Loves Me Like a Rock

I am forever astounded by other people and the care and concern they take with various aspects of their jobs. As in, no apparent care and concern whatsoever.



It is my job to be this way, being in Human Resources, but even when the people in question are not in my company's employ, I wonder about their motivations. And wonder what their Human Resources person is doing about it. And wonder what random thoughts of befuddlement are coursing along their synaptic junctions. And wonder if I should give them a call, a little friendly collegial advice.



The situation in question pertains to a dear friend of mine whose son I have known since birth. I consider him as close as my own. I beam with pride at his (myriad) successes, suffer his (thankfully few) losses, and endeavor to support him and coach him and guide him to the extent that he'd need me to. Or allow me to, for that matter. I adore this kid. And his mother.



The boy, let's call him Griffin, goes to a top flight prep school whose reputation is as long as the drive up the hill to reach the hallowed halls a select few boys call home for 6 years. They come to school as boys, learn to become men, and along the way, become the refined, upstanding, dutiful, successful, socially graceful people we all hope and pray on a stack of Bibles all of our boys become. Our girls too, for that matter, but this is a boys' school. Let's stay on point.



So, Griff was invited to apply for the prestigious National Honor Society at the end of his sophomore year. Very nice accomplishment in its own right.



He did not get in. A huge disappointment. Especially since there were many hurdles to clear, and Griffin seemed to clear all of them admirably, with the possible exception of the very subjective interview, which everyone knows is a wild card. I interview for a living and know every tactic and buzzword, and I am generally as uncertain as the next guy when I've finished being interviewed for something. There is simply no telling.



Griff learned that he didn't get in on the authority of some underground informant. This sent his mother into a typical she-wolf tailspin. Griff expressed that this was especially disappointing since he knew who got in, and knew that those kids were in a class together where the teacher told all of the students what questions they'd be asked at the interview.



I'm sorry. Did someone just describe what my Honor-Code-endorsing college would have called "UNAUTHORIZED AID" and would have failed you for having accepted?



My friend is understandably pissed. She calls me.



She asks my official interviews-for-a-living opinion.



Now I'm pissed. These kids are all inexperienced interviewees! They don't know what they want to do this weekend let alone how to tell someone about what impact they intend to make on the world around them. The kids with the questions clearly had the edge; had the benefit of asking their parents for ideas and rehearsing their answers.



My friend shares an e-mail exchange with me. It is between her and the Spanish teacher who evidently had the responsibility of making the decision as to who got in and who did not.



Senora dismisses, even poo-poos the value of having known the questions. No impact. (Of course she'd like my friend to believe this. To acknowledge the benefit would mean a lot of re-evaluating and reconsidering. What a pain!)



Lo siento, Senora. Not buying it. The kids with the questions would have, at a minimum, a swagger, a lack of nervousness, a preparedness that the others did not. It's like performance enhancing drugs only the academic version.



We are discussing just this when she is presented with The Letter.



And I can hear her hair bursting into flame.