Painfully pressing my hands together, I nod. “Yes. I started taking online courses in high school, during my free time. My self-lessons only went so far, but I thought it’d be worth including, since I had the basic fundamentals down before college.”
It’s not the most impressive thing I’ve ever done. There are so many more skills and experiences I have printed that he could question me about. I wait for him to bring any other topic up.
Mr. Fitz chuckles and looks back down at the page. “Okay. Interesting choice.”
I think I’ve lost circulation in my left hand.
Despite the countless topics at his disposal, he doesn’t ask anything else about my history. Mr. Fitz replaces my resume with his own packet of papers, tossing the itemized list of my life’s work aside. His gaze holds a newfound interest with these pages.
“What is your ideal career path?”
Finally, something I prepared for.
“My overall goal is to become a quantitative research analyst for Xion Group.”
He hums. Nods. Writes something on his pieces of paper and only glances back at me once. “Our positions for quantitative research analyst roles are extremely competitive.”
“Understandably. I wouldn’t want to be at Xion Group if it wasn’t the best.”
He taps his pen and tilts his head. “Good to know you’ve done your research.”
Research for the last decade of my life, yes.
“With our roles being so competitive, however, we usually require a PhD before taking on a full quant analyst role. Is this something you could see yourself achieving in the future?”
“Of course. It’s a bit ambitious, but I’d like to earn my PhD before I’m thirty.”
I brace myself for the worst reply—the one that usually follows. I want to blame it on habit, and not the motion of his mouth down turning, but I know the truth.
Once I tell people I want a doctorate before my thirtieth birthday, it’s met with skepticism. Backhanded comments about my health, that really imply I’m incapable of achieving my goal because it’s too hard. Sometimes people will straight out tell me it’s not possible. They never say it’s because of time, though. Always leaving the lingering implication that it’s because of skill.
The worst response of all, though, is when people tell me not to be ridiculous. That my husband won’t wait that long for me to produce children, and my biological clock will be ticking. Those comments hurt the most. They disregard my strength and intelligence, boiling me down to the mother of my husband’s children, and nothing else.
Thirty is young. Young enough to be a motheranda doctor. Even if I wanted kids before that, it wouldn’t make my goal impossible. I could watch over little heads of blonde while studying trading strategies for an exam if I wanted it bad enough.
I do want it bad enough.
Mr. Fitz’ mouth draws into a sickly familiar thin line. I’ve seen it precede doubting remarks too many times.
Opening his mouth, he says, “At least you acknowledge it’s ambitious. Good luck.”
The question of,“How old were you when you got your doctorate?”coats my tongue. It swirls around in my mouth, souring the interview, the day, my week, even. He makes a show of circling another handful of things on his forsaken paper, and I find something behind him to focus on.
If I keep looking at him, and his somehow extremely uninterested yet condescending expression, I’ll lose my cool. Rosie Mendoza will never be taken seriously; Not by the boysinevitably murmuring about me in the hallway, or by the person carelessly tossing around my future in their hands.
Eventually, after a too-long stretch of silence, Mr. Fitz sighs.
“Well, one thing I can’t argue is that you have the best qualifications out of everyone, by far. On that alone, I would say you can expect us to contact you for your next steps. Expect an email in the next few weeks.”
That’s it. I don’t experience the grueling process of being interrogated about my past curriculums. He doesn’t stare me down while throwing out hypothetical situations to test my quick-thinking. I’m not forced to second-guess my answers to questions about work-life balance and why they should choose me over everyone else.
I’m so irrelevant to him, he doesn’t even bother to screen me properly. It’s the easiest thing I’ve experienced during this program, and the most insulting.
I spit out a thank you while leaving my seat. It tastes worse than what I really want to say to him.
When I get led out of the room, it isn’t lost on me that I never get that handshake—and Jeremiah gets one before he even makes it through the office door.
My dark brown blazer is drenched by the time I rush into the dorm building, through the hallway, and to our front door.
