It's fair to say I've been a bit depressed this week.
On Monday, I graduated. Wizard robes, processions, fanfares - the whole shebang. My classmates and I braved it through the snow to be reunited for one last, glorious hurrah: and, I'm pleased to report, not one of us fell over on stage.
It was lovely, even with the bum-numbingly long running time and and the stinging palms associated with clapping almost continuously for an hour and a half (everyone received a strictly rationed 5 claps from me; only 3 if they received a whoop from the audience or waved like a twit on stage). But somewhere in the midst of all the rhetoric and speechifying, I began to feel uncomfortable. Our university, the principal assured us and our assembled well-wishers, is one of the best in the country for graduate employment rates. Within 6 months of graduation, around 90% of us will be employed.
Well, alright, I thought. But 6 months is a long time. If I haven't found a job after 6 months, I'll probably start panicking. I reckon by that time, if I continue at my current rate, I'll have applied for around 60 jobs (and only have been interviewed for 9 of them). Someone will take pity on me, surely. Surely.
The bit that really concerned me about this statistic, though, was the glossing over of exactly what these graduates are doing. When I filled in my graduate census a little while after finishing my BA, I was a university statistician's wet dream - not only was I employed (in a bar - I think I entered my job title as 'beverage technician'), but I was going on to further study. Double whammy. Two thumbs up. This time, filling in my postgrad census, I'll be able to tick the 'full-time employment' box, but my degrees will have nothing to do with it at all. I am one of the 90%. What a terrifying thought.
So, on Monday, I graduated. On Tuesday I was back to making coffee. I am one of the 90%.
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