When I was seventeen, I got a job that was perfect for me.
It would have been dangerous for me had I gotten it a year or two earlier, and
I never would have taken such a job a year or two later. But for seventeen-year-old me, it offered lessons that would change the trajectory of my life, the
choices I made and the things I thought about myself.
I would wake up early every morning to a quiet house, before
my mom and sisters and four
autistic brothers were up inviting noise and needs into the home. Dressed
in grown-up clothes (skirts, blouses, and shoes with heels) I would pour myself
a cup of coffee and head out to the bus stop with other adults off to start
their day. I felt like a woman.
Battling the snow and smiling at strangers, I would pull out
a book and read on the hour-long commute through the city of Toronto. Arriving
at a square, brick, forgettable building that held the office I worked in I
would chat with my co-workers and shrug off my long winter coat, stopping
momentarily at the water cooler to grab a cup of water and a snippet of gossip
before heading to my desk. I felt like a professional.
I would then pick up my phone and begin to telephone
people--mostly widowed older ladies--in the United States and introduce myself as
Kim Dawson. This was not my real name, but when I had been hired to work for
this company they told me to come up with a pseudonym. According to them it
would make me feel more comfortable when chatting with strangers and would also
keep me safe. Safe from what? Well, seventeen-year-old me hadn't wanted to ask.
She only wanted a job that made her feel like a grown-up. So I would telephone people as Kim Dawson and
ask them if they were interested in selling the gems in their possession. I
knew beforehand that the names and numbers on my list belonged to people who
were in possession of jewels, and it was my job to talk them into faxing us the
certificates so that we could possibly turn the gems into money for them. As
Kim Dawson I was pleasant and excited for these people who were mostly thrilled
at the idea! I felt like a friend.
However, I did have a few questions that began to get louder
over time. Why, for example, did we have to hide in the lobby of our building on
more than one occasion just because some strange men were visiting the office?
Why did we only phone and request certificates from people who resided in the
United States? And what was I being kept safe from when using the name Kim Dawson at work?
As a seventeen-year-old who loved the idea of being
grown-up, loved being liked (I was quite good at the job), loved being out of
the house so that I wouldn't have to do chores, and loved commuting and feeling
like an active part of my favorite city, it was easy to ignore these quiet
questions. But as they got louder, I became more and more like the me who I was
trying very hard to pretend I wasn't.
I started flirting more with the men in the office as a
distraction. I would avoid getting home at a decent hour and smoke too many
cigarettes in coffee shops. I even started adding a shot of Baileys Irish Cream liqueur
to my morning coffee, a sad attempt to remind myself that I was being a
grown-up.
Two things happened that made me decide to figure out what
we were really doing in our office. Firstly, I made one of my routine phone
calls and the gentleman on the other end decided to give me a heads-up. "Kim,"
he began, "if that is even your real name, you sound like a nice young lady.
But what you guys are doing is morally and legally wrong. You take from people
who are hopeful and then you take some more. You take until they have nothing
left to give. I don't know how aware you are of what is really happening where
you work, but I suggest you open your eyes." The fifteen-year-old me would have
ignored him and continued with the flirting and high-heeled-shoe wearing. But I
wasn't fifteen anymore, and I wanted to not only feel like a grown-up, by to try
acting like one too. So, I asked one of our sales guys what exactly it was he
did. His honesty and lack of empathy surprised and frightened me.
"It's so cool!" he told me with excitement, "I call these
people up and tell them that I have a buyer for their piece, but the buyer only
wants to get a set of gems. So I tell
them that if they buy the missing piece from someone I have lined up, they can
get tons of money. They usually go for it, and then I say--guess what? I can get
you even more if you buy this other piece--and I do that until they catch on
and stop sending us money. They never actually get anything from us, it's all a
hoax, but I'm really good at it!"
I didn't know what to say, and so I just told him I wasn't
surprised that he was good at it and headed to my desk. I sat and ran all sorts
of justifications through my head. I wasn't in sales; all I did was get the
certificates. And no one can be taken advantage of if they don't let
themselves. And it's just a job, and I get a paycheck. That's all.
But when one of the bosses-- a very old man with a large
veiny nose-- asked if I wanted to ride with him to pick up sandwiches, I
couldn't say yes fast enough. I had to get out of there and possibly ask him if
there was any truth to what we were doing. However, as soon as we got into his
car I knew that I was going to chicken out. We rode in silence to the Deli, and
before I could get out of the passenger seat his hands and old man lips were
all over me. I just kind of let him kiss me and tell me I was sexy and touch my
breasts. Then we got some sandwiches and headed back to the office. I felt like
myself.
The next morning I made it to the bus stop, but I didn't get
on the bus. I walked to the nearest payphone and called work. I told the
receptionist I wasn't going to make it in, I wasn't feeling well. Then I walked
to the donut shop near our home, the one where I had gotten my very first job,
and ordered coffee. I figured it was
time to have a little chat with myself.
I couldn't go back to the office. I couldn't make those
phone calls knowing what I knew. And I knew that if the old man asked me back
into his car, I wouldn't have the guts to say no. I also didn't have the guts
to call anyone--police, FBI--whoever it is you call when you know about illegal
practices. Heck, I didn't even have the guts to call and quit the job properly.
I knew that day in the coffee shop that I would never go back, but that I
wasn't even brave enough to tell them so. I was not feeling very grown-up.
Ordering a second cup of Joe I started to think about a few
other things. There were many people in that office that were going to work knowing full well what they were up to. There
were people who were happily asking seventeen-year-old girls into their car
only to cop a feel and eat a sandwich. I was making an intentional decision not
to be one of them, and that counted for something.
And the old me would have gone back, in order to seem nice
and like a team player. The fifteen-year-old me would have pretended she liked
being felt up by the old man because his interest in her meant she was mature.
She would have even thought that it meant he wanted to leave his wife for her. Her
head would have been so filled with the need to feel grown-up and desirable
that it wouldn't matter if the old man was stinky and ugly and just plain
gross.
Sitting there sipping coffee I realized that I was growing-up. That, although I had much
more to learn and more stepping-up to do, I was doing the best I could with
what I knew, and I was opening my eyes.
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