Back in February Gareth Rushgrove started the fantastic Twitter hashtag, #FirstTechJob. The responses were inspiring for many people, from those starting out to people like me who “fell into” a tech career. I had a natural love for computers, various junior tech jobs and volunteered in open source for years. I had no formal education in computer science. While my story is not uncommon in tech, it can still be isolating and embarrassing at academic conferences I participate in.
I chimed in myself.
I knew when I posted it that 140 characters was not enough to provide context. For me and so many others it wasn’t just about having that first job and going through the prerequisite grunt work, but the long journey I had before getting said first tech job.
This week, two things inspired me to write more about this. First, I visited my old hometown. Second, several folks I know went to AlterConf and I saw a bunch of tweets about how tech workers should be more compassionate toward support/building/cleaning staff working around them. Don’t disrupt their work, but learn their names, engage them in conversation, treat them with respect.
I’ll begin by setting my privilege stage:
- I’m a white woman.
- Though we weren’t wealthy, I grew up in an affluent town with great public schools.
- I always had clothes, healthy food and a house to live in.
- Even though it was 10 years old (and so was I!) when it came to our house in 1991, I had desktop computer at home and I could use it as much as I wanted. We got online at home in 1998.
- In addition to a supportive Linux User Group community in Philadelphia, my white 20-something boyfriend referred and recommended me to the employer who gave me my first tech job.
- I had, and continue to have, time to learn, hack and experiment outside of work hours.
In spite of any of the other challenges I encountered as a child, youth and young adult, my life was a lot better than many others then and now. I had a lot going for me.
The same age as I am, I found the first computer we had in a museum
So what did my visit back home do?
My husband and I stayed in one of the nicest hotels in Portland, Maine. It was at the top of the highest hill in the city and had a beautiful view of the harbor and the Portland Art Museum.
My most vivid memory from that art museum was not visiting it, though I’m sure I did with a school trip, but when I was a teen and worked as catering staff for a wedding there. Looking out the hotel from our room I remembered the 16 hour day that left me dead on my feet and vowing never to do it again (though of course I did). I woke up early to help cart everything to the museum, helped to make sure the chefs and servers had everything they needed behind the scenes and washed the fancy champagne soup dishes, watching most the soup go down the drain. We rushed around the venue after the event concluded to clean and pack everything back into the van.
It brought back memories of other catering jobs I did too. At one of these jobs in my home town I served hors d’oeuvres to the extended family of people I went to school with. Being friendly and outgoing enough to offer food and carry around those trays while handing out the little napkins is a skill that I still have a lot of respect for.
The Portland Art Museum is in the center of my photo
It wasn’t just catering that I did as soon as I was old enough to work. As we drove through my home town in Cape Elizabeth my verbal tour to my husband included actual historical landmarks that make the town a tourist destination and “I babysat there!” and “I used to clean that house!” It turns out I worked a lot during high school and over those summer vacations.
All these hashtags and discussions really hit home. A formidable amount of my youth was spent as “the help” and I know what it’s like to be invisible to and disrespected by people I serve.
If nothing else, I’ll add my voice to those imploring my fellow techies to make an effort to be more compassionate to the support staff around them. After all, you know me, you can relate to me, and I spent time in their hard-working, worn out shoes.
Monday, Jun 27th, 2016 at 11:52
Oh, what a coincidence — I worked at the art museum too, in the cafe. Probably summer of ’97?
Monday, Jun 27th, 2016 at 14:52
Hah, nice! It would have been 1997 or 98 that I helped with the wedding there :)