The Beauty that Endures
Upon graduation from university, I began a fervent and enduring search for a job. For three endless years, I answered Situations Vacant ads from coast to coast. But, although I filled out countless applications, I had no offers at all. My father said it was because I am a woman and a “homely” one at that.
“Such an idea went out with the Charleston,” I told him. “A woman can do anything a man can nowadays.”
“I wonder,” said my father, quietly.
My mother insisted it was because I have no style, and I knew she was right. OK, I’m clean and neat, but I don’t spend a lot of time in dress stores and beauty shops. Still, I dismissed both my parents’ reasons as foolish and superficial.
“People aren’t hired for their looks,” I said. “If I had the right qualifications, an employer wouldn’t care if I dressed in a burlap bag and had eyes in the back of my head.”
I believe this, because I think that way. I value people because of their goodness, and I measure their worth by their capabilities. And I assumed that’s how others judged me. And so I ignored my parents’ pessimism and concentrated on polishing my writing skills so that when opportunity knocked, I would be ready to open the door.
At last, I received a phone call from interstate inviting me to be interviewed for a writing position. The personnel director of the newspaper there explained that it would take about two days for me to meet the managing editor, the department heads and the people I might be working with.
“How soon can you get here?” he asked.
I could hardly contain my excitement. The work he described was the kind I’d always dreamed of doing. I knew I could handle the job. Better, I knew I would love every minute of it.
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” I said.
The next morning, I hurried to the airport. I bubbled excitement as I chattered to everyone I saw. The flight was filled with interesting people with a lot to say, and I had a wonderful time.
The personnel director met me at the airport and drove me to the executive offices of the newspaper. He ushered me into a plush, well-appointed office.
“Mr Garfield will be right in to meet you,” he said, and left.
A few moments later, the door swung open and the managing editor walked in. He introduced himself then immediately began talking about the tremendous employee turnover he had at his newspaper.
“I really can’t understand it,” he said. “We pay very good salaries here, and our fringe benefits are unequalled anywhere in the state. I guess it’s the kind of people who seek employment these days. They just aren’t stable; they take no pride in their work.”
As he talked, he paced the floor and smoked one cigarette after another. Abruptly, he walked to the door.
“I must leave. I have a deadline in just half an hour.” And he was gone.
I hadn’t said a single word.
In a few moments, the personnel director returned. “Well, you can go home now,” he said.
“You mean . . . that’s all?” I asked. “Isn’t anyone going to ask me any questions? Aren’t I going to meet any of the editors?”
“No. Mr Garfield doesn’t feel you would fit in with us,” he answered. “We have a sixth sense about these things.”
He drove me to the airport and booked me for the evening plane. As I sat in the airport, the full impact of what had happened hit me: I’d been rejected for the way I looked, nothing more. I went to the mirror in the ladies room and peered at my sad reflection. For the first time, I saw me. I looked at a plain but peaceful-faced woman that looked back at me.
And then I cried. I cried tears of flustration because I had been judged for something I couldn’t help; for something that told no more about my writing ability than an orange peel tells how sweet the fruit will taste. I cried tears of fire because it was so unfair to dispose of me like an unwanted piece of paper. And then I cried tears of humiliation. My parents were right after all, and I had been so sure they were not.
I was very quiet on the trip home. I didn’t talk to my fellow travellers for fear I would repel them. I drove home from the airport overwhelmed with sombre thoughts of a future without hope. But when I opened the door of my house, the sight and smell of so much that was familiar warmed me, and I smiled once more. I felt once again that I belonged somewhere, that I had a place to love and be loved.
From that moment on, I wasted no more tears on the things about me that I couldn’t change. Instead, I thought of that man and all the people like him in this world who base their judgments on the colour of someone’s skin or the curl of her hair.
“Beauty is all very well at first sight,” wrote George Bernard Shaw, “But who ever looks at it/ When it has been in the house three days?”
How tenuous it must seem to build your every hope on foundations as feeble as a passing fad, as evanescent as a rainbow. As I stood in the welcome comfort of my own solid world, I again saw that nervous, pacing man, and I cried once more.
But this time, I cried for him.
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