__________________________________
Career Day
By Stephanie Kemp
Career Day
By Stephanie Kemp
Today I scared the children.
I have been asked to do tons of elementary school career days. Not to brag, but (except to totally brag) I am always a massive hit.
I am promised and billed as a Writer and Producer.
Major Motion Pictures!
Documentaries!
Super Famous Kids’ TV Show!
Children’s Books!
Poetry!
Even my daughters have been known to be proud.
At their own schools.
This is no small feat.
There is enough truth in my credentials to ensure that I will never land in career day jail, but I have to sing and dance pretty hard. As an added bonus, I (like everyone else) struggle to define what it is that a Producer does.
The one major motion picture I did have a producer credit on has to do some heavy lifting.
I show:
Cool Props!
A Slate!
An Actual Script!
My scribbled notebooks to show my wildly unruly creative process!
Photos of me with movie stars in amazing places all over the world!
I tell funny stories and stories of woe.
Missed opportunities and redemption.
Glory.
I make them think I am cool and a hard worker and lucky and witty and grateful and engaged and a believer that anything is possible!
I get thank you notes and requests for follow up calls and additional emailed questions.
Once I was even asked for my autograph.
I was career day gold.
Not today.
A group of fifth graders, one year into their zoom learning from home.
A parochial school in the city.
25 little faces that I couldn’t see properly in their tiny squares.
Mostly (all?) Hispanic.
They had to be on mute.
Their teacher is my neighbor, two doors down.
I adore her.
I should’ve said no.
I no longer work on cool movies.
They no longer watch the super famous kids’ tv show.
I no longer know how to phone anything in, let alone zoom it in.
We are all pandemic fried and crispy around the edges and only half present beyond eyes that can still read as human.
…ish.
On a good day.
Actually, that was just me.
They just wanted to hear how they might be able to grow up to be a writer or producer.
Or a grown up that doesn’t melt during a career day zoom and still fits into her sausage casing.
I scared them.
I spent 35 minutes (even went 15 over my allotted 20) regaling the children with stories of all the jobs* I’ve had, since no career is ever linear!
I explained that you have to be curious, resourceful, resilient…And figure out a way to make something good come out of the hundreds of jobs you will have and sometimes hate.
I told them that even on the worst jobs you will find something good to take away from it.
“Look for the good,” I implored them, trying not to vomit on the words as they came tumbling out of my errant mouth.
I told them that everyone has a story to tell (I believe this), but that you might have to wake up at 3am to write it down. (Our creativity is rarely polite enough to present itself coherently at a decent hour.)
I told them to keep a pad near their bed.
“Everyone is creative!”
I read them my poem about storytelling out loud because I couldn’t figure out how to share my screen.
I watched them watch me in my little frame.
Bored.
Unengaged.
Playing with their nails.
The videos didn’t play smoothly.
The sound was bad.
One by one I watched them aim their cameras at their ceilings.
I thought their teacher (still my neighbor, 2 doors down) was frozen in her square, until I realized she just wasn’t moving. Or, possibly, breathing.
I couldn’t maintain my narrative thread because I wanted to see into their rooms, their lives, their heads.
I wanted to ask them a million questions instead of feed them a bunch of bunk about a business that I am no longer interested in or really a part of.
I was all over the place because I didn’t want to be there.
At least wearing my former career day hat.
It was so bad that I still think I might throw up.
It was so bad that I am trying to write about it to remember how bad it was.
So that next time I will say no.
So that I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not.
It is the least I can do to admit that I fully biffed career day because to admit anything bigger would be too scary.
The thing I remember most clearly and painfully was that a sweet girl asked me what it is like to work with puppets (I don’t ever work with the puppets), another girl asked who voiced the dog in my movie (I didn’t remember), and a boy asked me what a producer does (because I had forgotten to explain it).
_______________________________
ps. I sit here the next day realizing that this is the only sentence I need to write:
I am a 53 year old woman who has lived a lucky and jam packed life full of opportunity and options and I didn’t know what to say to a group of hopeful kids sitting in the middle of a pandemic world on fire who scared me and broke my heart because they haven’t and might not get to.
pps. I am (and am not) an asshole.
_______________________________
*Babysitter
Dog Walker
Lawn Mower-er
Snow Shovel-er
Avon Lady
Product Demonstrator
Ice Cream Scooper
Clothing Store Cashier
Camp Counselor
Data Enter-er
Beauty Salon Receptionist
Campus Tour Guide
Tutor
Waitress
Hostess
Teacher’s Assistant
Teacher
Volunteer
Script Reader
Proof Reader
Script Supervisor
Marketing Assistant
Marketing Director
Retail Editor
Business Manager
Documentary Researcher
Personal Assistant
Locations Assistant
Casting Assistant
Wardrobe Assistant
Production Assistant
Producer’s Assistant
Film Festival Assistant
Production Coordinator
Film Festival Consultant
Actor
Writer
Lyricist
Poet
Associate Producer
Co-Producer
Line Producer
Field Producer
Segment Producer
Producer
Executive Producer
Consulting Producer
Director
Mother
Career Day Speaker
Minister
Fraud
I have been asked to do tons of elementary school career days. Not to brag, but (except to totally brag) I am always a massive hit.
I am promised and billed as a Writer and Producer.
Major Motion Pictures!
Documentaries!
Super Famous Kids’ TV Show!
Children’s Books!
Poetry!
Even my daughters have been known to be proud.
At their own schools.
This is no small feat.
There is enough truth in my credentials to ensure that I will never land in career day jail, but I have to sing and dance pretty hard. As an added bonus, I (like everyone else) struggle to define what it is that a Producer does.
The one major motion picture I did have a producer credit on has to do some heavy lifting.
I show:
Cool Props!
A Slate!
An Actual Script!
My scribbled notebooks to show my wildly unruly creative process!
Photos of me with movie stars in amazing places all over the world!
I tell funny stories and stories of woe.
Missed opportunities and redemption.
Glory.
I make them think I am cool and a hard worker and lucky and witty and grateful and engaged and a believer that anything is possible!
I get thank you notes and requests for follow up calls and additional emailed questions.
Once I was even asked for my autograph.
I was career day gold.
Not today.
A group of fifth graders, one year into their zoom learning from home.
A parochial school in the city.
25 little faces that I couldn’t see properly in their tiny squares.
Mostly (all?) Hispanic.
They had to be on mute.
Their teacher is my neighbor, two doors down.
I adore her.
I should’ve said no.
I no longer work on cool movies.
They no longer watch the super famous kids’ tv show.
I no longer know how to phone anything in, let alone zoom it in.
We are all pandemic fried and crispy around the edges and only half present beyond eyes that can still read as human.
…ish.
On a good day.
Actually, that was just me.
They just wanted to hear how they might be able to grow up to be a writer or producer.
Or a grown up that doesn’t melt during a career day zoom and still fits into her sausage casing.
I scared them.
I spent 35 minutes (even went 15 over my allotted 20) regaling the children with stories of all the jobs* I’ve had, since no career is ever linear!
I explained that you have to be curious, resourceful, resilient…And figure out a way to make something good come out of the hundreds of jobs you will have and sometimes hate.
I told them that even on the worst jobs you will find something good to take away from it.
“Look for the good,” I implored them, trying not to vomit on the words as they came tumbling out of my errant mouth.
I told them that everyone has a story to tell (I believe this), but that you might have to wake up at 3am to write it down. (Our creativity is rarely polite enough to present itself coherently at a decent hour.)
I told them to keep a pad near their bed.
“Everyone is creative!”
I read them my poem about storytelling out loud because I couldn’t figure out how to share my screen.
I watched them watch me in my little frame.
Bored.
Unengaged.
Playing with their nails.
The videos didn’t play smoothly.
The sound was bad.
One by one I watched them aim their cameras at their ceilings.
I thought their teacher (still my neighbor, 2 doors down) was frozen in her square, until I realized she just wasn’t moving. Or, possibly, breathing.
I couldn’t maintain my narrative thread because I wanted to see into their rooms, their lives, their heads.
I wanted to ask them a million questions instead of feed them a bunch of bunk about a business that I am no longer interested in or really a part of.
I was all over the place because I didn’t want to be there.
At least wearing my former career day hat.
It was so bad that I still think I might throw up.
It was so bad that I am trying to write about it to remember how bad it was.
So that next time I will say no.
So that I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not.
It is the least I can do to admit that I fully biffed career day because to admit anything bigger would be too scary.
The thing I remember most clearly and painfully was that a sweet girl asked me what it is like to work with puppets (I don’t ever work with the puppets), another girl asked who voiced the dog in my movie (I didn’t remember), and a boy asked me what a producer does (because I had forgotten to explain it).
_______________________________
ps. I sit here the next day realizing that this is the only sentence I need to write:
I am a 53 year old woman who has lived a lucky and jam packed life full of opportunity and options and I didn’t know what to say to a group of hopeful kids sitting in the middle of a pandemic world on fire who scared me and broke my heart because they haven’t and might not get to.
pps. I am (and am not) an asshole.
_______________________________
*Babysitter
Dog Walker
Lawn Mower-er
Snow Shovel-er
Avon Lady
Product Demonstrator
Ice Cream Scooper
Clothing Store Cashier
Camp Counselor
Data Enter-er
Beauty Salon Receptionist
Campus Tour Guide
Tutor
Waitress
Hostess
Teacher’s Assistant
Teacher
Volunteer
Script Reader
Proof Reader
Script Supervisor
Marketing Assistant
Marketing Director
Retail Editor
Business Manager
Documentary Researcher
Personal Assistant
Locations Assistant
Casting Assistant
Wardrobe Assistant
Production Assistant
Producer’s Assistant
Film Festival Assistant
Production Coordinator
Film Festival Consultant
Actor
Writer
Lyricist
Poet
Associate Producer
Co-Producer
Line Producer
Field Producer
Segment Producer
Producer
Executive Producer
Consulting Producer
Director
Mother
Career Day Speaker
Minister
Fraud