I don’t care what my colleagues say. They sent me to this meeting because they didn’t want to be here. See also: how I got chosen as science department head for Franklin Middle School. 

You’ll be a great representative for our kids, AJ! 

You’re the best one to remind all those folks about our students, AJ!

Pure shtuss, as my Bubbie would say. 

It’s rough being a realist in a workplace where people overuse exclamation marks.

I sigh and straighten my tie, then reach for my folder and climb out of my compact Honda Fit. 

Yes. I’m 30 years old and I drive a Honda Fit, even though I’m 6’-1”. No, I don’t think a man at my stage in life should be driving something flashier. No, I don’t care that my sister drives a Range Rover.

I live in the city, I parallel park in the city, and I’ll always choose fuel efficiency and dependability over prestige. I grunt at the haters who aren’t actually here today and make my way inside the Vinea campus. 

Who calls their workplace a campus? It’s obnoxious, as is the perky person assigned to greet me, but I do accept the coffee they’re holding out, because it smells amazing. 

Hold on…yep. Tastes amazing, too. Okay, I will agree to release one layer of surly attitude in exchange for coffee this good.

“Let me just give you a quick overview of our campus.” The greeter, a person whose name tag says Shane (They/Them), gestures to the left. “We’ve got all-gender restrooms throughout the building. There’s a space out back for service animal relief if you need that, and we have a multi-sensory room on each floor.”

It gets harder and harder to stay irritated with Vinea the more Shane lists the accessible features of their workspace. Pardon me. Their campus. I nod in thanks as they guide me to the conference room, snagging a coffee refill on my way in the door. 

I thumb through the handouts for today’s meeting. Community leaders from all over Pittsburgh were invited to sit down with Vinea to see how the company might be able to “give back.” It feels like they want a tax break to me. I clench and release a fist as I remember my students. My seventh grade science students would love to see a space like this, to just be in the building and peek at computer scientists and their support staff.

I have to remember my students. Not everything is about me and my corporate cynicism. Get it together, Adriel. 

I smile at the guy who sinks into the seat to my left and shake hands with him when he introduces himself as the leader of an organization that finds summer jobs and internships for teens in the city.  

I nod and tell him, “I really hope Vinea can sponsor a few positions for you, man. This would be great experience for science-minded kids.”

He nods back. “From what I understand, they agree to just about everything, as long as it’s a good cause.”

I scratch at my stubble, wishing I’d made more effort to shave today. Our principal said the same thing—told me to ask for anything and they’d probably give it to us. I’m just planning to ask for a field trip for the kids. Why didn’t I think bigger? 

Before I can dwell on it too long, the conversation around the table gets started. The Vinea staff are leading icebreakers while we wait for the CEO. Sam, the handout says, will be joining us for a “community conversation.”

I try to focus on what folks are saying, but I’m distracted when the door pops open and a breathtaking, blonde-haired woman slips into the room. She’s flanked by a scowling man in a suit and another Vinea employee, who waves at Shane.

“So sorry to keep you all waiting,” the blonde says. “I’m Samantha Vine and I’m here to learn from you all.”

Samantha—Sam. She is not at all what I was expecting, and that rattles me. I thought I had learned by now not to get attached to expectations. Shane starts leading introductions while I chastise myself for assuming the CEO was a man. I work really hard to overcome these sorts of preconceived notions. I take my role as a teacher seriously, and I take it even more seriously that I teach in a school district where more than 80% of my kids are living in poverty and food insecurity. My students deal with people’s assumptions day in and day out, and I want to be one person in their life who wants to know them for who they are.

But also, this woman…she does not look like the CEO of a tech company on the brink of blowing up to the elite tier. This woman looks like a model. Someone who’d fit right in with Carnegies. From her perfect hair to her impeccable clothing, she’s a picture of wealth and poise. Just like all the women in my past who’ve always judged me and made assumptions, had their own expectations based on wealth and status. Just like all the jerks who judge my students.

I feel my face scowling when Shane calls on me for introductions. They raise their eyebrows, gesturing at me to talk about myself, but I haven’t been paying attention to what anyone else said around me, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to name my favorite breakfast cereal or what. Best to cut to the chase. 

“I’m AJ Trachtenberg,” I huff out. “I teach middle school science for Public Schools of Pittsburgh. I’m sure you know we’re under funded and we’re always looking for companies to sponsor field trips for our students to enrich their—“

“Field trips to the museum?” Samantha interrupts me, one blonde brow arched quizzically as she asks for clarification. 

“Well, no,” I stutter, though field trips to the science museum would be amazing. There’s never any money for anything. “Field trips here. For tours and job shadowing. So the kids can see data science in action.”

She taps a pen on the desk and glances at the scowling man beside her. Who is that guy? “I’m not sure this is the best environment for your middle schoolers, Mr. Trachtenberg.” She gestures around the room. “Our data scientists are working with very complex algorithms.”

“And you think because my students live in poverty they can’t comprehend what it is your employees do for a living?” I’m fully in a lather now. Peak surly. I take back my gratitude about the coffee. My lower back is starting to sweat. I hate when people underestimate my students. 

“No,” she says, shaking her head emphatically, causing some of the yellow waves to tumble over one shoulder. “Absolutely not what I meant. Perhaps I should clarify that—“

“Forget it.” I slap my folder closed and cross my arms. “We’ll just take them to Google.” I realize this is an empty thing to say, both because we don’t actually have a relationship with the tech giant and also because the companies aren’t remotely the same. 

It doesn’t matter, though, because my words have the desired impact. Samantha Vine is flustered, stammering her way through the rest of the introductions as she assures everyone else in the room that Vinea strives to be a place where every voice is considered and welcomed. 

Lip service. She’s no different from any other money-hungry mogul. 

As soon as the presentation wraps up, I leave my stuff on the table and stomp out to the parking lot. I don’t even grab a third coffee on my way out the door. 

By the time I get to the car, I feel like an asshole. I remember how welcoming Vinea’s physical space is. I know I have a hair-trigger temper. But the fact remains that she doesn’t want my students here, and by proxy she doesn’t want me. I don’t have time for people who don’t want me in their space. Not anymore.

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