“Remind me—which department are you from?”
“Product.”
“Seems like a fairly aggressive career shift.”
“I disagree.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” he says dryly.
I watch him scan over me, starting at the top of my head and working down, like I’m a file that he’s reading. I try to imagine what I might look like to a stranger, hoping I give off more “put-together city woman” than “annoying little sister.” Several times a year I pay hundreds of dollars to turn my hair from “flat brown” to “warm, dimensional brown,” a subtle, but I think significant difference, and one I hope he catalogues. He pauseswhen he meets my eyes, which, like his, are brown, and which my mom always says are my best feature. Though I suspect in this case, what he’s noticing is the smear of mascara on my eyelid that I forgot to wipe away, and am now painfully awareof.
Assessment complete, he continues. “Well, now seems like as good a time as any, I guess. Let’s begin the interview. First question: why do you want to be a data strategist?”
Jesus. We’re really doing this.
“Well,” I hedge, trying to find a better answer thanbecause I’ve been laid off and have no choice.“I’ve always been interested in…data. It’s so important, especially for a business like ours.”
His mouth quirks at that. “That it is. And would you say you have experience with…data?”
“Definitely.”
“I’d love for you to give me some examples.” He shifts forward on his elbows. I mistrust the gleam in hiseye.
“Well, obviously we’re very data-led in Product,” I say, stalling for time.
“Obviously.”
“And, before the merger I handled most of Jotter’s customer surveys, which, really, is just another form of data collection.”
“I didn’t think Jotter did customer surveys. They never had a user research team.”
I shrug. “We weren’t big enough to need one. It made more sense for someone in Product to run them, so the feedback could go to the right place.”
He bobs his head, making a little humming noise likehmm.
The interrogation continues.
“Are you familiar with SQL?” When I say nothing, he adds, “Can you tell me what it stands for?”
Shit.
“Of course. Super…Quality…Leads.”
“Uh, no,” he says, but he grins, like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all day. “It’s ‘Structured Query Language.’ For the record.”
I pick at a piece of imaginary lint on my sleeve. “I guess in your department it’s different.”
He laughs.
“Listen, Annie, you seem nice,” he says, making fairly intense eye contact. “And I admire your commitment to the cause. But I think you’d hate this role. It’s really technical, and if you don’t have the programming languages, I’m not even sure you could doit.”
Though he is one hundred percent correct in his assessment, hearing him say it—and so gently, too, like he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings—puts me in a rage. My job is the one achievement I have to my name. I am not leaving here withoutit.
“Look,” I say, impatient even to my own ears. “It’s true that I haven’t worked in data before, but I workwithdata every day. I have what it takes to be a great strategist. I know Taskio inside and out, and I’m areallyfast learner. If there are gaps in my knowledge, I’ll fill them. Quickly.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says. “But with the best will in the world, you couldn’t teach yourself this stuff overnight. It’s not going to work.”
“Try me,” I challenge. “You said there was a skills test. I’ll doit.”
