A Fetching of Firsts, Part 6: First Job

First Job

I never babysat or washed cars for pocket money when I was a kid. My mother told me, “Be a little girl as long as you can. You’ve got a long time to be a grown-up lady.” So, I had the chance to experience the freedom of childhood.

The High School of Commerce, the school I chose while still in the eighth grade, offered programs in secretarial skills, retailing, and accounting. My thought was that, if being an office worker turned out not to be the career for me, I would at least be able to get a job to pay my way through college. 

Commerce was known for its Co-op Program in which students worked at real jobs for half a day and attended classes during the other half. The first few years, I was too busy studying, working on the school paper, playing basketball, and being involved in the biology club to work. By senior year, I decided to participate.

The placement office set me up for an interview with the Detroit Edison Company. I remember the night before the job interview. I sat on the living room floor in front of Mom’s chair while she pin-curled my long hair. I’d already selected my outfit: a straight dark skirt and white blouse beneath my flared, lime green winter coat. I’d polished my black high-heeled pumps and laid out the feminine torture tools: garter belt and nylon stockings. 

Detroit Edison hired me and a girl named Minerva to share the job. We didn’t know each other and never met since I worked the mornings and she worked the afternoon shift. We communicated by leaving notes that told each other where we’d left off in the day’s work. 

Our duties spanned two offices on the first floor of the building, Employment and Employee Services. Sorting and delivering the mail, answering the phones, and cleaning and servicing the mimeograph were our main responsibilities. 

All was good until the first payday. The interviewer had shown me a pay scale and pointed out what the job paid. Over the next two weeks, I spent the money in my head, dreaming of cute angora sweaters, the latest Elvis album, and a new purse. When I ripped open the pay envelope, my face and heart dropped to my kneecaps. The numbers on the check were only a fraction of what I’d expected. 

Sitting down at my desk, I examined the paystub and began adding the payroll deductions to the amount of my check. They totaled exactly half of the number I’d expected. That’s when it dawned on me. The interviewer had shown me the amount the job paid a full-time employee. As part time workers, Minerva and I would split that figure. Not letting my disappointment show, I quickly adjusted my attitude. In later years, remembering this experience led to clear understanding of how and what I would be paid.

I enjoyed working at Detroit Edison. It was gratifying have adult co-workers and to be a responsible participant in the grown-up world of business. I gained valuable work experience and references to take to future job interviews. I made a little money, too.

Tell me about your first job.

~ xoA ~

A Fetching of Firsts, Part 5: First Dormitory Living

First Dormitory Living

On a high school field trip to the Eastern Michigan University campus, I knew right away that this was where I wanted to go to school. Known as the “first teachers’ college west of the Alleghenies,” Eastern’s programs attracted students from all over the United States. 

I filled out the application with the help of my teacher and mentor, Sophia Holley. She also proofread my application essay and pointed out my over-zealous use of Roget’s Thesaurus. I toned down that essay, making it sound like the real me, and submitted everything to the Admissions Office. It was the only college application I sent.

EMU was a mere 35 miles west of Detroit in Ypsilanti, Michigan, but it seemed like a long journey when I left home for my freshman year in January of 1961. I looked forward to experiencing the freedom and independence that living away from home would offer.

By today’s standards, there was little freedom or independence. The university rules required women’s dormitory entrance doors be locked at 10:30 pm. Each student resident had to be inside and available for nightly room check by the Resident Assistants. Men were allowed only in public areas, and if you sat on a sofa with a male friend, an RA might remind you, “Both feet on the floor.”

Our parents had to sign a “permission” card that instructed the dorm office staff on our freedoms and limitations. The form requested names of whom we could visit off-campus and asked whether we could have later hours on the weekends. Near the bottom of the card, there was a statement that read “up to the student’s judgment,” which my mother designated. Her faith in my ability to make those choices for myself filled me with pride and ensured I would be worthy of her trust. 

Though Buell Hall and all the rest of the dorms were integrated, actual living arrangements were still segregated. We submitted our photos with our dorm applications and were matched with roommates on the basis of race. There were more than 400 women assigned to Buell, a dozen of us black.

Ours was an all-freshman, ground-floor suite that housed me and three other students. Barbara and I shared one narrow bedroom that contained foot-to-foot twin beds and two closets. Shirley and Alberta co-existed in the other. A larger common study room with four built-in desks separated the two bedroom areas, and we had our own bathroom with shower.

Aside from a few petty squabbles, the four of us got along with each other. If one had to label us, we’d probably have been known as the nerd, the straight arrow, the baby, and the party girl. 

There was one incident that brought us up to be made an example before the entire residence hall. I’d brought a hot plate from home so we all could heat water for instant coffee, tea, and soups. We kept it on the bathroom counter. One evening, Alberta left it on, one or both of the other girls had noticed it, but said nothing. The hot plate remained on for several hours into the night, and by the time anyone realized it, the Formica counter top had melted. We were scared, embarrassed, and darn lucky that it wasn’t worse. So, of course, our mess-up was the subject of an unscheduled all-residents meeting, and we bore the expense of replacement counter top.

My sister Reenié came for Little Sisters Weekend in the dorm. Eleven years old, she thought that dorm life was wonderful. The organizers had set up fun activities for the sisters to do together, and we had a terrific time.

Living in Buell Hall that first semester of college taught me about sharing and getting along with people who were not family. Maybe we didn’t share the same interests or values, but we could compromise or figure out some way that each could fulfill her needs. Dorm life was a valuable part of my growing up, and I am grateful to my parents for those lessons.

Remember the first time you were on your own?

~ xoA ~