I had a job interview - - like a big deal, we’ll pay your way, put you up for the night, tour you around town kind of interview. I didn’t get it. I’m sad because I imagined myself there. Making a difference. Doing what I’m trained for. Doing what I’m good at.
I’m more than sad—something closer to despondent - - because I glimpsed for a moment what it would be like to be middle class. To not worry about the money running out or about how to get more to buy more time. To not worry about getting that apartment application approved or how many more months and years of intolerable living situations I’ll have to suffer through. To not be so concerned with how the world might respond to all my various identities and marginalized perspectives. To get up in the morning and not feel dread at the thought of another day pushing and pushing trying to survive and plan ahead and somehow get closer to doing what I want to do and may be the only possible thing I am trained for.
And I fear I will have to stay in this precarious position for much longer.
Perhaps I sound like a brat. I am a brat then. I want a space all my own. I want a profession where I feel valuable. I want to not feel like I’m fighting to stay afloat.