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ONE
PINK DOOR
LYLAH
“I’m sorry, we’ve decided to go a different route,” Cindy, from the fifth company, and what feels like the tenth interview process, says to me through the phone.
Honestly, I’m surprised she even called; most haven’t. Most of the jobs have sent a sorry-ass automated email with some roundabout way of saying the position has been filled.
That’s it.
I’ve gone through six years of schooling, and then completed an additional eighteen-month fellowship, only to be put through the ringer trying to find a job.
The need for speech pathologists is high. Between babies and kids, all the way up to the elderly requiring our services after strokes or other life-altering illnesses, we’re supposed to be in high demand… but I guess when you look like me, the need doesn’t outweigh the prejudice.
I'm alternative.
My style, my interests, everything about me.
Always have been and always will be.
And I refuse to change or hide this side of me for a fucking job.
Every potential workplace I’ve walked into, the face of the interviewer has immediately fallen when they see me. From my black hair with neon green ghost roots, to too many facial piercings to name off, tattoos, and a dominantly black wardrobe—even if it is professional attire—they completely disregard anything I have to say.
But they never get past my appearance. I’m a hard worker, and I love what I do—sadly, they’ll never get to experience me.
Sitting on the couch in my studio apartment, with my laptop out, I scroll through more job sites. I have “speech therapist” in the search bar, but one listing catches my eye; it’s for a live-in nannyposition, their baby needing pediatric swallow therapy…
I click apply before I can even second-guess what a parent of a newborn would possibly think of me. My fingers are crossed that they’ll look past the surface-level stuff and let me be in my happy place, caring for my patients. Plus, being a nanny—that can’t be all that bad, right?
I receive an email alert not even an hour later from Tatum, the child’s mother, requesting that I interview today for the nanny position.
A fucking nanny position as a twenty-four-year-old with a master’s degree. You’d think I wouldn’t be hoping for a position like this, but I am desperate foranykind of job in my preferred field.
She said the position needed to be filled urgently because the last nanny didn’t work out. Is it pathetic if I agree to meet her today without any time between applying?
Probably.
But in all honesty, I feel hopeless, and workingwith kids has been my dream since I began pursuing a career in speech pathology in college.
I’d rather get bullied by a toddler than an old person any day.
So I decide here and now that I’m going to get ready and head to her house for the interview. After sending off the okay to meet with her today, I start to apply my makeup and fix my hair, thinking to myself that I’m not going light on anything to do with my appearance. This is a nanny position, meaning I’m going to be in this woman’s home, and I don’t want to have to hide any part of what makes meme. I need to put my most authentic self forward.
I shimmy on one of my calf-length black dresses, accompanied by my silver waist chains, and doll it up with a few silver necklaces of different lengths, matching silver rings, and even add some dangling weights to my gauges.
I’m grabbing my crossbody and heading out the door for an interview that I have no hopes of going any better than my previous five. Some would think that living in Los Angeles, people and employers would be a hell of a lot more open-minded than they are, but no dice.
The forty-five minutes out of the city are madelonger purely from the traffic, and I can’t stop my thoughts of how this is about to be a waste of time. That same thought is screaming at me as I see the gated neighborhood come into view, and my GPS tells me to turn.
“God-fucking-damnit,” I say to myself as I pull up to the little guard shack and roll my window down. “Hi.”
“Can I help you, ma’am?” the middle-aged man asks, with a very confused look on his face.
“Yes, I’m here to see Tatum—” I cut myself off because I don’t even know the woman’s last name.
“Oh yes, she called and let us know. Do you have your driver’s license so we can enter it into the system?” I grab my wallet and hand the license over to him. This is probably why she’s fine with random people who are looking for jobs to come to her house… I grab my license back, and the guard instructs me, “Her house is the fifth one on the right.”
