A bit of a rush this morning. A 15-minute walk to Hendon Central Station keeps me away from showing up at my desk before unpredictable Beth walks in. It’s somewhat shiny for December, and no wonder why. As I make my way, my phone rings: it turns out to be a very enthusiastic recruiter, one who had a look at the many dream job applications that I made the night before.
I can undoubtedly insist on her enthusiasm. Quite a lovely voice asking me Is this a good time to talk? with a West-End-production rhythm. Of course, it is! Said my confused brain, trying to sort out whether crossing the road safely, showing up on time to Beth, or pursuing my dream job was my priority. Showing her off my multi-task skills is a plus, I guess?
Sadly, one of the three things didn’t go as expected. The way the interview went made me blame my accent at first. Picture this: It’s been one year since I moved to this English-speaking country; I never had any interest before in sounding native. If anything, my interest and efforts were rather about learning the actual language. Pardon my English!
As soon as I introduced myself, I sounded like Gloria Delgado-Pritchett. A character that took me years to love and respect. The recruiter said to have a couple of questions about my experience and knowledge. None of them were asked. Instead, the call ended after she asked my country of origin; there was no time to explain why I believed I was fit for the English copywriting position.
Many interviews followed a similar pattern. Pattern. Oh dear, that word again. Here I am, experiencing first-hand the so-called structure. The so-called system that I could not see before. Eleven years of school and seven of university were spent being taught and trained about capitalism and its pros and cons. And only a couple of calls in a year to understand the term.
While I have no interest in navigating my position towards capitalism, I am interested in discussing my position in the capitalistic structure. As I discover that such a position is one you don’t ask to have but one you’re given, I understand the idea of control more holistically. For ones that control is not quite palpable -you know what they say, money can buy happiness-. For me, control is something I can even relate to since childhood. But we’re not here for Freud, not this time, Sigmund.
That call was the starting point to finally see my position in the system.
The type of jobs I applied to had some standard criteria. No, I am not talking about jobs asking for a degree -which already controls how many of us can move forward-. I am talking about asking for your degree to be awarded by specific universities belonging to the Russell Group. You read that right: a selective group of 24 top world-class universities. The South American degrees were not enough, we can assume?
They were indeed not enough. And not because of the region. But because of the logic of Western education, a critical institution of the capitalistic system. The university I attended didn’t train me to be a CEO but rather to become an employee of that CEO. Well, a remarkable and useful employee, of course. Did I hear you say What about entrepreneurship? - Think no further than the CEO-employee narrative. It’s the 2000s. Only top world-class universities provide you with the framework to become an entrepreneur (and the network to succeed).
Thank God the internet arrived, democratising the knowledge and its access, right? Well, it hasn’t made me completely free just yet. After all, for decades, I bought the narrative of living to get the dream job rather than becoming the one who creates that job, so give me a break, please. At least I started to question my place in society. But that last bit is missing a bit more drama.
Two words: family and friendships. The other two institutions that shape how you fit in the world.
While people with character deserve much recognition and respect, we’ve got to clap for those of us who people-please people as we age with no clue of what we are or what we want to be. But once we know it, our metamorphosis is much more beautiful because, unlike our family and friends, we define what beauty is. Before that happens, we follow what beauty is for them.
Go to school, wear the uniform designed for your gender, behave like the others, and make friends, please! No one wants a, you know, a weird child. Go to uni, but make sure it’s a degree that brings money. Dream about a job, but not too high; there are enough astronauts, and the bills are due next month. Find a couple, but make sure it’s from the opposite sex. If you leave home, you’re only allowed back with a minimum of two grandchildren. And don’t you dare to question your family or friends: they only want the best for you (Have you heard them using the word “protection” by any chance?).
My position in this structure couldn’t be any more precise, but it couldn’t be any more toxic. How stupid can you be to believe you can get a job designed for other social circles? The system is there, ready to provide us with people whose role is to tell us what our role is, where we belong, and where we don’t. It’s almost like they have suffered from the consequences that the control has on them, that they find joy in telling you what your place in society is. I mean, if they can’t make their way, why can you?
These full-time volunteers will always show up to try to bring me full-time down unless I follow their logic. It’s surprising to see how welcomed you are in society when you let the control control you. What if I forget about those dream jobs: who wants to be a copywriter when they are looking for a bartender in the Irish pub down the corner?
Speaking of which, though they preferred someone with cleaning experience, I got that job because they trusted that I always tidy my room. They needed me, and I needed them; it was what I call a functional system. The beauty of the structure. And there I found myself, and I found out how to stand up to a system that hated my smile, my joy, my wants. From that first job, I got to see how people want to shut down my smile, they want me just to look down and carry on. But turns out they can't control that! They can't control my smile or my feelings.
And that was it! I didn’t see the number of people who are also finding their position, starting with that Irish pub in Camden. Many chefs, cleaners, and bartenders get up daily, fighting back against the system with two or sometimes three shifts and a beautiful smile at the end of the day that takes them as far as their souls dictate.
So yes. Smiling is an art. Something I couldn’t learn at uni, but rather at a pub. It’s a fine art because not everyone can turn a smile into a tool to change the position that you are given in society. Smiling is political because it goes against the control. And no soul can't do anything about it. It is my weapon whenever the volunteers of the system want to bring me down.
I go down with a smile. And gain back the control. Because for them, hearing someone laugh is exhausting, and seeing someone smile is tiring. They will get tired at some point, so keep up smiling. Once you master it, the decision of where to place yourself is yours.
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