For a minority kid from a neighborhood that most people assume is rough and tough (it is but not my part) and from a closed off religious community which isn’t known for letting loose its young, and for being female, and being gay, and working in a historically and deeply majority rich, white, preppy and privileged industry–
I got the job. I’ve had jobs before but today, today I landed “the job”, the one that pushes me to the stratosphere, that opens up bigger and more gilded doors, that establishes for people who look for and care for that sort of thing, that I am a legitimate force to be reckoned with. That I am valid and valued and valuable.
And it’s hollow.
Because I know it doesn’t matter, not really. No one ever has their job title or net worth engraved on their tombstone. Who cares if you single-handedly solved the financial crisis? (You didn’t, obviously, but run with it…) Who cares how much you earned? Who cares how many cars you bought, how many fine restaurants in which you dined, how many shoes and suits and ties and dresses and charity events and–
Who cares if you landed the wildebeest, if you ate the wildebeest, corralled the whale, bettered the shark, hunted it and muscled it to the ground and ate it raw — who cares?
No one. Not really. Maybe some shallow soul. Maybe your mother if she’s a relative of Lady Macbeth.
Today, I did it. I landed the job, I’ve made it — or as close as you can in this city, this world — I did it. Me. Me, and me alone.
And it doesn’t matter. Because all I really wanted was someone to say:
“Congratulations, honey, good job, I’m so proud of you! What time will you be home for dinner? Let’s celebrate – just us, let’s celebrate for both of us.”
Maybe then it wouldn’t seem so hollow.