Chocolate sampler from "Chocolate for a Teen’s Soul"

Defining Yourself
by Kristine Meldrum Denholm

I thought my career was over, and it hadn't started yet. Dressed in a Casual Corner suit, I was sitting in a downtown Pittsburgh parking lot, sobbing into a Burger King napkin. Would I ever make it, or would I be gobbled up like a cheeseburger?

I had just come out of a media career day. As a 21-year-old journalism major graduating from Duquesne University, I was eager to find a job and prove I was somebody. I hoped someone at the job fair would hire me.

After all, I was a driven student who had done all the "right" things. I held internships with a television station and a PR firm, had a 3.76 G.P.A., and I was active in a Women in Communications group.

I was even serious with my writing as a kid. In 5th grade, I created a

neighborhood newspaper that I sold to everyone on my street. I hired my brother as the sports writer — and later fired him because he would rather play ball than write about it. And I hired a girlfriend as my secretary. I fired her, too, because she couldn't type. In high school, I reported for the school television station.

At the media day, I talked with several news outlets, gave out my résumé and showed them my portfolio. They had no positions available but kindly offered advice in breaking into the competitive field. I was disappointed, but decided to make one last stop to talk with a media representative who was sitting alone.

I'll see what he has to say, I thought. You never know when you might find the coveted first journalism job. The one that screams, "I’ve made it! I’ve broken in!"

I approached the man timidly. His arms were folded in front of him like he didn't want to be there. I introduced myself with a firm handshake. His grip was dead weight. I was now the next victim.

"Well, what's your story?" he asked.

Story? OK, he's testing me. He wants a headline of my life, a sound-bite of my world. I rattled off my grade point average, work ethic, and everything else my college advisors told me to say when job hunting. Silence. Yikes, I thought, maybe he wanted to hear about my activities instead?

"Ms. Mildren," he said.

"Uh, it's Meldrum."

"Whatever," he snapped. "Listen, you're not qualified to be a reporter here."

I sat there stunned. It felt like I was his mid-day snack.

"In fact," he continued, "I don't think you're even qualified to be sitting here talking with me."

The look on my face must have said, "Keep it coming. I enjoy being bashed in the head. It reminds me of a good root canal."

"At my organization, we don't want to even talk to you unless you have five to ten years experience. You're just taking up my time."

I felt a lump in my throat. "Well, I've had, uh, internships and..."

"Means nothing. It's real experience we want. You don't have it. You

couldn't do this job, and we don't want you."

Everything I worked for means nothing? I turned and dashed outside, feeling the tears slide down my hot cheeks. I didn't have the right to be in his booth? I was a nobody. Would anybody let me be somebody?

A career day sponsor told me later that they wouldn’t be inviting him back again. I wish I could say I felt better. After I graduated, I spent the next three months looking for work, and I beat myself up in the process — dwelling on all the negative remarks I’d heard. My dentist even had input. "You'll never make it in television with those teeth," he’d said. Maybe I wasn't good looking enough for television, or a good enough writer for newspapers.

But soon I found a position in a national press office for a federal agency

in Washington, DC. I started at the bottom and relentlessly worked my way up. Within five years, I was speech writing for the director and other officials, setting up press conferences, doing live radio interviews, and writing and editing a publication. In the evenings, I toiled as an anchor and reporter for a cable television station.

The world didn't greet me with open arms when I graduated, but I learned to stop letting others define me. I began defining myself. I wasn't my job. My sense of self-worth didn't descend on me the day someone decided I was "good enough" for a job. Confidence is an evolution. In my case, it came from moving — alone — 400 miles from my family. From dealing with a live mouse stuck in a glue trap in my bathroom. From managing to go to work the day after my boyfriend said he didn't love me anymore. From being stuck in the rain on the Pennsylvania Turnpike when my windshield wipers blew off — and engineering a twisty tie to put them back on. Confidence came from looking at myself in the mirror, years later, knowing I’d won.

And Mr. "Means Nothing"? He called my office one day needing information. I didn't tell him who I was, and I put him on hold for several minutes.

"Thanks for waiting," I said when I came back to him. "Newsweek and the Washington Post were ahead of you. We rank calls in order of importance."