Twenty years ago today, I was a fresh young grad, barely 21, beginning her first professional job out in the wide wide world. I had no intention of having a career. I would have none of that, thank you very much. I hadn’t known what I wanted to be, when I grew up. I just knew that I would need to work, and I assumed that I would need to have an education in order to find good paying work. I never questioned whether or not I would go to college. It was a given. I’m not sure why I was certain of that, but I was. In retrospect, I should have considered other schools, besides the local university, but it didn’t occur to me. My dad was a professor at another local university, across the state line, and it never occurred to me that I might go to that university. I’ve never been one for much imagination. But I do get things done.
I was interested in architecture. And education. Those would have been my first choices. I already knew teachers were paid a pittance for their life’s work, which was, and is, a travesty. I hoped to put some distance between myself and poverty, so I decided against that path.
I was very daunted by the whole concept of university. I had graduated from a very small, rural high school that boasted 42 students in its record high graduating class, four of which were exchange students from exotic places, far and anon. I assumed I had received a laughable education, as I was able to finish all my ‘homework’ between classes, either racing through it as soon as it was assigned and before class was finished, or during the first part of the next class, when all is chaos, before the teacher has gained control. I only remember doing one report at home, in the entire four years. That, and assigned reading. But nothing else. I assumed that I didn’t know anything, and that university classes would be different. They would be the real thing. I psyched myself out, convincing myself it would be harder, and so much different.
I was 17 and laden with preconceived notions of inadequacy. I met my RA, Resident Advisor, that first day in the dorm, and asked about her major. She was older. Mature. She was the RA, after all. Architecture. Oh, I said, quite interested. How do you like it It’s very hard, she said. She didn’t recommend it. How funny it is, how a fragment of conversation can change the course of one’s life. It was that advice, from one who knows, that dissuaded me from that path. I think back to that moment and wonder how I could have put so much faith in a struggling student, and so little faith in myself. In retrospect, I know it wouldn’t have been that hard for me. I think I would have done quite well, out there in the world of architects.
Instead, I went to the job placement center, and scanned the statistics for the best prospects of employment upon completion. The engineering disciplines were at the top. Chemical was first, followed by Electrical and Mechanical. Having had no chemistry background whatsoever, I opted for electrical. And there it was. My decision.
Obviously, I didn’t know anything about anything. Else how could I assume architecture would be too hard, because someone else said so, yet electrical engineering would be just fine. I amaze myself, how much of an idiot I can be sometimes.
I did it. I graduated. I made it through. I did well enough. It was stressful, and I could have done much better, had I not psyched myself out. It turns out that I did have the relative ability and intelligence needed to learn that field, after all. Imagine that. It also turned out that my small university actually had a very good engineering department. Our graduates were placing in the top 10 percentile, nationally, I vaguely recall. So. I got a decent education after all. For a bargain, at that.
Job placement was tough, that year. Only half of my fellow classmates got jobs, upon graduation. I had several offers. I might boast, but I ought to consider that perhaps I was a good catch from the perspective of EEO quotas. There weren’t many female engineers at the time. I fit a double minority, being half Korean, and all. Even so, I was relieved and proud to be joining the ranks of the professional employed.
I knew little of the company. I chose it because it was the closest to home, even though it was hundreds of miles from home. In a city. A big city. A big city full of traffic. It was terrifying.
Twenty years ago today, I stepped through the gate, into a new life. I was confident I would stay only a few years, get some experience under my belt, and move on to a place more vogue. Groom myself for management. Because that’s where it’s at, baby. Management. The measure of success. A few years turned into two decades in the blink of an eye. Management is the farthest thing from my mind. Coworkers have become friends who are all part of my family now. I love these people who I’ve shared the last twenty years of my life with. This company has been good to me.
I’m many many years from retirement, and wonder how long I will remain here. I’d like to stay for some time, if I can work it all out. I have hopes for my life, for my family, for my child(ren)’s upbringing. I would like for it all to work out. For now, it’s one day at a time, one week at a time, one month at a time, one year at a time, until I formulate a more definitive plan.
