Job Chutzpah

Job Chutzpah

by

Ruth Lampert

Copyright July 2010

In the unlikely event that there are some among you some who do not know the meaning of “chutzpah,” it is defined on the web as a Yiddish word meaning “unbelievable gall; audacity; insolence.”

I first became aware of this smarmy trait in myself back in the day when I was applying for a job in Tucson, Arizona, where I had recently arrived with my then-husband and my then-and-now children.

It was to be my second job in Tucson. I had left my first, as Secretary to the President of the University of Arizona, under false pretenses. But then, the job title was itself somewhat false and pretentious..

I had climbed up the University career ladder in only a few short weeks from a menial, boring clerical job in which I had earned the disdain and dislike of my co-workers by finishing all my assignments in about one third of the allotted time. This was less a reflection of the excellence of my work than of the prevailing job ethos which seemed to be: “Least accomplished, least demanded.”

I was promoted to the large cadre of Secretaries to the President, where, as but one of many workers, I had almost nothing to do. (It did not occur to me then, as it does now, to wonder how much the President himself had to do) I discussed my situation with the Head Secretary, (and how busy was she, really? Did her undoubtedly generous salary reflect the illusion that she supervised many hard-working underlings?) In any case she said, in what I am sure were meant to be reassuring tones, “don’t worry about it dear, we know you’re here if we need you, and that’s what counts.”

Well fine. I was bored out of my skull. In desperation I read through all the confidential files of all the professors, and they were pretty boring too. So much for blackmail as an adjunct profession. I secretly read books smuggled in from home. I tried to do some writing but I was so uninspired I couldn’t think of anything to write about except how un-inspired I was, and that didn’t stretch very far. (Not then it didn’t. The reader has probably noted that over time my ability to stretch material has increased markedly.)

Finally, I activated the defense which had served me well in the past, and would again in the future: I became sick. I went to our friendly family doctor. He could find nothing physically wrong, and said, with a perfectly straight face, “probably it’s stress; your job must be very demanding.” Did he know? Had he treated others before me with the same syndrome? In any case I apparently qualified for a generous sick-leave, during which, for some reason, I was not at all bored.

But we were financially strapped, so when my leave ended I resigned the University job and signed up with an employment agency, where I learned of an opening for Secretary/Registrar at the Tucson Art Center.

Now that was a job I wanted. The site was a renovated small family home near downtown Tucson. The milieu was comfortable, and artistic in a creative but not “artsy” way. The Director, Frank Sanguinetti, and I hit it off immediately. It was all but a done deal when he asked, or rather commented off-handedly, “You take shorthand, of course.”

Oooops. Now this was before dictating and recording devices had come upon the office scene. Shorthand was the skill that set secretaries apart from lowly stenographers,( although it not been a requirement for the Secretary to the President gig.)

So I did what had to be done. I lied.

“Yes of course…uh…that is, “I haven’t actually taken it for a while, so I am kind of rusty,” I improvised. “It will take me a few weeks to brush up.” “Will three weeks be enough time?’ he asked. (Did he know?) “Oh certainly “’ I replied. That concluded the interview, and I dashed over to the nearest bookstore where I bought an instruction manual in Gregg shorthand. In three weeks I had taught myself enough to get by. “It’s coming back to me, but kind of slowly” I explained to Frank with a straight face. He appeared to believe me.

Thus began my career as Secretary/Registrar.

The job didn’t just live up to my expectations, it exceeded them. In addition to the usual secretarial tasks of answering the phone and taking dictation (ha ha) I learned simple bookkeeping from the wonderful, now long-departed Mr. Alfred Panofsky, helped mount shows in the small museum portion of the “Center” and even learned a little art history.

I remained there until we moved from Tucson back to the Los Angeles area, where I found myself again in the position of lying about my qualifications, but this time by denial, not exaggeration. I had learned to type in high school and was very good at it; for some reason the skill was in something of a decline. I soon found that at this time no matter what job I applied for, if the prospective employer discovered I could type, that was it, I was hired – as a typist. I didn’t want to be a typist. Oh how I did not want to be a typist. (I think I once wrote a piece called “I’m In A Typing Pool and Sinking Fast” but perhaps I read that somewhere. Please note that plagiarism is not among my smarmy qualities.)

So whenever I was asked “can you type?” I said I could not, and I did not offer to learn. A sin of omission.

There is a lot more drama (or tedium) to the saga of how I finally became a licensed Marriage and Family/ Gestalt therapist, and though it did take some chutzpah to get there, ethics and integrity in the work itself were never compromised. And that is the truth. I retired as a therapist a year ago, and, obviously, continue to write. Usually truthfully.

So you see, boys and girls….oh the hell with it, draw your own moral to the story.