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I was skulking in a cramped office supply room, hiding from my job.It was my secret escape. Whenever I felt like screaming, or when I was in danger of bashing my head against the keyboard on my desk, I'd sneak away to that room and shut myself inside. There was nothing to do in there, and sometimes I'd just turn the lights off and stand in the dark wishing for five o'clock. In the beginning I'd only hide for five or ten minutes at a time, but as months dragged on and my unscreamed screams built up inside me, I stayed in there longer and longer. It was hard to make myself go back out. I knew that sooner or later, I was going to get caught.I had come to hate my job. That was the plain fact. I was a typist, which felt a lot like being a mill girl in the Industrial Revolution, carding wool or sewing pockets onto overalls from dawn to dusk. I'd been at it for years and there was a good chance I'd die at it.When I first started, I had liked it. In the early months I had even felt a dumb sense of accomplishment as I finished each document - but not anymore, because more work came in as fast as I could plow through the old, so there was never any victory or finish line to cross. It was so damn female, too - a repetitive job in an office full of other females, all of us taking orders and getting paid next to nothing. All settling for a humble life - while the big shots who ran the place were throwing temper tantrums and stomping around like kings.At least I was good at it. That was a refreshing change, since I had been fired from my two previous jobs. I'd been a lab tech those times, but hadn't had the patience for the aggravating details I was supposed to care about. They had fired me for being disorganized and forgetful, for having an attitude, also for contaminating one whole lab with radioactive isotopes, causing an "incident." Whoops.Now I was a medical transcriptionist. I could type like a monster - thanks to my mother, who had said, "Learn to type and you'll always have work." I had been a Kelly Girl since age fifteen. I could spell like a goddess, too, and my punctuation was so good it made grown men weep.What I really loved about the job, when I first started, was the stories I was transcribing. They were stories of damaged human lives. I'd never heard anything like them before.Mrs. Faskind returns for her fourth cycle of chemotherapy. She continues to complain of ringing in her ears and painful neuropathy. Her energy is poor and she is considering stopping treatment. We had the same conversation as last time. Again, she agrees to stay the course for one more month.With my headphones on and my foot on the play/rewind pedal, I was transported into a world of secret dramas better than any novel. I listened to stories of tumors discovered in young mothers' breasts, and blood clots that felled athletes, and bone marrow transplant patients who traveled a dangerous path from misery and hardship to early blooming optimism - only to tumble, more often than not, into some final tragedy: neutropenic fever, or graft-vs-host disease. Progress notes could be followed by death notes. Once, most horribly, a note described a young transplant patient with a disseminated blackish fungus that was rioting through his whole body and feasting on his flesh. The fungus thrived while the man beneath wilted by the hour towards inevitable doom. One day, I transcribed a note about a woman I actually knew from outside of work. She was one of my hard-nosed rowing coaches, someone who barked orders at me on the river every morning at sunrise practice, someone I never would have guessed had any human frailties. She had breast cancer. Joan is feeling down lately, the oncologist dictated.I was working at a Famous Harvard Teaching Hospital, in its extra-famous heme-onc and bone marrow transplant (HOBMT) unit. Since it was Harvard, all the doctors who worked there were acclaimed as brilliant. My greatest pride was to flaunt my mind at them and try to prove that I was brilliant, too. I worked hard at this. At night, I pored through medical texts and prepared questions about the details of lymphoma, sarcoma, von Willebrand's disease - and when the sun rose I sat at my desk like the Sphinx and challenged every sweet young Onc fellow who approached me."Angeli, I dictated an admission but I forgot to hit the 'stat' button. Can you dig it out of the queue and do it for me right away? Please?""That depends. First, you must explain to me why some malignant B lymphocytes become small cleaved follicular center cells and some don't."I liked the Onc fellows. I liked the men's voices while I transcribed - those low, sexy rumbles in my ears, so intimate through the headphones. Babinskis upgoing, they murmured. Fourteen percent eosinophils. (I didn't like the women's voices as much, so I jumped over their dictations and did only the men, always starting with the ones I had a crush on. There were other, off-site transcriptionists who worked from home, and they got stuck with all the high-pitched chirpy dictations that annoyed me.)I loved the words. I looked up Babinskis. I learned that eosinophils stained red - so they looked like Homer's Eos, the rosy-fingered dawn. I'd been given a medical dictionary to help me get the words right, and I leafed through it on breaks, picking out the prettiest and most romantic entries: echolalia, cri-du-chat syndrome, schizoid, orchitis. My favorite (then and now and forever) was Ondine's curse.So it was fun for a while. But it was also, well, there was no way around it: it was typing. Pretty much all day. At a desk. On a computer. Surrounded by other females at other desks, on other computers. Every weekday from 8:30 to 5, I sat and I typed. Meanwhile, Famous Oncologists strode by. Eventually, I got used to the patients' stories. I got accustomed to the exotic words. The thrill started to wear thin.On Secretaries' Day, the Most Famous Oncologist, head of the whole division, bought an African violet for each of us. (He was an unredeemed asshole but had been voted Best in Boston by an illustrious magazine. To celebrate his coup, the hospital threw him a catered party full of brie and shrimp and fancy little toothpicks. For us secretaries it was an exciting event, but I resented seeing a jerk like him be feted). It turned out that he hadn't really bought the flowers, though. He had sent his secretary out to buy them, for Christ's sake. Her name was Edna, first desk on the right, and she was young and bright; she had climbed to a top pay grade quickly out of secretarial school and knew how to do professional stuff - unlike me, who just worked a pedal and typed into a template. She had been with the Most Famous Oncologist for years, absorbing his tantrums. She laughed off the African violet incident, pointing out that it was hardly the crappiest thing he had made her do that week.I didn't laugh, though. I fumed. Secretaries' Day sucked. It showed me exactly what people thought of us all, how stupid they thought we were. All the clerical workers in the hospital were herded into the big auditorium, the one used for Grand Rounds, and an asshole guy from the HR department stood up in a fine suit and made a speech. "We've prepared a special banquet on this special day, for all you ladies, because we know who really runs this hospital. Did you know Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, only backwards and in high heels? And she never got the credit, did she, ladies! Well, while you're enjoying your free banquet, we know your bosses are going to be completely lost without you!"I fumed. I typed. Typing pounded the fumes out of me; my days were too routine to sustain anger. A whole year went by. The senior Onc fellows graduated and moved on, riding off into a glamorous sunset. They were my favorites, the people who'd made my job fun and who I had lived and died to impress - but I was nothing to them, of course. They left me without a backward glance.A new crop of first-year fellows started. I showed off my brains to them, and enjoyed their brief astonishment, and imagined myself their peer. Sometimes I got them to notice me. But other times, those same fellows walked by my desk without saying hello - as if I were no one, I privately sulked. They seemed like pale copies of the group that had left. Their occasional distracted smiles were not enough to keep me happy.I started night school that year. At some point it had occurred to me that I didn't want to type forever; I didn't want to get stupid flowers and patronizing speeches for fifty years on Secretaries' Day. But I could only think of one other job I was fit for. I hatched a fantasy: that one day I would walk into the fellows' office grinning and say breezily, "Hey, kiss my butt, guys; I'm going to med school." There'd be a triumphant soundtrack swelling - Queen or Def Leppard, maybe even the thrilling part of Ode to Joy. And then at last they'd all turn and really see me.I had a 2.7 GPA, when a 3.5 was the minimum recommended. I didn't worry too much about that, though. I thought I'd be able to explain it away. It wasn't that I couldn't do better; it was just that I hadn't tried very hard in college. There was that one semester I decided to skip some of my finals, so I got F's - but they weren't real F's, just didn't-take-the-final F's. I was smart enough to do the work. And I was a terrific transcriptionist. I was getting A's in night school: Advanced Physiology, Genetics, Evolutionary Bio. And I already knew what Babinskis were, and I understood eosinophils, and knew the mortality rate of matched unrelated donor bone marrow transplant. And I could probably get a Famous Oncologist to write me a letter of recommendation. Surely that was going to get me in?I pulled out my old college books and relearned biology, physics, basic chem. I made friends with a group of other med school hopefuls that I met in a killer summer class called Accelerated Organic Chemistry. We formed a gang, the five of us, and went out on Saturday nights. We talked about our med-school dreams. None of the other four were secretaries, of course, and none of them had a GPA below 3.8. My background made them uncomfortable - and I knew it was because they all felt sure of getting in, and were afraid it would be different for me. But I wasn't worried.We all took the MCATs in late summer. Then we waited. After six weeks, I found the thin envelope in my mailbox. My courage failed me, so I didn't open it that night. The next morning I put it in my bike's handlebar bag and biked to work in high heels, for luck. I propped it on my desk beside the keyboard and typed nine progress notes before my curiosity beat out my fear. When I finally tore the envelope open, I yelped: my high-heels magic had worked! I had a perfect score. The other secretaries crowded around me, high-fiving. The Famous Oncologists asked what the excitement was, and my secretary friends bragged on my behalf. (I knew I wouldn't have been as unenvying and generous in their place.). On that day, the oncologists did notice me, and I glowed and blushed proudly like a newly minted princess.Later that week, I rounded a corner and heard, through a cracked-open door, the Most Famous Oncologist reaming out the junior fellows. "You're all morons! I'm starting to think that our goddamn TRANSCRIPTION SECRETARY could outperform you!" For a week, I walked on clouds.But praise dried up, and fame was fleeting - and when it fled, what was left was typing. I told myself to just grit my teeth and hang on for a few more months. Soon enough, I would be leaving this job for better things.I applied to more schools than my friends did: eighteen in all, because I figured I'd better cast a wide net. Interviews rolled in. I was proud to tell my supervisor that I'd need time off for Chicago, Tulane, UMass, Pittsburgh. My A's in night school had dragged my GPA up over the 3.0 mark. I had no worries. After all, I was quirky, smart, and a great typist. What medical school wouldn't want me? I was like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl. I was Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, with more clothes on.In spring, the letters of acceptance started coming in. My friend Bill was the first to score. He got UMass and dropped to his knees in thankful prayer, because tuition there was almost nothing. Des, our star, handsome and charming, popped next: every school wanted him. Laura got Tufts. Meg got some place I'd never heard of, and was screeching with delight when she called me.We went out to the House of Blues to celebrate. The other four didn't ask about my letters. They avoided the subject out of politeness, because of course they knew what my silence meant. "Yeah, so, I've been wait-listed at a couple places," I told them finally, just to smash the tension. I swallowed hard."You'll get in," they said quickly. "You know you will; you're Miss Perfect Score!" They wouldn't let me buy any of the rounds that night. In retrospect, I understood that they'd known better than me all along. They'd seen my fate from the beginning.So on I typed, and waited for the light, and checked the mail, and cursed the silent phone. I wasn't in night school anymore, and I had nothing to study for. The sport I'd loved, rowing, I'd had to quit due to lung trouble. So typing was pretty much all I had. It was getting hard to make myself do it, though; my will was gone, and the patients' stories no longer interested me. I'd long since read everything I cared to about Babinskis, eos, the reticuloendothelial system, the Russell viper venom test, paroxysmal nocturnal hemoglobinuria, omental studding. What was the point of any of it? I'd heard those words so many times through my damn headphones. The stories were stale. There was nothing new under the sun; every tumor was like the last thousand before it. All the typing had screwed up my mind, too, enslaving it: I couldn't read a novel or newspaper article any more without my fingers twitching over an imaginary keyboard.It was around that time that I discovered the supply room down the hall.Our group of night-school friends broke up - or maybe we didn't; maybe the other four just got together behind my back now, to spare us all the awkwardness. Des, who had a heart of gold to go with his charm and beauty, did have me over to his place one night. It was the end of May, just weeks before his leaving date, and we sat on the roof of his building and talked about the clouds, and books we'd read, and times we'd been in trouble. I asked if he'd found an apartment at Cornell yet, and he mumbled like he was embarrassed."It's okay," I told him. "I'm fine. I'm happy for you guys. I'll think of something else. EMT training, maybe. Or I might learn to carve violins and cellos. There's a school for that here in Boston. Pretty cool, huh? It could be my next big thing." He brightened, relieved that I'd found a next big thing to pull me even with him. We talked about clouds some more.At work, I typed slower and slower, less and less. I went to the supply room for long stretches. I stood there among the shelves of pens and toner, and calculated how much time I could safely kill before my boss called me into her office and issued threats.I was back there one day in the middle of June, standing among the shelves, killing time and looking at my watch, when Ella burst in on me. Ella was the assistant grant-writing secretary and had the desk next to mine. "Phone call for you," she said breathlessly. She looked like she had sprinted down the hall.I scowled at her. "You could have taken a message. You didn't have to come get me and drag me there right now, like it's some big emergency." Phone calls for me were invariably boring. Some Onc fellow or attending wanted something transcribed special. Some oncologist at another hospital wanted records.I'll never forget Ella's face in the supply room - her mouth something between a grin and a rictus, her teeth so white against the chocolate of her skin. Her eyes were bugging out. She had lost her breath from running, and her voice was choked."It's a medical school," she gasped.I didn't understand. She said it again. This time I heard, but I didn't believe her.I didn't believe the voice in the phone either."Medical school," I kept saying. "Really? Me? This July - you mean, like, in two weeks? Wait, really??? This isn't a joke, right?"So that's what I was doing before I went to med school. That's why I decided to go.I'll never forget Ella, breathless from running, as scared and excited for me as if we were sisters. And the admissions dean at the med school on the other end of the phone, laughing at my confusion, saying, "I just love making these calls!" Then the next phone calls to my mom and dad, explaining it to them, and them not believing just like I hadn't believed, and all of us laughing and crying.And for the rest of that week, a steady parade of fellows and Famous Oncologists came by my desk to shake my hand, and hug me, and say, "Welcome to the family" - while in my head, I heard Ode to Joy nonstop.

What items does a state trooper cruiser carry that is different from a police car?The answer will vary depending on which police department is used in comparison and which state or region of a large state the trooper works.I worked as an attorney for Texas Department of Public Safety several years after graduating from law school. I was on patrol in Oklahoma before law school in a small city within Oklahoma City, an extremely large metropolitan area (landwise, not by population density) and at a flagship state university in Norman where the University of Oklahoma PD was more of a full-service public safety agency providing first response for police, fire and medical calls needs.At the university, we had to carry a lot of equipment with us just like the highway patrol troopers but for different reasons. The troopers ride solo, but often far from back up. If help is able to come for them, it may be a rural county's sheriff or the single municipal officer from a small town sitting in 100 square miles of sparsely populated farm or ranch land and prairie grass.They carried extra ticket books and paperwork that a municipal officer typically wouldn't haul around because it could be easily picked up as needed from a nearby substation or even their headquarters in small to medium size cities. The troopers had more weapons and ammunition with them. Typically they had to carry anything they might need with them when they left home for a shift unless they were in more urban areas where a substation was located.In addition to what most people might think of being necessary, they had to be prepared to do minor repairs to their vehicles like changing a belt, wipers or a tire. Like us, they had a state issued credit card that could be used at approved locations for car repairs. Unlike us working in a more densely populated area, they might be more than an hour’s drive from a repair shop or a tow service. I saw things like spare belts and tool kits in their cars along with the usual rain gear, gloves, emergency medical bag, emergency blankets, flares and accident investigative tools (rolling measure stick for basic collisions, a large retractable metal tape measure for fatality collisions when the more precise measurements are needed for reconstruction, a slide rule because this was before smart phones when one could do complex calculations that way and diagramming templates for use on accident report forms).Now at the city PD right in the midst of a metro area with everything one might need basically a few minutes and only a radio transmission away whether it be another set of hands, a K-9 unit, a police helicopter or just someone to swing by the station and bring you something, it all meant that we carried a lot less in our cars. I always carried a gear bag with my rain gear, a spare ticket book, extra flashlight bulb, extra surgical gloves, Playtex rubber cleaning gloves, a small spray bottle with a disinfecting solution, a few large trash bags, duct tape, a couple of paper grocery sacks and my report case that had blank forms, a mini state statute book, a slide rule and my accident template. I hated not having my things organized and readily available if I was on an accident or other scene and couldn't quickly have things brought over.Most of my city coworkers did not carry nearly that much gear or even a gear bag in the car. Many rode with only the shotgun, a report case and a ticket book, maybe a raincoat if the weather looked iffy. Some only had the gear on their belt, a shotgun (because it was required) and a ticket book with one ink pen.

You have to learn and understand the hidden rules of Social Class, which are similar to those dictated through race but porous enough to allow the mobility that the other posters are talk about.It's specifically called code switching, which is the race-social class term for being one way originally and another for a corporate setting. Its a difficult task to accomplish initially for people of color because below Middle Class most ethnicities have a limited, TV based interaction with White people and corporate America. Which of course is false.Clothing is the standard:slacks,shirt,tie,suit in black, blue, grey until you can afford/learn how to be stylish without being a stand out.Individuality is not in clothing, appearance, hairstyles, it's in ability/mentality.When I teach young males this, we've had ongoing discussions for weeks first then I take them to K&G and I buy them a two suit set up with shirts, ties, dress shoes. I'll take them out to a 4 star restaurant after a lesson on table placement/manners, as in a corporate identity you will have to dine out professionally---you must be comfortable with knowing place settings, multiple courses, the amount of staff and their attendants and responsibilities, and my students are to arrive in their suits. Then I take them along on the administrative, business or teaching consulting meetings I might have, to a community board meeting. Somewhere full of professional adults. I'm famous for providing them with basic business cards and off to a formal networking event we go.The point is to be comfortable in your professional garb and interactive, particularly here in NYC with a wide variety of women, ethnicities, White people.Your manners should be on point.Please,thank you,excuse meKnowing the difference between May I and Can I..?You don't have to be servile but you should be able to tone down. your politeness not be known as someone who has to increase it.Know some banal, non-offensive jokes and story. Don't try to "be friends" immediately.Have an ability and ask questions.I had a student at Columbia who I got an internship there, he arrived shirt and tie, looking good and discovered that though he was ready to do things with his MS Office skills he'd learned in my classes, an office can be a lot of look busy but be ready to do the work when it arrives, yet that includes the tedium of waiting. Yes, that means no phone, no texting, no videos.No PhonesI fire interns if I see your phone too much and you never see mine so if I see yours a few times a day and its not work related, you're done. If you suggest it is an emergency, someone is ill and you are not a doctor that's called there are those far more capable than you to manage that, they should be under their care, not yours. Take the day, the week off, solve the problem, don't bring your problems to work. I personally detest that and in my corporate life would regularly eliminate those people. Not Fair? Where do you work? The company is not called Fair, the closest you can get is the Justice Department and they really don't want to hear your bs.Tedium, waiting for work is normal, an inability to be patient, pay attention, quietly and productively occupy ones attention , is a sign of Poverty based emotionality and lack of self control.Arrive With Your Tools and A Neutral Set of Reading MaterialsThe years after undergrad when I temped I would carry a Vanity Fair magazine, a finance one like Black Enterprise or Forbes, my bible on MS Office, a flash drive and a journal. I could look productive or at least occupied. I once sat at Williams Communication at my cubicle for a thousand dollars a week for two months until they constructed what I could do. But one of the things I became known for at that job and others was my software knowledge. I could troubleshoot minor issues, which in turn gave me something to do and value in their eyes. That lead to being the lead on a forensic accounting embezzling case because I was the only one in NYC who knew their internal software, inside out, from having sat there and looked through it for two months.Race and ArgumentsI learned that race matters, yes, all the prejudices are present but that the corporate systems need a few, not a gaggle, but a few of us there to feel diverse. That's the hole in the dam.I approximate you get one argument every six months, you'll see White guys get three. You will also become the arbiter on all things racial because they are experiencing this as a chance to "ask". Trust me between race, sexuality, age, intelligence and not growing up Poor, I have been asked more questions by White people than ever in my life in offices other than standing in front of a room as a teacher.White PeopleMost White people are well meaning and racism's effect upon them is that its made them obtuse, oblivious, unaware of being offensive because they are just being White, acting with privilege and entitlement. Some of that self perception is useful for people of color to learn, adopt. I have always, in the corporate setting acted as if... I am not Black .....and never been admonished. Walk into an office, even of a superior, and stand in front of them, pass a discreet note to a person if you're the admin about phone calls, appointments, or text. Nothing shows professionalism like being helpful, on point but unobtrusive.Learn to write well or have a style guide templates. I often found because I had templates ready I could drop in work to a format, have it checked and would be told I could be less formal. But here's the point, none told me to be more professional.Never drink or fuck coworkers, period.Ginger ale, red straw, fruit slice. Your marital status is always " involved", no details on gender, sex, sexuality, problems, kids. keep it tight and private.Take at least a year before bringing in your personal business to an office .Make friends with every secretary admin office manager by doing whatever it is, their way. They are gatekeepers and the bosses eyes and ears, they have been tasked with watching you and everyone else. I once went back to my boss, a school Superintendent (she would routinely walk by interview candidates and say such and such could go, which meant pre interview them but by looks alone) because she would not be hiring them as they didn't present as professional enough .One time she said no of a lady but I went and told her to give the lady a chance, she had good energy and a great resume. I promised I would talk to her about her big hair, miniskirt and heels. She saw her, liked her, hired her at $100k a year, she's now one of the best principals in NYC often cited in newspapers and awarded. And they became great friends.Be More Multicultural As a Black PersonI've been to Seders, Asian events, Hindu, etc. You have to get comfortable being the only Black sometimes in the room. One of the things I do is openly acknowledge that. White people are waiting for us to signal and direct them and gently but firmly correct them when they make an error.I think of them as big four year olds with guns, credit cards and nuclear weapons socially, most of our or the preceding generation just don't understand because we have integrated on TV, not in person.Make Hooking Up Your Corporate Wardrobe A PriorityI got my first suit and tie job at A&S department store in high school. I had gotten a messenger job across the avenue but wandered in after the interview to the Manhattan mall, knowing I could do better.I got a sales associate job, yes a thousand a week, because I was in a suit and tie and had a resume. My resume had Charles, a restaurant I did deliveries for, Pathmark, cashier and Wendy's, all around guy. It included typing, letter writing, customer service and photocopier experience. My mother had taught me how maintain a resume. He, John Johnson, said I had taken the time to be professional over older candidates. He took an hour and convinced me to take the job, I was leery because I didn't understand the commission structure.Working in the Boys and Men’s Department taught me how to have an on point wardrobe and presentation skills at 18.Best Times to Interview and Spare Clothing1 tip is to go on interviews as late in the week as possible and after lunch. Preferably Thursday or Fridays. The reasoning is that by the end of teh week people are wrapping up their work for the week. They generally have to/want to make a decision so that it’s a done deal come Monday morning. I’ve gotten more jobs from this trick alone.Always have an extra shirt, tie, in your desk, put up racially mixed pictures, use scenery not teams or celebrities as screensavers.Dummy InterviewsGo on as many interviews as possible to master that situation but when aiming for a position, I only interview seriously with 2-3. Others are just practice. I have gotten about 97% of the jobs or been offered. I've even been suggested for other careers, which is how I detoured from securities litigation to non profit management to teaching.Be on point. Be authentic. Be political and compassionate. Be smart and thoughtful. Be the perfect spy.The Spook Who Sat By The Door.