Introduction
Millions of books, blog posts, personal essays, and advice columns are written about college, but what about after college? Those first few years of finding your footing in the real world are filled with transitional crises and fraught introspection. You’re a freshman all over again.
The thirty-eight essays in Freshman Year of Life tell the truth about life beyond college graduation from the voices of people a few years out. Some of their stories are funny, some heartwarming; some are about their successes, and others reflect their failures. There are stories about going from a committed college relationship to casual dating in an unfamiliar city, navigating a toxic work environment, learning how to stay patient in a part of your life that isn’t defined by semesters and finals, and tackling the task of making new friends, something you may not have had to do since college orientation.
Freshman Year of Life includes writers with large followings, but we didn’t want to only hear from people with big platforms. That’s where MindSumo comes in. The MindSumo community of college students and recent graduates came up with the idea for this book. We asked them what book they would most like to have available to them upon graduation, and they overwhelmingly responded with requests for authentic essays from people like themselves. And so we went back into that community to hear stories from people just like you. That’s why this book includes words from people who have millions of followers and some you haven’t heard of … yet.
Even with thirty-eight voices, this doesn’t begin to scratch the surface. There are a multitude of different experiences out there, and one of them will be your own. It’s not the end of the conversation; it’s the start.
The Extra Mile(s)
ALANA MASSEY
French is the only official foreign language I speak according to my résumé, but I am also fluent in the rarer and more mysterious tongue of job boards. Littered with platitudes and euphemisms and code words for unforeseen labor, they all demand just a little more than they appear to and cloak these demands in requests for good attitudes. As I would come to learn in May of 2007 when I was fresh off a B.A. in history from NYU, entry-level roles are especially susceptible to being written deceptively. I applied to countless administrative and junior roles after ticking off the requisite Microsoft and Adobe programs and the basic computer skills I’d had since childhood. But following all of these hard and fast skills were qualifications like “Ready to do what it takes to get the job done,” “Willing to go the extra mile for their team,” and the rather ominous “Clock-watchers need not apply.”
I became the executive assistant to the CEO of a successful snack food enterprise and a burgeoning nonprofit with three international offices and hugely ambitious plans for expansion the year I joined. I dove headlong into calendar and e-mail management, foolishly believing that the kind of man who could both ascend to power in the cutthroat world of gourmet snacks and make a name for himself in philanthropy could be tamed by my meek attempts to quell his entrepreneurial spirit for long enough to make conference calls on time. My polite reminders in Outlook and my timid knocks at his office door while he was bellowing into the phone went largely ignored.
While he brushed off my attempts to perform my basic duties, he sent long late-night e-mails elaborating his plans to start a blog that I would serve as ghostwriter for. I am ready to do what it takes to get the job done. One night he demanded that the communications director and I renegotiate the price of the lapel pins of our logo with a manufacturer in China on the eve of an important national holiday there and well after midnight in our offices. I will not be a clock-watcher, I will not be a clock-watcher. I was flattered by his confidence that I could handle roles beyond the administrative ones for which I was hired as I scripted public service announcements for A-list celebrity speakers and managed production from across the country. I am going the extra mile.
After three months, my provisional status was supposed to come under review and move me from contract employee to full-time. My boss rescheduled the meeting three times before finally calling me in his office to discuss my progress. Instead of letting me summarize my accomplishments, he gave a hasty little speech on how he wanted to watch my performance in the lead-up to a big event before committing to taking me on full-time. I swear on my mother’s good name, he winked at me as he delivered this verdict. Floored by his failure to see the value of my labor but obstinate in my need to prove myself, I threw myself into more work. I went miles beyond the extra miles. I did what it took. I kept my eyes off the clock and not just because I could hardly keep them open by the time I left the office.
On a Saturday night, I had a friend over for drinks, and when my boss called my cell phone after midnight, I reflexively jumped away from the phone. I burst into tears at seeing his name flash across the display and stood away from it, as if he might peer out of the screen to see me momentarily enjoying myself and scorn me accordingly when we were face-to-face again. It took being witnessed by outside observers to realize the extent to which I’d let myself be consumed and defeated in the effort to prove I was ready to do what it takes.
I quit the following week. My boss dramatically begged me to stay, even initially refusing my resignation. Rather than his usual custom of simply shouting me into his office when he wanted to talk, he sent me calendar invites to discuss how we might make the role work for me. He recited a litany of the vital things I offered the office for much of the time we’d allotted for the meeting. I sat politely and listened attentively despite my now unflinching resolve to leave. I watched the clock behind him strike 5:00 P.M., the end time of our meeting, and stood to leave. I thanked him for the opportunity and headed out the door, traveling no more and no less than the 2.1 miles it took on my bike to get me from the office back home.
What isn’t immediately apparent about those personality traits listed in job descriptions is that they are designed to be self-perpetuating. Once you do what it takes the first time, you’re groomed to do even more the next time. And the first extra mile is just the first leg of the race. If you’re willing to go the extra mile often enough, you find yourself lost and alone, so focused on the task at hand that you’ve forgotten where the clocks are, even if you wanted to watch them. These descriptions are meant to flatter young people who will agree that they are the tenacious types who roll up their sleeves and prove themselves, which is just a rosy way to describe the extraction of labor from a person without paying fairly for it.
The irony, of course, is that the same tenacity that kept me in the office for those endless, uncompensated hours was what enabled me to leave the job when I realized that my boundaries and labor were being disrespected. And it is that same tenacity that soon got me a new job that was advertised with the skills it required rather than the personal demands it would exert. My new employer respected my labor there, and for what it’s worth, they had a clock waiting for me right on my desk.
Stepping-Stones
ALISON GILBERT
My college choice was born of secondhand nostalgia from hearing stories of my mother’s time at the George Washington University during the early ’70s in Washington, D.C. Watching Forrest Gump as a kid and then hearing these stories, I wanted to live out my romanticized idea of being part of a historical moment and joining the equivalent of the hippie subculture of my time. My college choice was entirely based on gut, whim, fantasy.
When I had to choose my major, I chose English. I didn’t like taking tests, and I grew up doing better in the language arts and humanities. My gut told me this would be a suitable choice and transferable to pursuing law. I had decided even before I began college that law school was next after graduation. If I wasn’t going to be the Jewish doctor I thought my parents wanted me to be, I would be the Jewish lawyer.
After finishing at GW, with two rounds of LSAT test taking under my belt and a list of law schools to apply to, I struggled to hammer out the personal statement. I shared my writing troubles with a friend, who asked me what the prompt was. “Why do you want to be a lawyer?” I told him.
After a pause, he replied, “Alison, if you’re having trouble answering that question, then maybe you need to rethink what you’re doing next.”
Up until this moment in my life, I skipped from one life choice to the next, with a “well, why not, that seems right” attitude. But deciding to not go to law school felt big. It was the first time life and intuition were actively telling me if I didn’t dig in and figure it out, I would not be happy moving forward.
No anecdote nor ism can capture the inner push and pull I felt in coming to terms with not going. If I was not Alison, the girl on the path to pursuing law and a career that fulfilled society’s idea of a smart person grooming herself to be a successful adult, then who was I?
But once I decided not to go, my world unfolded in a series of stepping-stones that seemed to just appear as I went from one job to the next. Cooking and baking had been a go-to pastime throughout my life—preparing weeknight dinners for my family growing up, tinkering with different pastry recipes for all the holidays, procrastinating from law school essay writing by baking peach cobblers and berry crisps.
I answered a Craigslist ad to be a baker at a just-opened-up bakery in my Jersey Shore hometown. I was offered the job and took it. That turned into my managing that bakery. From there, I was sparked to follow my baking passion further. I enrolled in culinary school and moved to New York. Fast-forward to being in the right place at the right time, I got a part-time assistant job at a brand-new food magazine startup called Tasting Table. Having grown up spectating the food media world, watching cooking celebrities on food TV channels after school and reading about recipes in magazines like racy novels, I had ended up in that world myself.
Then I got offered an opportunity to run my own bakery back in New Jersey, and I said yes. I kept the part-time assistant job (it didn’t hurt to have a backup plan), but packed all my belongings up, and headed back to Jersey, only to pull into my parents’ driveway and realize, Wait, this doesn’t feel right. For what reason, I didn’t know. It just didn’t. My gut was telling me. I turned right around, moved back into the city (I had not yet found a sublet for my apartment), and a week later the CEO at Tasting Table gave me a full-time job.
I’d gone from working in a pastry kitchen to eventually becoming chief operating officer at Tasting Table, all because I let go of my plan and listened to my gut instead. I discovered a new passion for growing businesses, and after helping build Tasting Table into a forty-person, multimillion-dollar company with readership in the millions, I went on to start my own business consulting company. And I did it all not because of what others wanted and what was expected of me, but because I followed what I wanted.
I would never have been able to plan all these stepping-stones out from the beginning. The hardest part was and still is figuring out how to create the space in my brain to listen to my gut. But I work at it every day because I’m excited about where my gut is taking me. I’m excited to see where I’m taking myself.
A Story of a Fuck Off Fund
PAULETTE PERHACH
You’re telling your own story: You graduated college and you’re a grown-ass woman now. Tina Fey is your hero; Beyoncé, your preacher.
You know how to take care of you. You’ve learned self-defense. If any man ever hit you, you’d rip his eyes out. You’ve seen Mad Men, and if anyone ever sexually harassed you at work, you’d tell him to fuck right off, throw your coffee in his face, and wave two middle fingers as you marched out the door.
You get your first internship. You get your first credit card. You get to walk into Nordstrom, where your mom would never take you, and congratulate yourself with one fabulous black leather skirt, and the heels to match.
Your car? It’s the car of a college student. You get a lease, graduate from the rusted Civic to last year’s Accord.
You get your first student loan bill, and look at all those numbers.
Your life turns into a stock photo tagged “young professionals”: you and your new work friends, hanging out at the bar across the street from the office. The cocktails cost twice as much as you paid when you still measured time by semesters and nights by cans of PBR.
The college boyfriend gets serious. You move into his place, spruce it up by buying your first coffee table together. IKEA lets you put half on your newest credit card.
Your internship ends before you find a permanent job. You pay minimum payments, then max out your cards again buying two days’ worth of groceries and filling your gas tank halfway.
Your bank app upgrades to a new feature that combines all your balances—the shiny Nordstrom card with the Visa and the Chase Freedom you were only supposed to use for emergencies—and tells you that somehow you owe people $7,000.
Your boyfriend offers to cover the rent for a while. You get a job a few months later, but you’re that many loan payments behind. Your first paycheck feels like a breath of air that gets sucked right out of your lungs.
Your new boss, who seems nice, calls you in his office, shows you a picture of his kids. He jokes about his son, then as you’re laughing, he puts his hand on your arm, gives you a little squeeze. You smile it off.
You wait to pay the electric bill while you’re gathering up the half you owe, and the lights go out. On your phone you see the e-mail about the fifty dollar late fee. Your boyfriend asks how you could be so stupid. “I am not stupid,” you say. You would never be with someone who called you names, but you would never be able to make first, last, and deposit right now, either.
You say yes to payday P. F. Chang’s with your new coworkers, because you want to make friends, your turkey sandwich sounds boring, and what’s one more charge? You buy a halter dress you know you can’t afford, because it makes you look like the successful young woman you want everyone to think you are.
Your boss tells you that you look nice in that dress, asks you to do a spin. Just to get the moment over with, you do.
Your boyfriend asks you how much you paid for it, says it makes you look chubby. You lock yourself in the bathroom until he bangs on the door so hard you think he must have hurt himself. After he falls asleep, you search Craigslist for places, and can’t believe how expensive rent’s gotten around town. You erase your Internet history and go to sleep.
A few weeks later, your boss calls a one-on-one in his office, walks up behind you, and stands too close. His breath fogs your neck. His hand crawls up your new dress. You squirm away. He says, “Sorry, I thought…”
You know what to do. You’re just shocked to find you’re not doing it. You are not telling him to fuck off. You are not storming out. All you’re doing is math. You have $159 in the bank and your car payment and your maxed-out credit cards and you’ll die before you ask your dad for a loan again and it all equals one thought: I need this job.
“It’s okay,” you hear your voice saying. “Just forget it.” You scurry out of the room, survey the office half full of women, and wonder how many of them have secrets like the one you’re about to keep.
At the apartment, your best guy friend calls. After you hang up, your boyfriend says you laugh too much with him, that you’re flirting with him, probably sleeping with him. You say it’s not like that. You yell, he yells. You try to leave, he blocks your way. When you struggle to get by, he grabs your wrist in the exact way they pretended to in self-defense class, and you know to go for the eyes, but you don’t know how to go for his eyes. He yanks you back until you fall and crack the coffee table.
He seems so sorry, cries, even, so that night you lie down in the same bed. You stare up at the dark and try to calculate how long it would take you to save up the cash to move out. Telling yourself that he’s sorry, convincing yourself it was an accident, discounting this one time because he didn’t hit you, exactly, seems much more feasible than finding the money, with what you owe every month. The next time you go out as a couple, his arm around your shoulders, you look at all the other girlfriends and imagine finger-sized bruises under their long sleeves.
Wait. This story sucks. If it were one of those Choose Your Own Adventures, here’s where you’d want to flip back, start over, rewrite what happens to you.
You graduated college and you’re a grown-ass woman now. Tina Fey is your hero; Beyoncé, your preacher.
If any man ever hit you, if anyone ever sexually harassed you, you’d tell him to fuck right off. You want to be, no, you will be the kind of woman who can tell anyone to fuck off if a fuck off is deserved, so naturally you start a Fuck Off Fund.
To build this account, you keep living like you lived as a broke student. Drive the decade-old Civic even after the fender falls off. Buy the thrift store clothes. You waitress on Saturdays, even though you work Monday through Friday. You make do with the garage sale coffee table. It’s hard, your loan payments suck, but you make girls’ night an at-home thing and do tacos potluck.
You save up a Fuck Off Fund of $1,000, $2,000, $3,000, then enough to live half a year without anyone else’s help. So when your boss tells you that you look nice, asks you to do a spin, you say, “Is there some way you need my assistance in the professional capacity or can I go back to my desk now?”
When your boyfriend calls you stupid, you say if he ever says that again, you’re out of there, and it’s not hard to imagine how you’ll accomplish your getaway.
When your boss attempts to grope you, you say, “Fuck off, you creep!” You wave two middle fingers in the air, and march over to HR. Whether the system protects you or fails you, you will be able to take care of yourself.
When your boyfriend pounds the door, grabs your wrist, you see it as the red flag it is, leave a Post-it in the night that says, “Fuck off, lunatic douche!” You stay up in a fancy hotel drinking room service champagne, shopping for apartments, and swiping around on Tinder.
Once your Fuck Off Fund is built back up, with your new, better job, you pay cash for the most badass black leather skirt you can find, upgrade to the used but nicer convertible you’ve always wanted, and start saving to go to Thailand with your best friend the next summer.
Yes, that’s a better story.
It’s a story no one ever told me.
It’s the kind I’d hope for you.
Copyright © 2017 by MindSumo, Inc.
