So there I was this morning, panting and drooling to the sound of the potential employment bell, fighting the strange confluence of Palin bumper stickers, cigarette smoke, and absurd traffic along US-17 North through Fredericksburg, Va., on my way to a federal government job fair. Virginia's junior U.S. Senator and former governor, Mark Warner, trumpeted the job fair in an email last Wednesday:
U.S. Senator Mark Warner is hosting a job fair on Monday, March 8th, for Virginians looking for work in the federal government. The event is free and open to the public.
More than three-dozen federal agencies will participate, including: the Federal Aviation Administration, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Defense Intelligence Agency, FBI, IRS, the Office of Personnel Management, FEMA, the Peace Corps, the Transportation Security Administration, the Department of Labor, and the U.S. Secret Service.
Here are the details:
For more information, and to RSVP, visit: http://warner.senate.gov/
DATE: Monday, March 8, 2010TIME: 9 a.m. - NoonLOCATION: Univ. of Mary Washington - Stafford campusCollege of Graduate and Professional Studies, University Hall125 University Boulevard, Fredericksburg, VAjobsfair
Honestly, it sounded too good to be true. In this economy, who wouldn't want a cushy job working for the federal government? One guy I talked with in Fredericksburg this morning said he'd told his duly-employed son to come home for the occasion, in the event that he could land better, more secure employment. The dad later called back and listened to an "I told you so, Dad" speech. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
After having several discussions about the job fair, I tentatively decided to go, even if it meant going alone. Then yesterday, a second email from Sen. Warner's office arrived: "There has been an overwhelming response to this event. In anticipation of close to 5,000 attendees, the hours have been extended from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. and additional parking locations have been added." I began to get a sinking feeling about my chances at this job fair but still felt that going was the prudent thing to do. So I went.
I found the Stafford campus of Mary Washington College around 9:30 a.m. this morning, surprised that it took me 45 minutes just to get through Fredericksburg. As I waited to turn left off US-17, I noticed a few things: a Walmart to my left, several police cars strategically placed to direct traffic, and a man wearing a suit and holding a sign that said, in black permanent marker, "More parking @ Walmart." Three minutes later, as I trolled the Walmart parking lot searching for a spot, I would discover that at 9:30 a.m., half an hour after the start of the job fair, the man in the suit's sign was already outdated. I parked in a residential area, just beyond Walmart.
Already the masses of people had become obvious to me, and I quickly identified with them. We came in all shapes and sizes, all ages, all races, our business suits alternately expensive, cheap, and worn. There were optimistic undergraduate women and dapper gray-haired men who could just as easily have been Wall Street executives. But mostly there were lots of middle-aged men and women—black, white, Asian, well-dressed, shoddily dressed, carrying suitcases and canvas bags in various states, from top of the line to beyond repair. They all walked in one direction, with determined looks on their faces. My sinking feeling from yesterday had morphed into futility. I was not getting a job today, I knew that before I came, but I had thought that I might get to speak with some person who at least worked for the federal government.
Then I saw the line. Starting at the entrance to the Mary Washington building, it wrapped around one line of cars, then another, then another, then one more. One person estimated the number of people at 2,000, and it seemed close enough to me. But estimating that number, difficult as it seemed, would prove less futile than standing in the line itself. (The final tally was more like 7,000, according to the Virginia Business Journal.) I reached the end and took my place next to a middle-aged man in a wool suit full of holes which seemed to have come from a cat; a bright-eyed senior from George Mason, who wore four-inch heels and her best pearls; and a woman who professed to having two master's degrees, in English and anthropology.
As I gazed at the ecclectic crowd, my sinking feeling morphed into one of surreal futility. The guy and the wool suit and I had a similar sensation — that a person could have made quite a bit of money simply by walking around the parking lot with a cart full of coffee and other goodies. For a moment, we both longed to have thought of that ahead of time. A minute later, he bid adieu and left his place in line. I soon followed, roughly five minutes after I had come to the end of the line. I wished the undergrad and the Ph.D student the best, and walked toward Walmart.
Inside, as I searched for a beverage, I found more scenes of surrealism. The store was virtually empty, save for a few like-minded souls wearing suits and a "manager's meeting," described to me by a cashier. The Walmart managers were meeting to discuss their plan of action for the long day ahead, a day with a parking lot full of cars owned by people waiting in a long line — across the street. In the juice section, I met the dad I described earlier. He and his wife told me of their own economic woes — the woman ran a struggling photography business, but said they would persevere. I told them my situation, said I'd be fine, and they wished me luck. I left the store heartened. Of course everything will be fine.
Just outside the door, a gathering of old men, some of them embittered by the day's events so far. One had a new, juicy bit of information: one of the federal government employers, sensing the hopelessness of the long day ahead, had stepped outside to inform the people in line that only a few of the employers were actually accepting resumes, and that our best bet was to go online to apply for jobs with these federal agencies. To USAJobs.gov, that unobliging harbinger of hopelessness that we'd all visited at one time or another — long before we drove to Fredericksburg.
On the drive home, after reading Alice in Wonderland to put surrealism in proper perspective, I called Sen. Mark Warner's D.C. office. I had a pleasant conversation with a young male staffer and told him of my experience, and of the overwhelming sense of futility the day had wrought. He empathized in a genuine way, commended me on getting a law degree, and asked what message he could pass along to the senator on my behalf. I told him that, aside from finding employment, I worry most about getting health insurance after graduation. COBRA premiums run about $250 per month through the university, and that's just not something I can afford. I told the staffer that I hoped his boss would continue to support health care reform. He thanked me, and I felt that the day had not been quite so futile. It was barely after noon, the sun was shining, and spring break had just begun.
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