Category — career

I recently read an article on Forbes by Brett Nelson entitled, Why You Should Postpone College.

I know that it takes no effort to agree with people who share your opinions, but I think Mr. Nelson is exactly right: we need to give high school graduates more time and opportunity to figure out what they want for the rest of their lives.

I only wish this article had been around when I finished high school.

Let’s travel back in time, shall we?

It’s the summer of 1996. I’m 19 years old, and I’ve just graduated from high school with honours (though, I had to redo my Ontario Academic Credit (OAC) year to get those honours). As I clear out my locker, I feel the same way I did when I was a small child: giddy with excitement at the prospect of endless summer days. Days that I could I spend reading, and swimming in my boyfriend’s parent’s backyard pool; all the carefree parties, BBQ’s, keggers, and general teenage mayhem that I could find and enjoy would be mine.

Then, a little part of my brain, the one struggling up through my childish (and, frankly, rather awesome) ideas, imposed with some sobering and unwelcome adult news: “You’re going to have to get a job. University isn’t free – and you don’t even know if you got into one yet.”

I walk home from school with a heavy backpack, and even heavier heart.

I’ve applied to several universities. My parents are pushing for McMaster University or, failing that, Mohawk College (where, so far as I can tell, they hope I will take a nursing degree). I try to think about where I might find work for the summer, I’m already working at the A&P, but I’ll need more hours if I’m going to pay tuition. The images of reading in the shade, are replaced by images of ringing in produce and flipping burgers. I’m not a child anymore, but I want to cry. I hate that even at 19 years old, the tears of a frustrated and unhappy child are still very close to the surface, so I push them down as I walk home.

I unpack my bag while having questions and statements fired at me: “Have you got a job lined up?”, “If you go to McMaster or Mohawk, you could live here – but you’ll have to pay rent.”, “What are you going to take in school?”, “I think you should try nursing, we need more nurses in Canada.” And on and on. Now I really want to cry and throw a temper tantrum too. I do neither.

But later that night, while walking down by the river, and throwing stones at the few panes of glass not yet broken in the old abandoned factories down there, I admit it to myself: I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. No idea at all.

Sitting here, in 2012, I wish I could go back in time and give 19 year old me a hug. I wish I could tell her that things did work out – eventually. But at the time…well, I signed on at the University of Ottawa for an English Literature degree because the only thing I knew I had any talent for, was reading. I knew enough to know that a degree would be an important bit of paper to have later. That future employers might not care what my degree was in so long as I had one. To employers, a degree meant a certain amount of intelligence and seriousness: I could be considered capable of learning new things – like a Rhesus monkey in a lab – if I had one.

Four years later, I graduated. By then I’d read Milton, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Wordsworth, Tolkien, Whitman and pretty much every other author considered “important”. And while I’d found new literary things to fall in love with, I still had no idea how to apply that love to anything practical that might help me pay off my considerable student loans.

I worked in a series of jobs completely unrelated to my degree: deli counter clerk, SGML coder, low man on the totem pole at the British High Commission, cashier at HMV, shipper and receiver at SportMart, purveyor of deep fried foods at Fast Eddie’s and, for a time, I was an unemployed and unemployable 20-something.

So I could recite Romeo’s speech to Juliet, that fair sun, as she appeared on her balcony…big deal. I still had no idea what I wanted to be.

Knowing what I do now, I wish that we had had the “grownup” training that Mr. Nelson talks about. I think it would have benefit me greatly as a clueless 19 year old. I was unfocused, unfinished, young, scared, stupid, and woefully unprepared to be an adult. An internship, or a minimum wage position, at various places to get a feel for the nine-to-five world would have been just the thing for me. If nothing else, I would have learned what I didn’t want for myself. I believe that it is just as important to figure out what you don’t want as it is what you do want.

I’m 36 now, and only in the past few years have I discovered that the nine-to-five world is a place I can only visit for short periods of time. I also discovered that I despise working in retail. Imagine if I had figured that out sooner! What if I’d known that at age 21, or even at 25? How much more diligently might I have pursued the things I really love? How much harder would I have worked to make them into things I could do to support myself? How much happier would I have been? How much more confident, and secure in myself might I have been?

I think that sending a teenager, especially one with no focus, into debt for an education that may never do them any good once they sort themselves out as a person, is stupid and foolhardy. What are they gaining from an academic setting when they don’t even know what they want to learn? The only really useful things I learned in my four years were, how to be more tolerant of people I despised living with, how to split a phone bill, and how to shotgun a beer without barfing. OK, maybe I’m exaggerating a teeny bit (though not that much, really), but for the young people who have no idea what they want for themselves for the rest of their lives, university is a frightening moment.

Think of it like this: most people in my family live to be about 90. So, doesn’t it seem stupid to ask me, at 19 years old, to decide on a course of action that will shape the next 71 years of my life?

Thought of in that way, what’s another two years delay? It couldn’t hurt to explore all the options a little before taking on the debt and work of a degree – could it? Wouldn’t it create the opportunity to explore different career paths while managing to get some of that partying stuff out of the way on weekends? And wouldn’t getting that partying and uncertainty out of the way allow for greater focus on studying and learning? And wouldn’t greater focus mean money well spent – rather than wasted? I think it would.

I know that some work places have “bring your kid to work” days, so they can see what you do to earn the family’s bread and butter, but how useful are those? Imagine this: being dragged to work by a parent, at a stage in your life when you find them most intolerable and embarrassing (and that’s often a two-way street), so you can watch them (sort of) do something that’s not the tiniest bit interesting to you, while you count down the seconds before you can leave.

Not terribly useful. But, working with adults who haven’t seen you flip out on a sibling, or get grounded for lying, or seen the state of your bedroom at home? That’s a fresh slate within a structured environment. It’s easier to learn from, and really pay attention to, someone who hasn’t got any dirt on you. Someone you don’t both love and loathe. It’s a chance to learn what a professional relationship is.

In addition to “grownup training”, I’d also suggest mandatory, weekly psychiatric sessions for at least the second year. A time to work through the crap-storm of being a teenager, to sort out the stuff that’s screwing you up so it doesn’t screw you over. A chance to start really becoming who you are without having to wait until your late 30′s to get there. A place where you can speak your mind without some adult grounding you for “being mouthy” because your opinion differed from theirs. A place to learn how to function in the “real” world.

We need to reevaluate how and when we send teenagers out into the world, and to university or college. Are they really prepared? Do they really know what they want for themselves? Do they know anything about who they are? Are we doing them any favours by forcing them to choose a life so early?

The education system needs to take a good hard look at what they’re really offering high school graduates these days because, from my own experience, it’s seems to be mostly shackles of debt, doubt and unhappiness.

I’ve avoided new Years resolutions like the plague for years.

After years of failure to truly eat better, exercise more, stay in touch with people better, and all the other fruitless promises I made myself every new year, I gave up on trying. My reasoning was that if I hadn’t already made those changes in my life, then a change in the calendar year wasn’t going to suddenly give me motivation – I had to really want it for myself, otherwise I was just setting myself up for disappointment.

Yet, here I am, in the early days of a new year, contemplating making some resolutions.

These resolutions? To write more and draw more snarky stick people to share with the world. I’ve made these promises loads of times throughout the year and not kept it – you can tell by the total lack of recent posts or Stick Note Fridays – and I’ve often asked myself why I don’t blog more and draw more, and I’ve been asked that by the few people who were disappointed that I stopped.

I haven’t got any really good reasons, but here are a few anyway:

1. I’ve been working on a novel. I’m struggling a little with it a the moment, but it’s taken up most of my days for quite a long time now.
2. I stopped caring about blogging. I wrote the odd book review, sure, but mostly I did it to see if anyone was still reading. They weren’t (and who can blame them?). In this case, I let my silly little ego get its feelings hurt because no one was reading the stuff I wasn’t writing. Dumb? Yes, yes it is.
3. I don’t take my drawings the least bit seriously. You know, to the point where I don’t draw them because, what the hell, they’re just stick people, right? My husband has informed me that he thinks I’m throwing away my talent at drawing just because it’s not high art. He’s right, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing – despite being told by him, and several other people, that I could really make something of those drawings.

So what’s my point, you ask?

I want to change that. I know it’s going to be a bloody hard uphill struggle to overcome that negative voice in the back of my head – I call her The Insidious Bitch- that keeps whispering, “Keep your day job, honey, you’re gonna need it.” (never mind that my “day job” has been working on a novel, and I’ve not been paid a cent for working at it).

So – and you must pardon the crude language – fuck you, Insidious Bitch. You can whisper your taunts and doubts all you like, you can scream them in my ear if you want, but this is the year that I fight back. 2012 is mine, and you are going down, back into that dark little filth-hole from whence you came.

You see, you awful, stroppy cow, I’ve been given the gift of time and freedom by my wonderful husband. He’s green-lighted this novel writing business from the get-go, and you’ve been holding me back. He’s supported, praised and giggled at all my silly drawings too, and I let you talk me out of them.

Well, I’m finally angry enough to do something about it. I’m not going to stand with my back against the door anymore, hoping like hell I can keep you out. I’m going to let you in, and then stick something sharp and stabby into your heart.

Watch out; I’m angry, and I’ve learned to tread lightly and carry a big sword.

I have finally got up enough courage to start writing what I think may turn out to be a novel (or a really, really long short story – hard to say).

I’m at the 30,000 word mark and I’ve discovered that writing stories makes you a little mental.

On a good day of writing, my 2000 word minimum comes easy as though the words were being dictated by the people in the story and I was just the recording secretary.

I love these days.

The bad days definitely feel like me doing the work. Each word comes as though I were pulling it out of thick mud, or excavating it out of a diamond with nothing but a sharp stick and willpower.

Over the last few days I have abandoned all sense of pride and started arguing with the characters:

Me: C’mon…I can’t write this by myself! I don’t even know what happens!

Them: Why should we do all the work? You showed up late today and completely neglected us last Friday.

Me: But, the kid upstairs used the sprinkler to water my bedroom though the open window. I can’t be held responsible for that little devil spawn’s actions!

Them: Whatever lady – but hey, good luck and stuff.

So, I’ve spent the last few days feeling like I watched most of the finale of the most awesome show that ever was, only to miss the last 15 minutes because the cable cut out.

And worse, my characters are all wandering around with superior smirks on their faces because they know how it ended.

Jerks.