Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
A couple of days ago, I got a call inviting me to attend an interview. I wasn’t particularly thrilled upon knowing I was being considered for another position different from what I had applied for. It was still writing-related, but hell, I don’t even read that magazine.
Still, I was determined to give the magazine and myself a fair opportunity to fall in love. So I bought copies of it the night before The Big One to go through the features and formulae. Obviously, I thought to myself, I can write all these stuff effortlessly. A bit of a sell-out, but I guess we all gotta start somewhere.
That morning, stylishly dressed in an embroidered asymmetrical skirt, cheery yellow tank top with a Tommy Hilfiger denim jacket thrown over, I was ready to charm and conquer.
Things obviously go very wrong after this.
Out of The Holy Trinity of Power, I was apparently important enough to warrant personal attention from Father and Son.
I was incredibly awed that they took time off to speak to me personally, face to face, to tell me they actually have no vacancies. So they lied (and their HR was the accomplice, since the directives have to come from them), and frankly, I don’t know why. It’s bizarre that the top senior management has to resort to lying and waste my precious time and their own. You know what, I have a new show coming up, and am fucking busy.
It gets more fucking fucked up.
They only told me they have no vacancies after they prefaced it with another question. Have I applied to Company A, they asked smilingly, and said I really should.
Following which both of them took turns to be condescending and patronizing, all the while insinuating I can’t write, can’t take pressure, don’t have the relevant grounding. Well, I’m sure they know better. *rolls eyes*
They did not bother to ask questions related to my qualifications and experience, did not express interest in me as a person or potential employee. There’s something seriously wrong here.
Oh, but all is not lost, they added winsomely. You can send in some writing samples to us and we will read to offer some insights and feedback in return. You may find out writing is really not your calling and that you can’t write.
WHAT THE FUCK.
Excuse me, I’m sure I can write okay. And you haven’t even read my pieces, what do you know, how can you judge, and how could you be so negative. You have conducted yourself most unprofessionally through remarks out to insult and provoke. I don’t even say that your writings are passé to your face. And at least I’m making an informed statement, since I have read them.
I wish they had the manners and sincerity I has demonstrated from the start. At least, I tried to overcome my initial prejudice and inherent bias to stay open to options. I learnt to be enthusiastic. It wasn’t easy for me to come down from my pedestal as a literature and philosophy graduate to write for a particular format which I was neither dying to exploit or explore. But I’m willing to give it my best shot and treat the whole ballgame fairly.
I actually bothered to explain that I have never stopped writing and that the two years in another field while making me more sure that I want to return to my first love, also have equipped me with various skills which I believe will be very useful in writing. Beside, I do write a fair bit in my current job.
The two men laughed and one remarked, oh journalism is very different from PR.
WHAT THE FUCK
Hello, do you push out what is considered journalistic writing in the first place. It’s all about marketing and advertorials as far as I can see. And journalism in Singapore, you mean it exists?
But I held my tongue and endured staunchly the repressed anger and indignation and hurt that threatened to erupt any moment.
This is outright rejection and there is no point in extending the session.
I thanked them prettily for their time. They smiled another winsome one together and apologized if they had spoiled my day.
No problem, I’m crushed of course, by this surprising turn of events, but I’ll bounce back.
I walked out with my head held high but collapsed into a blubbering mess in the cab due to the repression. So friends who heard from me, at the point in time, basically heard sobbing. Which is like, yeeks, yucks, how embarrassing (for me).
I spoke to my officers about this (I have to keep them informed apparently) and they were appalled. They were also horrified no HR personnel were present during the pseudo-interview.
I recovered within 5 hours. By then, self-pity and the sense of myself as the tragic figure were well-dissipated. Replaced by Du Lan-ness and Anger and Irritation, I’m pleased to announce.
I wonder if I did the right thing by rein-ing in my tempestuous streak and scary sarcasm. I was pissed big-time at the unjust, uncalled-for treatment and the ridiculous suggestion that I can neither write nor take pressure.
Please.
I can fully sympathise with bond-breakers, and people who quit Singapore in the light of this incident. I’m sure it’s not an isolated one. When you are in possession of an ardent, sincere desire to serve and contribute, you receive shit. It gets unbearable, really. This disillusionment and wretchedness is too heavy not to leave it here.
Whether you are a friend or stranger reading this, do consider sharing your sad scholar stories. Email them to me.
Something is rotting in the Singapore publishing scene.
