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The Beauty That Endures
by: Lynn Ruth Miller
 
January-10-11
 
Issue:
12.01

This Month...

Editor's Comment
Michael looks at:
Farewell, Shalom and Adieu


Being Jewish Magazine


see a .pdf copy of the current issue

Features
An Open Letter from Abba to His Family

Enough With The Political Finger-Pointing!

Revisiting the Haggadah

Eddy's Recipe List
Victoria Sponge

Book Review
Unstrung Heroes

The Outspeaker
Encouraging violence is never correct

Batya
Good times and bad times with Batya

Nathan Weissler
What my friendship with Michael Hanna-Fein meant to me


Marjorie Wolfe
An Interview with Paul Reiser

BC's Backlot
The Last Shalom

This And That
My Treasure Chest

Three Symbols of Passover

Stress

Mel Yahre
A few words for my friend

Eddy's Thoughts
Don't let life flutter by

The Bear Facts
How I found Michael


 

I re-educated late in life and after I graduated, I began a job search. For three endless years, I answered ads from coast to coast, but, although I filled out countless applications, I had no offers at all. My father said it was because I am a woman and a middle-aged one at that. My mother insisted it was because I have no style. Oh, I'm clean and neat enough, but I don't spend a lot of time in dress stores and beauty shops. I dismissed my parents' reasons as foolish. "People aren't hired by their looks,” I said. “If I had the right qualifications, an employer wouldn't care if I dressed in a burlap bag and had eyes in the back of my head."

I believe this because I think that way. I value people because of their goodness and I measure their worth by their capabilities. I assumed that was how others judged me. And so I ignored my parents’ pessimism and concentrated on polishing my writing skills so that when opportunity knocked, I would be ready to open the door.

At last I received a telephone call inviting me to Madison, Wisconsin to be interviewed for a writing position. The personnel director of the newspaper there explained that it would take about two days for me to meet the managing editor, the department heads and the people I might be working with. "How soon can you get here?" he asked.

I could hardly contain my excitement. The work he described was the kind I had always dreamed of doing. I knew I could handle the job. "I'll be there tomorrow," I said.

The next morning, I closed my house and hurried to the airport. I bubbled excitement as I chattered to everyone I saw. The flight was filled with interesting conversation, and I had a wonderful time.

The personnel director met me at the airport and drove me to the executive offices of the newspaper. He ushered me into a plush, well-appointed office. "Mr. Garfield will be right in to meet you," he said.

In just a few moments, the door burst open and the managing editor walked in. He introduced himself and began talking immediately about the tremendous employee turnover he had at his newspaper. "I really can't understand it," he said. "We pay very good salaries here, and our fringe benefits are unequalled anywhere in the state. I guess it's the kind of people who seek employment these days. They just aren't stable; they take no pride in their work."

As he talked, he paced the floor and smoked one cigarette after another. Abruptly, he walked to the door. "I must leave. I have a deadline in just half an hour."

And he was gone.

I had not said one single word.

In a few moments, the personnel director returned. "Well, you can go home now," he said.

"You mean that's all?" I asked. "Isn't anyone going to ask me any questions? Aren't I going to meet any of the editors?"

"Mr. Garfield doesn't feel you would fit in with us here,” he answered. “He has a sixth sense about these things."

He drove me to the airport and booked me for the evening plane. As I sat in the airport, the full impact of what had happened hit me. I had been rejected for the way I looked - nothing more. I went to the mirror in the Ladies Room and peered at my reflection. For the first time, I saw me. I looked at a plain, middle-aged woman with lines around her eyes from years of laughter and wrinkles on her forehead from years of worry.

At last, I cried.

I cried tears of frustration that I had been judged for something I could not help, for something that told no more about my writing ability than an orange peel tells how sweet the fruit will taste.

I was very quiet on the trip home. I did not talk to my fellow passengers for fear I would repel them. I drove home from the airport and opened the door of my house. I was warmed by the sight and smell of so much that was familiar to me. I felt once again that I belonged somewhere, that I had a place to love and be loved.

I wasted no more tears on the things about me that I could not change. Instead, I thought of that man and all the people like him in this world who base their judgments on the color of someone's skin or the curl of his hair. How futile it must seem to build your hopes on foundations as fragile as a passing fad, as evanescent as a rainbow. As I stood in the welcome comfort of my own solid world, again I saw that nervous, pacing man, and I cried once more.

But this time, I cried for him.

Beauty is all very well at first sight;
But who ever looks at it when it has been in the house three days?
G. B. Shaw

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