It’s not funny. It’s tragically absurd.
Ugly as an incurable ill that intermittently
recedes below the skin. The sores stop seeping.
It camouflages itself as non-contagious.
You know you’re old when you’ve sat on
more than a 100 hiring committees – from feminist
grassroots non-profits to hiring committees
for org.coms with planes of snow men in suits.
Usually the hired person has an inside track
to the ear of someone already who knows
someone who is sleeping with someone or
the son or daughter of a someone.
Sometimes the most wrong candidate is chosen.
Appointed because they’re the least disliked,
minimally offensive – rather than
that they’re the most skill endowed.
My molars are worn from all the grinding.
Or the person with the obviously
politically correct & stacked disadvantages
gets the position. Stats improve.
No structural or organization change.
Someones make each other shine
& multiply. They fortify each other’s
fortresses. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
Everyone’s invited to a barbeque.
Church & club members are keenest
to reproduce their own while being
butter slimy & honey honey sweet
about honesty & transparent process.
I know I’m old because I care only
passingly these days. I see the slides & slithers
of power under the enunciations, behind
the doors, through dozens of disguises.
My eyes hurt from watching all this.
Aware. Aching with ridiculous impotency
I see the lean of the hiring panel into following the
leader who is the whitest, most Big Daddy,
heterosexual, healthy unflawed body …
Recycle the old boy’s networks.
Now with a Sarah Palin/ Margaret Thatcher, Queen Bee,
Cheerleader girl, handmaiden casting with the boys.
Or a token beige boy’s allowed to pretend to lead.
Old tricks. Old codes. An old dog
I pull my unremarkable tail between my slow legs
with shame for being in the same room –
unable to bark. Or even shit on their shoes.
