  The feeling is roughly the same.  A sucky, sinking, slightly nauseas sensation residing in the stomach and midchest.  It pools there and soaks, reducing to a burning, lamenting refrain and the dull headache follows straight after.

And so I breathe.  Actively, at first.  There’s nothing I can do.  The Universe has a plan.  It sucks, but isn’t earth ending.  There’ll be other days.  And besides, this isn’t wildly different in tone or spirit than what I’d had on the page and lost.  Writing to replace writing as therapy.  It’s a deeper well than originally thought. Wooooo-sssssssaaaahhhhh.

In the interest of closure, my three dreams:

 

1.  That I wrote on a typewriter (with spectacles and khaki jodphurs).

2.  That I was on my second Passport book because the first one had no more room for stamps.

3.  That I had never lost the retainer I received after getting my braces off in high school.

 

***awesomeness of post may be slightly exaggerated for dramatic appeal.

A Study In Loathing

Fucking.Stupid.Ugly.Cunt.

He shoots laserbeams of hate into the back of her head. Watching her hands move while she describes her disgust with the world’s current events is making him nauseas. Every time she opens her mouth to reply, his jaw twitches and clenches against the sound. He opens the window a crack and watches the exits rattle by.

How had he ended up with this…this…fucking cunt? This fucking crazy, neurotic, ANNOYING bitch?! He wants to slap her. Knock her down. Spit at her feet. She’d MADE him this way. This sniveling ball of almost silent aggression. Her. Fucking always asking for something more. Never satisfied. Always FUCKING BITCHING. What the hell does that mean anyway, “Stop making fun of me.”? Her fucking line right there. “Stop Making Fun Of Me.” Fucking bullshit. His shit was FUNNY, and he knew it. Even she laughed. All the goddamn time.

White divider lines flash past, reflecting off his glassy eyes, like a movie reel. There’s never any PEACE. He can’t ever just HAVE any peace. They’ve always got to be DOING something. (She’s got a vendetta against the TV…a phobia of wasted time.) But today! Didn’t they stay out ALL DAY?! Doing just the type of shit she enjoys? Why shouldn’t he have taken advantage of her rare willingness to drive? Have a few beers. Some whiskey and Coke. Why not? Just to be able to muffle her drone a LITTLE bit. To dull his senses enough to admit he’s unhappy. To let off a little of that pressure.

But NO. Somehow he’s ended up here, folded into this backseat, while she sits up there pretending that she’s NOT A FUCKING STUPID CUNT. Prattling on about nothing. Trying to pretend that there isn’t something WRONG. But she can’t ignore him. She knows he’s back there. He can feel her eyebrow raised in his direction, see the tension running down her neck and shoulders. He’ll hear about this tomorrow. But fuck her. Fuck that princess and her constant dismay. She hasn’t done penance nearly enough for her own depravity. Why feel guilty for that?

Outside, they’re rolling up on their front door and she’s handing the driver his fare. As they exit, she turns her flaming stare to his face and he confronts the full force of its hurt, anger and disgust. He walks to the door after throwing the keys wide right of her reaching hands…they drop to the ground in front of her and he lets out a snort.  Let that bitch bend over and pick them up. It’s not exactly spit at her feet, but the intent is clear. Fuck her. He had a good time.

She closes the door behind them and walks silently to the bedroom to change.  He watches the last of her disappear around the corner and reaches for his cigarettes.  At some point, she’d locked the sliding door to the porch, and its unanticipated weight threw off his already impaired balance.  He’s just gotten it open and stepped outside when he realizes, lighter in hand, that the box is empty.  FUCK!  He stumbles back inside and grabs the keys.  She didn’t know what she was talking about anyway.  He isn’t that drunk.  Before he knows it, he is in the car and looking up into the lighted second floor window.  There she is, that bitch.  Standing there.  Glaring at him.  What the fuck is she looking at?  He pulls out of the space and rolls down the window, middle finger blazing as he drives off toward the gas station.