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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required We scooted back to Paris last week, to the sweltering capital of romance, where I took a series of employment tests, in bright rooms where they timed my answers. Let’s see, there was: a two day, two part “statistics and aptitude test,” a set of “analytical, quantitative screenings,” a personality inventory, two cognitive ability tests, a leadership judgment exercise and three, blind structured interviews where they didn’t know who I am. (that my Grandmère owns the entire circus.) THOSE were fun. There’s nothing like the humiliating theatricality of being asked to summarize yourself in a job interview. I’ll let the embarrassment speak for itself. Don’t shed any tears for me - I’ve spent my entire life being assessed, by teachers, family, strangers in bars - as have you. But it was the first time I’ve ever become entangled in the machinery of respectable work and tried to look employable. I think modern evaluation is half judgment, half performance art. YOU know I’m a mess, I mean, you read me - but what do they know? They never directly asked whether I’m sane, but I think they wanted to know if I could sound sane in a boardroom. I’m going to work for my Grandmère. Part time, because I’m still going to be at university. “Why do I have to take these tests,” I whined, “aren’t I a nepo-baby - don’t I have *rights*??!! “Anyone who’s being hired into management, by any decent company has to take these tests,” she assured me, as if explaining something to a dog. Adding, “You SEEM reasonably intelligent, but I could be biased.” “I should hope so,” I mumbled, pouting like a 5-year-old. I won’t lie, there was some emotional pressure in all of this. I mean, I DO deserve all of my advantages, don’t I? If I was going to do this, I genuinely needed to be taken seriously. It appears that I’ll be joining the bureaucratic meritocracy, in September. . . A song for this: Triangular Girl by Pearl & The Oysters
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