The interview

“Are there any flight attendant positions still open?” I asked over the phone.

“Yes, a few. Classes start next week,” the receptionist answered.

Since I inquired about employment, she bombarded me with questions.

“How old are you? Are you married? Do you wear glasses? How tall are you? What’s your weight?”

During the 1960s, strict criteria were enforced if you wanted to become a flight attendant. One could not be married or wear eyeglasses. An attendant could not weigh over one hundred thirty-five pounds, and her weight had to be proportionate to her height (between five foot two and five foot eight). At the time I applied, my age had to be between twenty-one and twenty-eight.

Once I qualified in all five categories, she arranged an appointment for me with the chief flight attendant.

“Come in tomorrow at three p.m.”

So many young women clamored to be flight attendants. Despite my father’s reservations, I was pleasantly pleased to have obtained an interview. I no longer wanted a nine-to-five job, nor did I want to bring home the hassles of a secretarial profession. I wanted to be paid to travel the world, to have flexible hours with many days off, and to work in a glamorous occupation.

“Who wouldn’t?” I thought.

Besides physical qualifications, one was supposed to have a language or nursing background and some college education. These standards were ignored if the applicant had special attributes. A beauty queen or model might be accepted without meeting all the requirements.

On Wednesday, I parked my MGA in the lot at World’s headquarters near the Oakland airport. I wore a navy suit and had my hair done in a bouffant flip, very popular at the time.

The airline office looked similar to others in the building -- with fake wall paneling and fluorescent lights. Miss Harris, the receptionist, looked up from her gray metal desk and introduced herself.

“You’ll need to fill out these forms.”

She gave me a clipboard with a pen and pointed to a desk I could use. I completed four pages of personal information and passed them back. She glanced at the forms and said, “Follow me” as she walked around her desk and placed the pages back in my hands.

Miss Harris escorted me down a dark hallway to the chief flight attendant’s office. Diane Taylor stood as I entered and shook my hand. She was in her thirties, attractive, and immediately intimidating. Dressed in a tailored skirt, she wore a crisp white blouse and a bright scarf. Miss Taylor invited me to sit down, gesturing to a chair on the opposite side of her desk.

While I looked past her to the window outside, she read my paperwork. With an authoritative tone, she asked me to expand on my answers.

“How many languages do you know?” she asked.

“Five,” I replied.

Apparently impressed by this response, Ms. Taylor never asked a follow-up question. In truth, I did know five languages. Aside from English, I had Spanish in high school and French in college. I also had a Japanese pen pal in third grade who translated a dozen words for me. And my best friend in Connecticut taught me a few German phrases.

Ms. Taylor wrote numerous notes and asked how I would handle an assortment of delicate, in-flight situations.

I answered to the best of my ability, but basically I just winged it. I felt my pleasant and helpful attitude was what she was really wanted to hear.

Miss Taylor also inquired about any legal issues I might have. “Can you pass a military clearance?”

She next requested, “Please stand, walk to the office door, turn slowly around, stop, and walk back to me.”

She scrutinized me as I did what she requested. I stood as tall and straight as possible, and she wrote additional comments on my application.

“Can you be ready next week?” Miss Taylor asked. “You’ll have to pass a physical with the company doctor. On Monday, we begin classes.”

“Yes, I’ll definitely be ready.”

“I’ll call the doctor and set up an appointment for tomorrow morning at ten,” she replied.

What a surprise to be approved so quickly.

My acceptance, however, applied only to the training period. I still had to pass the final exams. I’d be competing with other topnotch attendees for a limited number of positions.

“The competition will be intense,” Miss Taylor explained. “So be prepared.”

When I returned to my apartment, Barbara and Carole rushed me as I entered.

“How did it go?”

“I made the first cut. I still have to pass a physical and the school exams,” I explained. “I’ll know in four weeks if I actually make it.”

While we continued to chat, I learned that their expected roommate would not be arriving after all. Consequently, I remained renting with them for a total of three years, all because of our chance encounter at the YWCA.

That evening I called my parents. Standing in the living room by the glass doors overlooking the lights of San Francisco, I told them of my school acceptance.

“How exciting,” my mother exclaimed. “Tell me, what was the interview like? When do your classes begin? When do you graduate?”

My father, however, angrily opposed my change of careers.

“This is not why I paid your college bills,” he asserted. “I think you’ve made a poor decision.”

Being over twenty-one and three thousand miles away, he could only protest. I disliked going against his will; my father was the rock in our family. But I realized I had to stand up for my own preferences.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-27