In 5th grade, one of our class assignments was to write an essay and draw a picture about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I remember that I didn’t have the slightest idea. Was it due to a lack of imagination on my part? The limited exposure to career-minded females in my life? Or was it just a Zen-like focus on the present – “I’m ten years old, for Pete’s sake, how the heck do I know?”
So I wrote that maybe I would go to Jr. College and then become a secretary. My Mom was going to Jr. College at the time to get a nursing degree. I’m not sure where I came up with the secretary part – there were secretaries who worked in the school office and secretaries in the doctor’s and dentist’s offices.
When my teacher read my essay, she told me, “No, do it again.” I was a bright kid and she was flabbergasted that my dreams were so narrow. Of course, she said it in that encouraging, positive-reinforcement way that teachers do. But she basically told me that what I had handed in was not acceptable.
I remember sitting back down at my desk and still not having any idea. I was a very pragmatic kid and took things literally. I thought that I really had to KNOW what I wanted to be in order to write it down. But it was also clear that telling the truth wasn’t an option. I couldn’t get away with saying “I really don’t know.” So I made something up. Something I knew she would find acceptable.
I wrote that I would become a doctor and drew a picture of me as a doctor with a stethoscope and white coat. When I showed her this one, she was very happy. I could tell that she thought she had uncovered my real dreams. She was proud of herself.
I didn’t become a secretary or a doctor. But I did become very good at telling people what they wanted to hear.
