Dear Corporate America:
I did my part. Raised up my child the way you told me a good parent would. I
bought your glossy parenting magazines and read your articles about
late-night feedings, mid-day snacks, and creeping rashes. The shelves in our
bathroom were stuffed with the products you told me to buy -- baby powders,
baby creams, baby shampoos. I even bought an extra-duty blender and stacks
of ice cube trays so I could puree carrots and peas from scratch (as if I
didn't have enough work to do already).
Per your admonishments, I took my daughter for routine immunizations, and
doctor appointments. I swear I went through two cases of band-aids to fix
the "owiees" designed to protect her from measles, mumps, rubella, and,
the very thing that disabled her grandfather - polio. At home, I doctored
bee stings, bruised knees, and bumps on the head. I even nursed Barbie to
health, repairing her limbs and screwing on her head.
Not just one Barbie, mind you. We had plastic gams dating back to the late
1950s. Suitcases full of Barbies, and her friend Skipper. Ken was there,
along with G.I. Joe, and He-Man. They all lived together in the two-story penthouse,
and fought over whose turn it was to drive the pink Corvette. I cared for
each of them, tenderly, in an effort to model for my child the importance of
community.
Then I read in one of those dozens of hard-back books you pedaled that
Barbie was a bad-influence on young girls. Her big hair and even bigger
bazookas might lead my precious daughter to have unrealistic expectations,
and poor body image. So I banished an entire community of my daughter's
friends to the upstairs closet because you all told me that was the right
thing to do, and I trusted you.
It was a trust misspent. Oh, sure, you were right about some things, the
diaper cream did clear up the red rashes. Piano, soccer, and cross-country
instilled in her a self-discipline that carries over to this day. And,
thanks in part to all those puree vegetables, she's grown into a healthy,
vibrant, and yes, beautiful woman.
But it's not Barbie that's undermined my daughter's self-image - it's you.
Barbie taught my daughter to care about herself and others. You? You've
taught her that's she's simply another resume in a steady stream of resumes
that apparently you are too busy, or just don't have the decency to respond
to.
I raised her to be a hard-working kid. She's had a job since she was
15-years old. She wasn't the type who spent her money on designer shoes or
diet sodas. She saved it for college, nearly every penny for three years.
Of course, that wad was shot in the first semester, paying for room and
board at a state university. She hunkered down and graduated with honors,
and was accepted into one of those high-flutin' grad programs that you all
are so proud of on the East Coast.
We loaded her car with all the products you said she'd need - linens and
laptops, running shoes and rain jackets - and drove her to Washington, D.C.
The school population was twice the size of the town she'd grown up in, but
she was a confident young woman, having been raised up rightly by parents
who cared.
She didn't have much free-time, what with a thesis to write and an
internship at the Library of Congress. Yet, what freedom she did have wasn't
spent in drunken stupors roaming the streets of Georgetown. No. Her
Saturdays were spent at Walter Reed Hospital, sitting bedside with old high
school classmates and young soldiers she'd just met. She looked after them
with the same tenderness she'd given her Barbies all those years ago. Only
this time the limbs weren't so easily repaired. The head wounds too great.
Despite her best efforts, she came away feeling helpless, hopeless. So she
channeled that energy into her thesis and wrote about women at war. We all
rejoiced when her adviser declared it a finely written paper on the first
draft. And a few months later, I cheered for our daughter as she walked
across a polished wood floor and collected her diploma.
But that's been months ago, now. Four months in which she has sent out
hundreds of resumes from Nashville to Seattle, with every click of the send
button, she passes along her hopes that all her hard work will pay off.
She's looking for a place to start, a place where she can shine. She's never
been one to shy away from hard work, but this job-hunting has demeaned her in
ways she never imagined.
Some days it seems like all that work I put into raising her up to being a
confident, hard-working, drug-free, disciplined woman was time wasted. The
other day, through tears, she said, "I know one day I'll be glad I have my
Masters, but not now. Now it seems that having a higher education works
against me."
I'm married to an educator. I have an education degree. Still, I didn't know
what to say to comfort my daughter. I don't understand you any more
Corporate America. I raised my daughter by your books, and she's everything
that you or I could have ever hoped she'd be. But, you? You've betrayed her.
When she posts her resumes for jobs she's qualified for, you can't even take
the time to send her an email and thank her for her application. If she
calls to see if her resume has arrived intact, she gets your voice messages.
If she leaves you a message saying she's called and interested in your jobs,
you don't bother to return the call.
She laughs wickedly when Alan Greenspan says we aren't entering a recession.
He ought to try looking for a job, she says. When we drove past a topless
bar, she noted that if I hadn't raised her up rightly, she could be there,
working, making lots of money. I know she's kidding but it hurts to hear my
sweet child say such things.
If she hadn't spent so much time at Walter Reed, tending to wounded
soldiers, I'm pretty sure my daughter would've enlisted by now, because
that's what a lot of good kids do when they can't find jobs and they no
longer want to be a burden to their parents. They join the military.
The thing is, I did my part. I raised my child exactly like you told me to.
The thing I want to know from you, Corporate America, is when are you going
to start treating my daughter with that same measure of respect and humanity
that you sold to me book by book, band-aid-by-band-aid?
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