Resumes.

A whole life organized into bullet points, summed up, and outlined. You’re a sales pitch on the page. A friend (let’s call him “Bob”) asked me to look at his resume. It was like taking the carpool lane to Lastima-ville. I blew my nose into his Education and wept.

I just cannot. I cannot read about your “sharp management abilities” or your “proficiency to lead” or your “excellence in communication.” Because you are so much more than this blueprint of a job history, laid out so nicely in Times New Roman, 12pt font. Because we’re all reduced to black words on a white sheet, and it’s not enough to tell our story.  Because I know you want this badly. You want, “we pick you!” You want approval. You want to find your place in the great big world, and this document is your invitation. 

And I want it for you, “Bob.” I want HR to put yours on the top of the stack. But they can’t say yes to everybody, can they? I’m sending you good wishes. And while we’re at it, I’m sending good vibes to that Human Resources office, which would be my Dante’s Inferno. Stuck under a pile of resumes, going over eager and unfair representations. Making decisions about futures. Suffering from endless lastima and paper-cuts in the process. 

One day I hope to apply for jobs through interpretive dance or something else, anything else that would better showcase our wholeness. But until then, don’t wait for them to say that you are right or ready. You don’t need their permission. You already have purpose, you were born with it. So go ahead now, go forward, and do it on your own. 

p.s. Just added lastima under my Special Skills. It might be the only one that matters.