My dear friends, where am I even to begin? What an educational week/weekend I had on my cross-country excursion to Boston. For starters, my mom is hilarious to travel with. She has recently developed low-level hearing problems, which makes it unable for her to hear/understand those with thick accents. I was her translator. She also has a tendency of walking right into homeless folks or those trying to sell useless items. She isn’t intentionally doing these things; she is usually looking elsewhere. When such an event occurs I am forced to act as her personal bodyguard and pull her away from the scene.
We all know the reason I went to Boston was to interview for my former dream graduate school. I am going to keep the name of the school anonymous to preserve the dignity and reputation of the school. I have a lot of formers: former school, former love of my life, former car, former friends, former dreams… all of which I have been able to replace successfully. Well, it looks like I’ll be replacing the former graduate school of my dreams. Let’s just say… it didn’t exactly go as planned.
It was obvious that I was extremely nervous for said interview; I nearly tinkled my pants on several occasions. I was first to meet with the program director for the course and the woman-like character that would be my primary professor. When I entered her office she was sitting at her desk eating… get ready for it… cool whip. Out of the bin. I say bin because that’s exactly what it was. It was more than just a container. She was also eating yogurt, which I have a really big problem with. It’s sour milk, that’s all it is. Vomit. Might I also add that she was not Twiggy. Quite the opposite, in fact. Cool whip? Probably not the smartest choice.
Our interview began in the opposite way I expected. “Let’s start off with some questions you have for me,” she said. I soon realized there were not going to be reciprocal questions. I had to think up good questions, and I had to do it fast. Good thing all that studying I did (about myself) for this damn interview paid off…
Question after question I asked her. She was quite rude and oftentimes answered with what “you have” to do to even be considered for the program. She took her time explaining to me all the reasons I was not going to be accepted.
“You should not consider our program if:
you haven’t ever written a thesis (are you kidding?!)
you haven’t had an extensive background in children’s literature
you haven’t been published
you haven’t written a good admissions essay
you want to primarily be published.”
There are so many more things she said, if only I could remember.
“I don’t care if you’re good with kids, that doesn’t matter. We don’t care,” she said.
This was quite shocking to me. I had the (obviously incorrect) assumption that it was necessary to understand children in order to write for them.
The moment I walked into her office I knew things were not going to go well. She immediately judged me. My mom says it is because I am “pretty.” Maybe I shouldn’t have washed my hair. Or put deodorant on. Then I bet she would have loved me.
It was immediately apparent to me that I was being faced by prejudice. There are so many prejudices that we don’t think about on a daily basis. Prejudice by the poor on the rich, the white by the black, the pretty by the ugly, the south by the north. Of course there are the obvious stereotypes that we all know and are completely aware of but these are not the prejudices I faced. I am not the minority and have never been treated with the utter disrespect with which this woman treated me.
She acted as if I was completely unintelligent and uneducated; of which I am the opposite. I knew the moment I walked in there, right when she looked me up and down, I knew she wrote me off. She rolled her eyes with every question I asked, she lifted her chunky hands to make her point perfectly clear.
I got the message, all right.
To put this whole saga in laments terms, she was nasty and fat and ugly and mean- on the inside and the outside. Now that’s a bad combination.
I do feel bad, though, because the Dean of Admissions that I spoke with after the Bostonian Witch was very kind and actually asked me questions about myself. Did I mention that? The Witch never once questioned me about what I have done, or what I am interested in. Witches never have been the most personable. The Dean was a very nice lady who was willing to help me in every way possible.
What was interesting to me was that the Dean was telling me how overly qualified I was for the program. I felt like I was interviewing for two completely different schools. I would like to note, however, that immediately following the interview I told my mom about what had happened. She was shocked by this. “Maybe she was having a bad day,” I suggested. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. My mom and my dad told me that if I didn’t immediately have a positive reaction to this woman, I probably wasn’t going to. Especially after reading the financial information on this school of a mere 3,000 students, I knew it wasn’t for me. No ma’am.
Whilst in Boston, I noted the numerous people that made comments on my accent. I have never thought of myself to have a shockingly southern accent, but the Bostonians made it quite clear that I sounded very near to an alien. I’m glad I’m not moving there. They aren’t very friendly.
My mom and I tried to start up a conversation with just about anyone we saw or met, even those we didn’t meet. After dinner the night of the Cool Whip Incident of 2010, my mom and I decided we would like some sweet treats. We went to a candy kiosk and ordered, as my mom so eloquently put it, “two hamburger sized pieces of chocolate.” Once in the elevator, with pinot grigio swishing in our smiling tummies, we noticed a woman in the farthest corner in the elevator from us. Taking in every social cue beautifully, my mom says, “Don’t you try and take our chocolate!” All the while saying this, she moves her body spread eagle, arms spread, in front of me. The response was not exactly what we expected. She merely looked at us, fake smiled, and pursed her lips.
Turns out those northerners are quite bitchy. We were just trying to be friendly. They just weren’t fun. Thanks, but no thanks, Boston.
