Me, Groucho, and Job Searches

I found it in a box of old things: a picture of a younger me brandishing a fake cigar and wearing a Groucho Marx nose, glasses, and mustache ensemble. Unusual? Not really. The plastic Groucho face remains a popular novelty item. I didn’t look a thing like Groucho, but if anyone had the right to wear it, it was I. Groucho, was and remains one of my idols.

What marked this decades-old fading black and white photo as significant was its purpose. It was my “official” portrait for a job application. I bet you’re wondering what sort of job required such a shot. Comedy club? Traveling circus? Sales promotion? Nope. It was for a high school teaching job I knew I didn’t want and, yes, I will explain. The following is a (mostly) true story.

You may have noticed that COVID-19 has left the economy in shambles. It’s going to get much worse, and this saddens me because I thought I had already lived through what would be the worst financial crisis of my lifetime. I mean the one in the 1970s, not the one from 2011-16 that gets mislabeled the “Great Recession.” Let me assure you, the 1970s downturn was bleaker. It started with the first OPEC oil boycott in 1973 and, though it had brief breaks, lasted well into the 1980s and didn’t really break until early 1992. (Ask me about Reaganomics and I’ll fill you in on why it’s a myth.)

I had the misfortune to graduate from college in the midst of the 1970s muck. I was lucky enough to ditch my retail job, but unlucky to get hired as a juvenile probation officer. What I wanted to do was teach students, not bust them. History jobs are hard to secure today; in the 1970s, you couldn’t buy one, though I tried to do exactly that. We’d like to believe that hard times bring out the best in human beings. Actually, they tend to encourage pirates. In my case, the scurvy dogs masqueraded as an employment agency that found openings and, if you secured one of their leads, you agreed to dump 10% of your salary for the first three years into their treasure chest. You also had to apply for each lead they sent you, or they would stop looking.  

I should have known better, but I dutifully tossed resumes into several rings already mounded knee-deep. Then came the one that sent me over the edge: an opening at a rightwing Christian academy. We’re talking mouth-breathers and fire-eaters, not gentlefolk and do-gooders. I no longer remember where it was. Tallahassee sticks in my brain, but so does Georgia. What to do? When reason fails, try sabotage.

Take the application. Please. It went (more or less) like this:

            Q: Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior?   A: I thought he was supposed to redeem all of humanity, not just me.

            Q: Do you drink?  A: Not much, but I’m open to suggestions.

            Q: Do you smoke? A: No, the cigar is made of rubber. (See attached photo)

            Q: Do you dance?  A: Not very well, I’m told.

            Q: Do you go to movies? A: Yes, but I’m rather picky about what I see.

            Q: What are your views on pornography? A: The same as Justice John Marshall Harlan. I don’t know what it is, but I know it when I see it.

            Q: Do you believe in original sin? A: No. It appears to me that people just keep committing the same ones over and over. I can’t recall seeing an original one.      

            Q: Do you believe in premarital intercourse? A: It totally depends on the young lady in question. (Had I really been honest, I might have made some reference to demand outstripping supply!)

There were some theological questions that allowed me to be more seriously argumentative, but the application ended with this: Attach a recent photograph of yourself. It didn’t occur to me until years later that they probably wanted to make sure I wasn’t black, but you know what I did. I wanted to make absolutely certain that I had a less than zero chance of being interviewed!

So I went back to the social work job I so desperately wished to leave. As most of you know, my tale has a happy ending. I got married, Emily and I moved to Vermont, and I got my first teaching gig at a place the pirates had never ventured. If you are one of my former students (at any level) and think I helped with your education, don’t thank me. Thank Groucho.

Rob Weir