Resume Workshop

We oversaw the writing of 80 resumes in under six hours one Wednesday. It took three rooms, six staff members, and immeasurable flexibility. The event also took some muscle, since persuasion wasn’t going to do the trick.

Next week we’re trying something new by inviting a company to the facility to conduct something of a job fair. To attend, offenders need to iron their best uniform, shine their shoes, and bring a “good” resume. Unless they’ve taken my writing class or the business teacher’s class, they don’t have one. In order to be fair, we had to cancel a few classes and give everyone two hours to write a winning resume. Two hours is not a lot of time.

By 10:30 I was encouraged.  Mr. W. and I were getting along fine (I had arranged for two teachers to be in every room), the offenders were cooperating, and we had just enough time to edit everyone’s paper. By lunch I was incensed. Resumes from the other classrooms were starting to come in. How could we allow this junk to pass as a resume? What had the teachers even done all morning? They certainly hadn’t read anything.

When it was over (after snapping at a co-worker to boot) I was tired, but I had to know, “Mr. C. where do I draw the line at a good resume?” It was a busy day for him too, and I suspect that he’d forgotten his declaration about the quality of the resumes. He thumbed through the pile, concluding, “It’s good enough for these guys.” I don’t remember what he said after that because inside I was raging.

These guys? Haven’t they been told that their whole lives? “That’s good enough for you.” In fact, they need the best because they have so much more to overcome. Exhausted, I nearly delivered them as they were, but I decided to sleep on it.

At home I curled into a little ball until my baby broke my pleas to God to give me the heart to forgive the attitude of my boss, the lack of gratitude, the resident diva, and the pervasive apathy of my co-workers.

A little more refreshed the next morning, I took a pink highlighter and began slashing through the small stack. I’d be damned if I let them go out like this: “hardly working,” “moaning lawns,” and “striping lawns” to list a few typos. If not for the sake of the offenders, then let me do this for the sake of our own reputation. I was grateful when my TA slipped in and I thrust the first stack into his hands. He was fighting his own battle that day, though, and it showed. When I double checked the electronic files he was supposed to edit, I still had work to do. Was it worth it?

The following afternoon he was feeling better. I brought up Mr. C.’s statement about being “good enough for them, “and found that I was right that it upset him to hear that. He took the occaision to be uncommonly nice, “You seem to do a lot around here. Everyone else would have printed them [the resumes] the way they were. It was kind of you.” Could I ask for a better thank you than that? Re-energized, I told him to be ready for the final set on Monday morning. This time I would expect only the best from him.


About hey miss

A teacher. A prison guard. I used to think that was like oil and water. Like lightening and metal. Some days it is. Some days it's magic.
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