I write the cover letter, attach the file and hit send.
For the hundredth time, I sigh.
My resume travels across the interwebs to be reviewed by someone who will not read between the lines. I will be drawn out and imagined as someone I will not recognize, and a door will be closed in my face because I don’t fit.
I will be classified and shaped and discarded.
I will be ignored.
The words I carefully constructed to define who I am will carry no weight on a screen.
I wonder how I define people.
Do I also see them as their experiences? Do I judge their lives by the stars that aligned the moment they were born?
Maybe I do.
Maybe my bias is just as devasting to others as the emptiness I feel when I wait for someone to open that file and draw the lines that I know do not define me based on the way my life, full of unexpected curveballs and experiences out of my control, is spelled out on one page.
I cry out, “Meet me first; hear how I view my shape before I list my virtues and wait for approval!”
I cry out to the ruffling pages of people who mean so much more than the words and the outside reflection of things they have done because that’s where they were or because that’s what they thought at that time. I await in the silence of one-page profiles of people filling the air around me, falling to the ground in a heap where they will be stepped on because their resume said that they were not worth a look in the eye.
I cry out to a world that will not hear because I speak in a tongue made for the street and trip over the one used by those sitting at a desk in an ivory tower.
I click send and I lose another line in my shape and I know that if I need to do this another minute more, I will have erased the best of me.