Grab the Bull by its Horns

“Liliana,” my mother yells up the stairs, “we’re leaving now!” Shoot! I apply one last layer of lip gloss and look straight at myself in the mirror. What is that saying again? Something about grabbing a bull by the horns? That’s what I need to do. With one last rake through my hair with a comb, I grab my shawl and practically fall down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. My mother absolutely hates it when I'm late.

“I’m here!” I screech as I jump in the car. My parents both look at me from their spots in the back seat, and I squish in next to them. Ronaldo, our driver, immediately starts the car as I buckle in.

“Liliana, what did we talk about yesterday? Something along the lines of time management,” comments my mother.

“Relax, Julie. It’s a big day for Lili,” says my dad as he squeezes my hand. I force a smile on my face and hope they can’t sense my racing heart and the rumble of emotions coursing through me. This could make or break my future.

Soon we were rolling up to the plaza. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster, my stomach free falling as I take in the statuesque building and people milling around. It’s gloomy outside, raindrops coating the darkened windows.

“Here we are,” I squeak out. My hands shake as I unbuckle myself and unlock the door. I swung out as gracefully as I can, considering I'm wearing a skirt, and wait for my parents to step out. Wordlessly, I take both of their hands and we make the journey to the front doors. Above the large doors are the words Government Center for Work and Talent. It was time for my interview.

Every year, all high school seniors in the U.S. take the Passing Test. The test covers all school subjects as well as other things like problem solving skills, critical thinking, and more. The people that score in the top 2% are then automatically expected to work for the government. They are interviewed and placed where the government thinks is best.

A part of me is honored and proud that I was able to secure an interview, yet a part of me is skeptical. I keep thinking back to the moment I opened my NYU acceptance letter as we walk through the doors and into the foreboding lobby. Everything is white from the floor to the front desk besides a singular American flag hung on the wall.

I tentatively stroll to the front desk, my parents slightly behind me.

“I’m here for an interview. Liliana Parker.” She gives me a quick once over before typing something into her computer.

“Ok, you’re checked in, but you will have to fill out a few forms.” She takes an Ipad out from under the desk, and clicks through it before handing it to me. “Just read through the pages and sign when ready. You can give it back to me when you’re done,” she says in a chirpy tone. I take a seat in a plastic white chair and start to skim through the forms. I lightly read the sections until I land on clause 6 entitled “After the Interview.”

The U.S. Government will put the applicant in a work position that they see fit to ensure that talent and knowledge are being optimized. While most people are put in a position that suits them well, some find that where they are placed is not a good match for them. You may file a Request to Transfer with the Government Center for Work and Talent, however, we cannot guarantee that you will be able to switch positions. The GCFWT will decide what is best for the government at that time. Remember, you are expected to serve your country with your abilities. If you change positions, your 5 year work requirement will be renewed.

Anxiety pulses through me. Once you agree to work with the government, you must stay in a position for at least 5 years. What if I don’t like the job I’m offered? What if I don’t feel like I’m ready? My time is running out, so I quickly read the rest of the document. My finger hovers above the signature line. If I sign, I agree that I understand the rules. The sound of heels clacking on the floor behind me has the hairs on my neck standing up.

“Liliana Parker,” someone chimes in a high voice. I quickly sign and stand up, smoothing out my skirt. She notices me as I return the Ipad. “Welcome,” she says warmly, “My name is Jessica.” Her black hair is tied into a low bun, and her eyes are the color of chocolate.

“Nice to meet you,” I respond as she motions for me to follow her to the elevators. We get in and she pushes the button for the 5th floor. I tuck myself into the corner and try to take a steadying breath, hoping she won’t notice.

“I understand that you’re nervous. I was too. But you’ll do great.” I manage a nod as the elevator doors open, revealing a short hallway and large glass doors. She splays her hand on a black square near the door handle. The scanner reads her hand and unlocks the door. I follow her down a long hallway filled with offices until she leads me into one.

Windows span the entire wall behind her desk, illustrating a stunning view of Washington D.C. Seeing the city in all its glory reminds me of how much I love the urban vibe and the hustle and bustle a big city possesses. The office is mainly white, but little bits of Jessica shine through: a teal vase holding a few daisies, a colorful expressionist painting hung on the wall, and even a picture frame, though I can’t see the picture. I sit in the chair across the desk. I expect her to sit down in her own chair. Instead, she looks out the window longingly.

“I went through your file and test report,” she says. “It appears that you are an extremely talented mathematician, and well, your critical thinking skills were unmatched.” She finally turns to face me. My back is stick straight, hands folded across my knees to keep them from shaking. She looks at me earnestly, and I can’t help but feel unnerved.

“Yes,” I respond, “I’ve always been the best at math in school.” She pauses and purses her lips.

“Do you like math, Lili?” The question takes me by surprise.

“I mean, I’ve always been good at it.”

“I know, but do you like it?” I feel perspiration coat my body. I could tell her what she wants to hear: That I love math and that I would gladly serve my country in a math-related job. Truth is, I despise math. I don’t want to be a mathematician. I could tell her that my dream is to be a writer. Her eyes gleam with something. Perhaps understanding?

“Um,” I stutter.

“You hate math don’t you,” she comments matter of factly so that it doesn't pose as a question. I gulp down the lump in my throat, nodding yes. A smile erupts on her face.

“Thank you! I hate when kids come in here and tell me what I want to hear instead of telling me what they truly want!” I’m startled by her enthusiasm as she crosses the desk and sits on the ledge right in front of me. “Tell me your dreams, your ideal life.” She says it so kindly, understanding alludes from her. It makes me want to tell her anything.

“Well,” I chuckle, “I hate math. I don’t understand why I have to be so good at it. My dream has always been to go to NYU. I got in a few months ago to study creative writing. I’ve wanted to be a writer for what feels like forever. I don’t know how to express my emotions out loud, but writing just makes everything so much easier. Honestly, a blank page is like a therapist to me. I-” I realize I’m rambling and abruptly shut my mouth. She grins at me.

“Wow. I love passion and the earnest look in your eyes, I can tell that your passion for writing is utterly pure.” Her comment is like a fire, warming me from the inside out. “See, that’s where the government is stupid. Why would I put you in a mathematical job where you would have no passion? You would barely gonna get anything done. But if I gave that job to someone who was passionate, they would be able to truly help the field.” Huh. I guess I never thought about it that way. She seems like she wants to help me. Is there a chance that I could go to NYU? Like I told myself earlier, it’s time to grab the bull by its horns.

“So, if I wanted to do something I was passionate about, would you help me?” Her eyes glint with pride and hope simmers in my chest. She walks around her desk and sits in her chair.

“What if I told you I could change your file? I could decide that the test wasn’t a strong enough indicator. That you wouldn’t be a good fit. I could make it look like we interviewed you by mistake, giving you the chance to go to NYU.”

“You can do that?” I question, a tinge of hope coating my words.

“Well technically I’m not supposed to,” she chuckles. "But the government doesn’t appreciate passion anymore. This is my way of fighting back.” She winks at me and motions for me to come around the desk. I arrive on the other side as she starts typing rapidly into her computer.

“You see this picture frame?” She motions toward the frame I saw on her desk earlier. It's a black and white picture of a bull running somewhere. No way. “Bulls are powerful animals. They are strong and determined. However, a passionate person can tame a bull if they wish. In our case, the bull is the government. We are grabbing the government by its horns and standing up for ourselves. So, Lili, are you up for it?”

I nod eagerly, realizing that passion is the key to a successful world.