I hesitated. An explanation of DIVERSITY had been provided as the first part of the question, and then that bomb was dropped by the personable, even likable, interviewer across the desk. He looked up at me and waited, probably overcome with anticipation as I formed what was going to be yet another brilliant answer in my interview - an interview that I was slapping silly with my genius. I was doing well, partially because he wasn't being a cold-hearted sea beast like the man who interviewed me half a year ago. That man had spent 60% of the interview looking down, and he had treated the entire charade with the upmost seriousness, as though I was applying to be President of the Moon and not just another forlorn secretary whose main purpose in life was unjamming the goddamn fax machine.
Because this interviewer was so personable, and made eye contact, and because there also wasn't someone else in the room for the sole purpose of taking notes on my fuck-ups, I felt comfortable being myself, that is, the witty and slightly sarcastic person I am, or at least, the witty and slightly sarcastic person I think I am. I had inadvertently psyched myself up, though I wasn't quite Jack Donaghy looking in the mirror and yelling "NOW GET OUT THERE, YOU MAGNIFICENT SON OF A BITCH!" It was more like that squeaky internal monologue that was telling me they needed me a lot more than I needed them. I had a job already, a full time, albeit fuckery-full job, and they were the ones that needed me to sit in a wee glass box ("cars only hit it occasionally") during my weekend evenings from Thirsty Thursday to Slurring Saturday. Earlier, my internal voice had been trying to extinguish all nervousness: "You don't even care about this. You don't! So don't be nervous. Brush your teeth again, your breath smells like cheese, you shouldn't have eaten all of that Gouda this morning."
Gee, DIVERSITY? Is that really what it boiled down to? This was the last question on the official interview list, and it was something so broad and land-mine-y - what was I going to say? I could barely compose the words in my head because at that moment the internal voice was screaming "SHIT SHIT SHIT HE'S LOOKING AT YOU NOW! ANSWER! SAY ANYTHING!"
"Good?" I said, finally. I'm sure I chuckled a little, ha ha, yes, I can laugh at myself, did you HEAR how lame that was?
I paused. "I mean . . . I've worked with plenty of people, different ethnicities, different socioeconomic backgrounds . . ."
"OMG REALLY?" yelled my internal voice. "JUST ACT LIKE YOU DON'T EVEN SEE RACE OR POVERTY, you see PEOPLE. DO IT. Oh, God, I think I still smell Gouda."
I should have said something along the lines of how diversity creates different viewpoints and ideas. And different viewpoints and ideas are essential to innovation and advancement. That's basically what it's all about - variations - evolution - adaptation. I could have been science-y and nerdy and created that brilliant metaphor but all I could think of was GOOD. DIVERSITY. GOOD.
"It's good," I concluded. "I feel like this should be an essay test!"
Fortunately, the kind-hearted interviewer smiled, nodded, scribbled something, and then started in about uniforms. Whew. Shirts. There's no conflict or tension there. We could just have a nice, simple conversation about shirts, and forget about the Freshmen Rhetoric 101 speech on DIVERSITY.
Overall, I did well on the interview, very well, and besides being slightly confused - oh, I'm on the FIRST floor? - right when I stepped out of his office, I felt a sense of elation and accomplishment. I could have said more about DIVERSITY. I could have composed some feel-good poetry in the name of DIVERSITY, and maybe made a joke about Antoine Dodson being a historical figure of our times, transcending boundaries, just to show how much i knew about DIVERSITY. Sadly, I didn't ace that question, but then I thought about all of the other
interview fuckery I'd had over my lifetime: "List three words to describe yourself." "Um, watch these VHS tapes about employee safety at the grocery store" - and I felt good. At least I'd pronounced "socioeconomic" correctly.
Then I pretty much got down on my knees and prayed right there, in the middle of the street, oh please Lord, I do not want to interview again for a long, long time. Please, please, let me be President of the Moon.
But I got the job instead.
Who wouldn't want to be President of some fancy, uninhabitable space rock?
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