暑期工便是暑期工了,高盛的暑期工跟麥記的暑期工不就是一樣,聘請的都是請一些完全沒有工作經驗的初生之犢。
那為什麼高盛聘請暑期工要扮晒蟹叫人交份 resume 呢?
未經粉飾的人生就如夏天沒曬到的腳板一樣蒼白,展現人前的就只有一張不知天高地厚的稚臉,哪有什麼履歷可言。
「梗係有啦,我 Cornell 㗎喎。」係喎,佢 Cornell 㗎喎,點同呢?GPA 4.0 好基本,freshman 嗰年又去咗唔知邊間 NGO 派米,臨返去美國之前仲飛咗去杭州做馬雲個 PA 個 PA 做咗兩個禮拜,幾咁忙。
其實講咁多,都係想鼓勵下嗰啲 DSE 考得唔好嘅學生。
正如大家所見,之前有位讀者 send 咗個訊息畀我,抱歉未能即時回覆。如果有什麼學生仍然有需要的話,希望葉某的遲來之筆也可以是不知醜的神來之筆。
人生的精彩,不是一個分數,不是一家學校,不是一張沙紙。
人生的精彩,就是現在這一刻,抓緊便精彩了。
每逢 DSE 之後,為了鼓勵成績未如理想的莘莘學子,有條橋由從前到現在都有人用,就是邀請一些「人生失敗組」去分享他們如何殺出一條血路,最後獲得旁人沒有估計過的空前成功。
但我覺得,更加發人心省的,卻是邀請一些「人生勝利組」去分享他們如何走入一條死路,最終沒落在龐大擁擠的泛泛之輩裏。
要找這些故事不容易,我可以分享一個。
有位 start up 創辦人想融資,門敲了幾道,回音卻沒有半點。
這位創辦人以前是港島名校狀元,中六那年,Cal Tech 在香港芸芸尖子裏千挑萬選,最後取錄了他。從美國再以高材生姿態畢業回港,結合科技與飲食,創辦了第一家公司。那時候的他,人人都看好,而看好他的都絕非等閒之輩,頭上套上了幾道明日之星的光環,相當耀眼。
走到今天,剛好十一個年頭,公司卻是開了一家又結束了一家,投資過的人有一半都選擇退股。想頭很大,想法很多,但結果是週而復始地想出一些「今天我打倒昨日我」的 idea。
然後他來找我。
最新一個 idea 是「訓練普通人成為廚師」,即是透過他的教材,人人都可以做廚師。端詳過他的計劃書,我問他,「真係 work?」眼睛充滿自信的他,說普通人完成訓練後,他會為這些新進廚師找食客配對,「係教育版嘅 Uber」。
看到他如此自信,我忍不住說了句:「呢個 model 唔係教育版 Uber,係飲食版香港駕駛學院」。他立刻反擊,「廚師冇底薪,同 Uber 司機一樣。」仲衰,底薪都要慳嘅香港駕駛學院。「我哋唔係實體教室,廚師係用我哋嘅 software 學習。」咁係咪 Bulgari 整個 shopping app 畀你網上買嘢佢哋就可以叫自己科技公司?
天之驕子往往在冷酷較勁的人際關係中,看不到自己的盲點。
每次都講到自己天下無敵,是否覺得很爽?我一點也不爽,因為在那個狼來了的故事裏,我就是那個不再相信牧童的村民。
有句話勸勉考得不好的學生很有用:just a setback,not a defeat。同樣地,考得好的,也有一句很值得記著:just a win,not a success。
本來想在此停筆,但忽然又想起一個喜歡也文也武的保險經紀,又有衝動多說兩句。保險經紀良莠不齊,要選個好的真的不容易。我在這裏介紹你一位:Bond Ng。華仁推介 St. Jo,僅此一次。
有責任,有抱負,有擔帶,成功是在絕境提煉出來的。以前 Bond Ng 都是富裕人家,讀書時期出入馬會,可惜爸爸不幸病逝,讓全家失去了唯一的經濟支柱。大學畢業好像是理工,畢業後每天辛勤工作,莫說是一份保單,就算是麻煩客戶如我提出一個無聊問題,也會尋根究底幫你找出答案。憑著自己的努力,那張久違了的馬會會員證,二十年後又在他的銀包出現了。
想說。
牛津出來賣保險,理工畢業出來又是賣保險,沒有什麼值得驕傲,沒有什麼值得羞恥。人在做天在看,殊途最後同歸,又有什麼分別。
唔係,可能有分別嘅,佢件西裝靚過你嗰套少少囉。
但你高過佢喎。
Brioni 嗰邊呢,問過喇,識幫你墊高個膊,但唔識幫你駁長對腳。
人生的高度,總是靠自己一步一步攀上去才有意思。
freshman resume 在 Naomi Nikola Facebook 的最讚貼文
In first grade, a boy named John— a notorious troublemaker—systematically chased every girl in our class during recess trying to kiss her on the lips. Most gave in eventually. It was easier to give in than keep running. When it was my turn, I turned and faced him, grabbed his glasses off his weasel face, and stomped on them on the hard blacktop. He ran to the principal’s office and cried.
In fifth grade, I was asked to be a boy’s girlfriend over email. It was the first email I ever received. He actually told me he wanted to send me an email, so I went home and made an AOL account. We went to a carnival and he won me a Garfield stuffed animal, and then he gave me a 3 Doors Down CD. A few days later, he broke up with me, and asked for Garfield and the CD back. I said no.
In sixth grade, a girl in my year gave head to an eighth grader in the back of the school bus while playing Truth or Dare.
In the summer after sixth grade, I kissed a boy for the first time at sleep away camp. He was my summer love. During the end-of-the-summer dining hall announcements, where kids usually announced lost sweatshirts and Walkmen, an older girl stepped up to the microphone, tossed her hair behind her shoulders, and proudly stated, “I lost something very precious to me last night. My virginity. If anyone finds it, please let me know.” The dining hall erupted into laughter and cheers. She was barred from ever coming back to the camp again, and wasn’t allowed to say goodbye to anyone.
In seventh grade, I told my brother I decided when I was older wanted a Hummer. What I really meant was I wanted a Jeep, but I didn’t know a lot about cars. My mother overheard and screamed at me for “wanting a Hummer.”
In the summer after freshman year of high school, I went to sleepaway field hockey camp with many of my close friends. One of them, named Megan, I had been friends with since kindergarten. One night when I was showering, she ripped open the curtain and snapped a photo of me on her disposable camera. I screamed. She laughed. We both laughed when I got out of the shower a few minutes later. After camp was over, her father took the camera to the convenience store to get it developed. When he gave the finished photos back to her, he said, “Your friend [Anonymous] has grown up.”
Sophomore year of high school, one of my best friends Hilary had a party in her basement while her mom was away. We invited some of the guys in our grade and someone’s older brother bought us a handle of vodka. One of the boys who came sat next to me in Spanish class. His name was Thomas. I remember playing a simple game, where we passed the bottle of vodka around in a circle and drank. I remember being happily tipsy and having fun, to suddenly being very drunk. Thomas and I started chanting numbers in Spanish, and he leaned towards me and kissed me. We kissed in the middle of the party, with all of our friends cheering. Then we went into Hilary’s bedroom.
Hilary’s bedroom was in the basement, on the ground floor, with a large window next to her bed. When someone went outside to smoke a cigarette, they realized it was a front row seat to what was happening in the bedroom. It was dark outside, and the light on was in the bedroom. They called everyone outside to watch. I don’t remember getting undressed, but apparently we were both completely naked in Hilary’s bed. A friend of mine told me later she tried to open the door and stop what was happening, but Thomas must have locked it. They said they pounded on the door. I don’t remember hearing them pounding. I don’t remember seeing everyone’s faces outside the window. I remember Thomas holding my head down, and shoving his penis into my mouth. I remember trying to resist, pulling back, but he held his hands firmly on my head, pushing my face up and down. That’s all that I remember.
The next day, my friends and I went out to dinner at one of our favorite local restaurants. I couldn’t eat anything, and it wasn’t because I was hung over. Every time I tried to put food in my mouth, I felt like I was choking. Anytime a flash of the night before appeared in my mind, I felt like vomiting. My friends sat with me in silence. Then they told me a girl named Lindsey, who had briefly dated Thomas freshman year, had stood outside and watched the entire time. Even after everyone else stopped watching. My friends said they didn’t watch.
On Monday, Thomas and I sat next to each other in Spanish. We didn’t speak. We didn’t make eye contact. I went to the girls bathroom and threw up. I hear Lindsey and Thomas live together, now, ten years later.
Junior year of high school, my teacher for Honors Spanish was named Señor Gonzales. Señor Gonzales had all of the girls sit in the front row. Señor Gonzales called on any girl who was wearing a skirt to write on the chalkboard. Señor Gonzales asked a friend of mine, who had broken her finger playing an after school sport, if she broke her finger because “she liked it rough.” Señor Gonzales was a tenured teacher.
Senior year of high school, I got my first real boyfriend. His name was Colin. He was on the lacrosse team with Thomas. He told me that sophomore year, Thomas told everyone on the team what happened that night at Hilary’s. Everyone cheered. Colin said that, even then, he had a crush on me. Even then, he wanted to punch Thomas.
Colin and I lost our virginities to each other. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have the baby. He didn’t believe in abortion. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have a C-section. Colin said that if I didn’t have a C-section, my vagina would be too loose for him to ever enjoy having sex with me again. Colin said that he wouldn’t let our child breastfeed. He said his mother gave him formula, and that he turned out just fine. I didn’t get pregnant.
Junior year of college, I lived in Denmark for the spring semester and studied at the University of Copenhagen. Copenhagen is one of the safest cities in the world. Guns are illegal there. Pepper spray is illegal there. One night, my friends and I went to a concert at a crowded club in a part of the city I didn’t know very well. I brought a tiny purse with money, my apartment key, and my international cell phone. For some reason it made sense at the time to put my purse inside my friend’s purse. Maybe I didn’t feel like carrying it. We were both drinking. My friend left the concert to go home with her boyfriend. One by one, everyone I was there with left the concert, until I was suddenly alone and I realized I didn’t have my purse, or any money for a cab ride home.
I started walking in the direction that felt right. I walked for a long time. I had no idea where I was, and didn’t recognize the area. It was almost 4 am. I was on a residential street when a cab pulled up next to me. I asked the driver if he could drive me to an intersection down the street from my apartment.
I don’t have any money, I said.
I really need your help, I said.
I will do it for free, he said.
Sit in the front, he said.
I sat in the front. We drove in silence for some time, until he pulled over on the side of a dark street.
I don’t want to do it for free anymore, he said.
He locked the car doors and reached across the center console and slipped his hand up my skirt. He grabbed my vagina. Hard. I pushed his hand away and unlocked the door. I ran down the street and realized he had taken me a block away from the intersection I wanted. I walked to my apartment and threw rocks at my roommate’s window until she let me inside. She yelled at me for waking her up. I escaped. Nothing happened. I was fine.
The summer after I graduated college I helped Hilary find an internship. She was an art major and wanted something for her resume besides waitressing. We found a posting on Craigslist to be a studio assistant for a painter in the Bronx. It was listed as an unpaid internship. The toll for the George Washington Bridge was twelve dollars, plus gas, but she got the internship anyway. She wanted the experience.
The artist was a 38-year-old Canadian painter named Bradley. Hilary was 22.There was another intern there, an art student from Manhattan named Stella. Bradley needed assistants to help him make bubble wrap paintings. Stella and Hilary would take a syringe and fill the tiny bubbles with different color paints until it formed a mosaic. Bradley always had Hilary stay after Stella left to clean the paintbrushes and syringes. He told Hilary she was beautiful. More beautiful than his wife, who he only married for citizenship. He told Hilary they had a loveless marriage. He told Hilary he wanted to have her beautiful children. They began an affair. He told Hilary has wife knew and didn’t care. He told Hilary he was going to leave his wife soon.
Everyday Hilary drove to the Bronx, cleaned Bradley’s paintbrushes, and had sex on the studio floor. Everyday she went home with no money, and everyday she paid the toll at the George Washington Bridge. She needed the internship for her resume, she said. It was too late to find a new job, she said.
I could go on. I could tell you a lot more. About the whistles on the sidewalk, the kids who sat at the bottom of the stairs in high school to look up our skirts, my friend who was a prostitute in South Carolina, the men who’ve cornered me in parking lots and bars calling me a tease, the unwanted grabbing on the subway, the many times my father has called me fat, the time I traveled to the Philippines and discovered Western men pay preteen locals to spend the week in their hotel, the messages on OKCupid asking to “fart in my mouth.” About how I wasn’t sure if I had been raped because I was drunk and kissed Thomas back. How he raped my mouth and not my vagina, so that must not be rape. How easy it was for me to escape the dark street in Copenhagen, and how that made it not matter since “it could’ve been worse.”
Men have no idea what it takes to be a woman. To grin and bear it and persevere. The constant state of war, navigating the relentless obstacle course of testosterone and misogyny, where they think we are property to be owned and plowed. But we’re not. We are people, just like them. Equals, in fact, or at least that’s the core of what feminism is still trying to achieve. The job is not over. We’ve made great progress. There are female CEOs, though not very many. There are females writing for the New York Times and winning Pulitzer prizes, though not very many. There are female politicians, though not very many. But these advances are only on paper. The job won’t be over until equality permeates the air we breathe, the streets we walk and the homes we live in.
I think back to how easy it was for me, in first grade, to feel fearless and strong in my conviction to stomp on John’s glasses. I felt right in reacting how I did, because John’s behavior was wrong. But his was an elementary learning of the wide boundaries his gender would go on to afford him. For me, it would never again be so easy.
— Anonymous, age 25
(source: ibelieveyouitsnotyourfault.tumblr.com)
freshman resume 在 college freshman resume template - Google Search - Pinterest 的美食出口停車場
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