When I first heard of followership, I immediately rejected the concept. My parents have told me, since birth, that I was a leader. It almost became an excuse for why the other kids didn’t like me or why the other girls my age bullied me: Zoe, you’re just a leader. Not a follower.

In the words of my parents, followers are people who go with the pack. The people who take drugs and succumb to peer pressure. Followers are the answer to the question if so and so jumped off a bridge, would you jump off a bridge too? 

However, as I read the article in the Ivey Business Journal, I concluded that Followership is not behind or beneath leadership. I believe it is leadership adjacent. As I read further, I recognized myself in the characteristics listed.

McCallum outlined eight qualities of a good follower, and begrudgingly, I acknowledged that I possessed some of those characteristics.

Judgement.  Followers must take direction but they have an underlying obligation to the enterprise to do so only when the direction is ethical and proper.  The key is having the judgement to know the difference between a directive that your leader gives on how to proceed that you do not agree with and a directive that is truly wrong.

As I previously mentioned, my parents stressed good judgment from a young age. We were given the freedom to make our own decisions, but they tried to teach us right and wrong. I believe I have good judgment and a moral code to which I adhere.

Work ethic.  Good followers are good workers.  They are diligent, motivated, committed, pay attention to detail and make the effort.  Leaders have a responsibility to create an environment that permits these qualities but regardless, it is the responsibility of the follower to be a good worker.  There is no such thing as a bad worker who is a good follower.

I work hard, and I do excellent work. I strive to do my best on the smallest of tasks, and I never intentionally do less than my best on a project.

Competence.  The follower cannot follow properly unless competent at the task that is directed by the leader.  It is the obligation of the leader to assure that followers are competent.  Sometimes things go wrong because the follower is not competent at the task at hand.  When this happens, leaders should blame themselves, not the follower.  A sign of poor leadership is blaming followers for not having skills they do not have.

As my mother says, my core competency is competency. I am very vocal that I am the wrong person for a task if I am not competent at it. If I am adhering to the principles of Followership, then I am only making it easier for a leader to find a task that I am competent in.

Honesty.  The follower owes the leader an honest and forthright assessment of what the leader is trying to achieve and how.  This is especially the case when the follower feels the leader’s agenda is seriously flawed.  Respect and politeness are important but that said, it is not acceptable for followers to sit on their hands while an inept leader drives the proverbial bus over the cliff.  Good leaders are grateful for constructive feedback from their team.  Bad leaders do not welcome feedback and here followers have to tread carefully.  If the situation is serious enough, consideration should be given to going above the leader in question for guidance.

I am honest; sometimes brutally so. I have no issue telling someone they are wrong or if I disagree with what they say. I value honesty and feedback, and therefore, I will not refrain or bite my tongue for the sake of politeness. Sometimes, that gets me in trouble, but as Representative John Lewis says, there is such a thing as good trouble.

Courage.  Followers need to be honest with those who lead them.  They also need the courage to be honest.  It takes real courage to confront a leader about concerns with the leader’s agenda or worse, the leader himself or herself.  It is not for naught that Churchill called courage “The foremost of the virtues, for upon it, all others depend”.  From time to time, it takes real courage to be a good follower.

“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I, therefore, award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom.”

I can be honest even when the situation gets tough. I am not afraid to speak my mind if someone is wrong. Courage is a virtue, as is honesty, and the two go hand in hand. If courage and honesty make me a good follower, then so be it.

Discretion.  A favorite saying in World War II was “Loose lips sink ships.”  Sports teams are fond of the expression “What you hear here, let it stay here.”  Followers owe their enterprises and their leaders discretion.  Talking about work matters inappropriately is at best unhelpful and more likely harmful.  Discretion just means keeping your mouth shut.  It should be easy but many find it next to impossible.  Bluntly, you cannot be a good follower and be indiscreet.  Everybody who works at an enterprise has a duty of care; indiscretion is not care, it is careless.

My dad sometimes says, “this stays in the family.” That means there’s some important business or secret that he had to tell me, but I wasn’t allowed to tell my friends. My friends know me as someone who can keep a secret. However, I am not the kind of person who keeps secrets that can harm others. Lately, in the media, whistleblowers have been making waves for breaking confidentiality and revealing the horrible things their corporations do. Discretion, to some extent, can be valuable. But here I disagree with McCallum: free-thinking, honesty, and bravery are more important than discretion.

Loyalty.  Good followers respect their obligation to be loyal to their enterprise.  Loyalty to the enterprise and its goals is particularly important when there are problems, interpersonal or otherwise, with a particular leader.  Followers who are not loyal are inevitably a source of difficulty.  They create problems between team members; they compromise the achievement of goals; they waste everybody’s time; they are a menace.  Loyalty is not a synonym for lapdog.  Rather, its essence is a strong allegiance and commitment to what the organization is trying to do.  Followers should remember that their obligation is to the enterprise, not a given leader at a given point in time.

I am loyal, often to a fault. Sometimes nonsensically, in the case of brand loyalty. I have never seen myself as a ‘lapdog’ for my loyalty. Instead, I have seen it as one of my greatest strengths. I am loyal to my friends. I am loyal to my family. I am loyal to my school. I am loyal to my sports teams– Go Pens! If I join an organization, it is because I have placed my trust and respect in that organization, and I will be loyal to them unless they wrong me.

Ego management.  Good followers have their egos under control.  They are team players in the fullest sense of the concept.  They have good interpersonal skills.  Success for good followers relates to performance and goal achievement, not personal recognition and self-promotion.  Sounds too good to be true and often it is.  It is difficult but the best organizations tie advancement and reward to performance and goal achievement as hard as that may be to do.

I often have trouble keeping my ego in check, and that is a personal problem that I have been working on for a very long time. I need to learn to derive my achievement from reaching my goals and acknowledging my own hard work, not from the recognition and approval of others. If I can strive towards ego management, I think it will not only make me a better follower but a better leader.

In conclusion, I still don’t 100% agree with the principles of followership. While reading the article, I found myself aligning more with the managers in the situation than the worker. However, unless I become the head of an organization (which I strive towards) I will always be managed. Until then, I think I can be an excellent leader by acknowledging the qualities of a good follower.

Junior year was a year of loss, of growth, of reflection, of change. It was a roller coaster in the truest sense, full of failure and achievement and more failure. I learned about myself in the classroom and out. It’s time move forward with my fourth, final, and senior year at Agnes Scott College. But first– a look back.

I entered the 2017-2018 academic apprehensive yet hopeful. I completed the Women’s Bridge to Business program at Georgia Tech, I was an intern at Green Worldwide Shipping, and I was eager to get started with my double major in History and Business Management. However, there was a horrible, looming shadow casting doubts over my abilities; BUS-211, Financial Accounting.

A mandatory class for the Business Management major, I tried my best to face my fears head-on and enter the lecture with a positive attitude. As someone with Dyscalculia, a math-based learning disability, I have never had an experience with math that wasn’t inherently traumatic. Still, my father is an accountant by trade, so I knew that if I put in the work, I could manage.

I could not manage.

Financial Accounting drove me to the brink of mental breakdown, and during the midterm exam, I turned in a half-blank test, left the class in tears, walked to my advisor’s office, and dropped the class, thereby withdrawing from the Business Management major. While I instantly felt better, I had to grapple with the fact that I was now a History major– just a history major. Only a history major.

At Agnes Scott, that is rare. Most students double major, major and minor, or double minor. Here I was, with just one major. I felt like a failure. I felt like a slacker.

However, I couldn’t dwell on these thoughts for long; my grandfather passed away in October.

The rest of the semester seems like a blur; I struggled to attend class, I struggled with finals, I struggled, I struggled, I struggled. I pass/failed two classes, allowing me to save my GPA. On a whim, I quit my internship of 18 months, hoping to find an internship in the spring– I did not. I entered winter break feeling like a failure, full of regret and anxiety.

Then, I went abroad to Israel. I wanted to come back excited and refreshed for the semester; instead, I came back, and I immediately felt like I was drowning.

I missed the first week of class due to being in Israel, and I came back without books, unprepared, without reading, and not ready to be thrown into the most challenging semester of my academic career.

I tried to keep up, but the longer the semester went, the more I felt like I was drowning– like I couldn’t manage the work. Still, I worked hard. I threw myself into research for my research project on the Enlightened Pirate, I excelled in my nonfiction writing class, and I had my play, Pathways, published. 

I started to thrive as a tutor at the Center for Digital and Visual Literacy. I was selected as a lead for marketing and development for the center, as well as to join a visiting professor from CNN to be a teaching assistant for SUM-400, and helped develop curriculum.

Still, I struggled in classes. I was told by a teacher I was in danger of failing (I was not), and a week before finals, I left campus, went home, and spent a week recouperating from a mental breakdown. My mental health is incredibly important to me, and without this week away from class, I knew I would have become dangerously close to harming myself.

I finished the semester maintaining my 3.5 GPA, with a research plan in place for my senior thesis, and with an internship for the summer at Old Sturbridge Village in Sturbridge, Massachusetts.

While this may seem like a story of triumph, it is not. I may have ended the year academically unscathed, but I lost friends. I lost family. I lost hope.

I enter this next school year with my two closest friends graduated. I enter after a long summer internship. I enter with no idea how to approach the subject of grad school or the GRE.

Still,  I am cautiously optimistic. After this year, how bad can it be?

Senior year, here I come.

In this desert, who will you become?

—

Taglit-Birthright Israel (or, in Hebrew, תגלית) is a non-profit that organizes free, ten-day trips to Israel for any person of Jewish heritage between the ages of 18-26. This trip, often called a gift, was founded in December 1999 by a group of Jewish Philanthropists. These Philanthropists, led by Canadian Businessman Charles Bronfman and American Hedge-Fund Manager Michael Steinhardt, aimed to bring Jewish young adults together as a community by sending them to Israel.

Nearly 800,000 young adults of Jewish Heritage have received the gift of a Birthright trip. These young adults come from 67 countries, are diverse in language, age, and religious beliefs. Some don’t know they are Jewish until they are told so, as is the case of many Birthright participants from the former Soviet Union. Some have traveled to Israel many times, speak Hebrew fluently, and don Tefillin three times a day to pray.

The only requirement to receive the gift of a Birthright trip is that you be between the ages 18-26, have not visited Israel on an organized tour in the past twelve months, and have at least one parent that is Jewish.

In December 2017, I met these three criteria. Alongside my brother and 38 young adults from the Greater Atlanta Area, I departed the United States for a free, ten-day trip to Israel, that claimed to change my life.

—

“Take ten steps forward. Do not go further than ten steps. One time, a boy went further than ten steps, fell asleep, and we spent an hour looking for him.”

The instructions we receive as we nervously step away from the group ring in my ears. I do not want to walk ten steps away; I don’t want to walk two steps away. How can I walk away, when you just told me that a kid almost got lost and died? Still, breath hanging in the freezing air in front of me, I walk one, five, ten, steps away towards a small bush and gingerly sit on the ground.

The vastness of the desert is daunting. Who got lost in this desert, walked for days, months, years, before eventually collapsing into the earth and dying? The dirt under my back is hard and unforgiving. I imagine how it must have felt in sandals, or barefoot, the small rocks that have been rounded smooth by millennia of erosion.  

The same voice that tells us not to walk too far, our guide, Ya’acov, tells us to look into the stars and let our minds wander, just as the way our ancestors did when they roamed the desert two thousand years ago.

I look up, and my vision blurs. The scarf that I’ve tucked my chin into is causing my glasses to fog with every breath of hot air, making the stars above look more like headlights in the rain, rounded and duplicated. Gloved-covered hands reach for the frames, wiping them before placing them back on the bridge on my nose.

Before me, a galaxy blooms, the moon illuminating the yellow-orange sand in a wash of pale blue.

—

For the 40,000 young adults that the Taglit-Birthright Israel program delivers to the desert nation every year, thousands more have critiqued the trip. Birthright is often called propagandistic and racist. Much of the criticism of the trip stems from greater disapproval of Israeli government and army, the Israeli Defense Force (IDF).

A Harvard Crimson Op-Ed from Sandra Korn, a student who went on a Birthright trip, criticizes the inherent political influence of the trip. Korn writes, “Birthright’s idea of engaging with Israel means supporting an illegal and oppressive military occupation, claiming citizenship to a state that deports African immigrants, glorifying ‘the Jewish mind,’ and decrying all Arabs collectively for their hateful terrorist tactics.”

Ellie Shechet, in the feminist magazine Jezebel, provides a different critique of Israel, especially since she had been to Israel previously, and was able to contrast her first visit to Israel as a sixteen-year-old and a trip as a young adult with Birthright. Shechet offers her opinion of the partying, the exhaustion, and the shiny, Disneyland-esque tourism of the trip. She criticizes that Birthright doesn’t provide a comprehensive critique of Israel. Shechet says it is “nearly impossible to come out of it with any kind of unified sense of your own experience, much less a sophisticated take on a society that’s only revealed its shiniest, most digestible bits,” thanks to the “sleepless, jam-packed nature of the trip.”

“Doesn’t Israel want its supporters to be educated enough to hold their own in a debate, even that education brings with it potentially unwelcome ideas and criticisms?” Shechet writes. “From what I’ve seen so far, the answer is no.”

—

I now see why Ya’acov has warned us against wandering too far away and falling asleep. The beauty of the night sky entrances me, and soon, the exhaustion washes over me, and I feel my breathing lull and my eyes began to flutter shut.

I’m startled awake by someone in my group coughing. We’re so near to each other that I know my new friends will find me. I can’t get lost, not when we’re so close.

—

The trip takes young adults across a country roughly the size of New Jersey. Most tours follow a general outline that highlights the history of Israel, from it’s founding in an art museum in 1948, the heritage of the Jews in the Internation Holocaust Memorial and Museum, and the natural beauty of Israel, from the mountains to the lakes to the seas.  

My trip started in the Golan Heights, territory acquired by Israel in 1967 after the Six-Day War. The Golan Heights is internationally recognized as Syrian territory occupied by Israel. It is heavily disputed as it contains the Sea of Galilee, the only freshwater lake in the region, as well as most of the arable land in Israel.

As the bus drives through the winding mountains and plateaus, I see landmines, and the members of the Israeli Defence Force detonating them. The bus passes bombed-out homes and shrapnel littering the fertile landscape. Yesterday, the group hiked through a nature reserve and looked in awe at the Galilee glittering in the distance. The next, the group travels to Mt. Hermon, where bunkers are overlooking the Israeli-Syrian border.

As our guide tries to tell us about the Six-Day War, we hear gunfire and bombs from Damascus, visible in the distance. To our right, Irish and Canadian peacekeepers from the United Nations are stationed. I begin talking to the Canadian about hockey when he interrupts me. Israel is conducting training exercises near the border, and they must observe.

I realize that the U.N. Peacekeepers are not there to observe Damascus or Assad or rebel forces. They are there to watch the Israeli Defense Force. Israel, in this instance, is the threat.

It’s only day two of the trip.

—

There is a rock pressing in the middle of my back, but I am so in awe that I will not move to ease the discomfort.

The moon is so massive that it looks impossibly close, and the condensation on my glasses causes it to twinkle, the light shifting and dancing overhead. The stars are innumerable, and I try to use my rudimentary astronomy skills to pick out the planets and stars I know. I can see Orion’s belt, and if I squint, I can see what I think is either Mars or Venus. For an instant, I think I see a shooting star, but the sound soon catches up to me, and I realize it’s a fighter jet.

Ya’acov calls ten minutes, and numbly, I rise from the dirt and walk back to my group, 47 in total. The group creates a circle, our legs criss-cross, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“What did you think about?” Ya’acov’s comes from somewhere outside the circle, but I don’t know from where.

One by one, my peers begin to share.

—

Five days into our trip, seven Israelis our age join the group. This experience is called a Mifgash (Gathering) and is ubiquitous to the Birthright experience. Like us, our peers are between the ages of 20-26, love Instagram and Snapchat, and sing along to Cardi B on the bus.

Unlike us, our peers are currently serving in the Israeli Defense Force. Some patrol the West Bank, some fight in Gaza. Some work by gathering intelligence for Mossad, the most notorious spy agency in the world. They dress in green uniforms, berets carefully placed on their heads, their hair shorn or tied back into tight braids and buns.

“37 days until I get out,” Lital, 20, says, a grin stretched across her face. “Then, I’m going to Brazil with my boyfriend.”

There is mandatory conscription for able young adults in Israel. Instead of graduation photos, in 37 days, Lital will take pictures of her throwing her beret into the air and cutting up her military ID card. She is trained to shoot semi-automatic rifles. She hasn’t been to college. She knows how to salute and how to run through the desert with a weapon on her back. Her life is so different than mine.

Lital and I become fast friends, along with Alona, 21, who works with Lital in the intelligence arm of the IDF. The first night of the Mifgash, I room with Alona, and my other roommate asks her about violence against Palestinians. It’s not precisely the getting-to-know-you type of conversation.

“I think there needed to be more serious punishments,” She says, before telling us the story of Elor Azaria, a 21-year-old soldier who shot and killed an already wounded Palestinian while medical help was on the way.

“The guy,” Alona tells us, referring to the now-dead Palestinian, Abdul Fatah al-Sharif, “Came and stabbed Elor’s best friend. The soldiers shot him in the foot, incapacitating him, and called for the Magen David [Israel’s Emergency Services]. I guess Elor got mad and then he shot him in the back while he was down.”

The incident that Alona is referring to made international headlines for dividing Israel politically. Many wanted to see Azaria locked away for murder. Others said he shouldn’t spend a day in jail. He ended up spending eighteen months in prison, a sentence which received criticism across the world.

“I think he should have gotten a longer sentence,” Alona says, carefully. “But I also understand it. He was eighteen. His best friend got stabbed. He was angry. We all do stupid things when we’re angry.”

—

“Two days ago, one of my campers died in a plane crash,” Leah says through tears, sobbing into the circle. I walked in on her in Tel Aviv, crying in the bathroom, after the news broke that two families died in a plane crash in Florida. Both the kids involved in the tragedy were campers of Leah’s.

Beside her sits Joelle, who also knew the family. Her gloved hands circle the fabric of Leah’s jacket. I can see the tears on their faces, illuminated by the moon above.

Slowly, the blase comment about ‘having so much fun I had no time to write in my journal!’ dies on my tongue. I know that here, with these people, I must be honest. Not only does my friendship with them deserve honesty, but it seems as though the desert demands it.

—

We hike Masada and swim in the Dead Sea. We sob at Yad Vashem and pray at the Wailing Wall. We sing HaTikvah in the hall where David Ben-Gurion founded the state of Israel and then left stones on his grave. We clutched each other at the military cemetery, Mt. Herzl, as our new friends in the IDF tell stories about their friends who have died while serving. They tell us stories about Americans who have immigrated to Israel and served in the IDF and died. We visit Theodor Herzl’s grave.

We talk about how close we feel to Israel, to our history, to our collective heritage. We cry and laugh and sing. We play endless games of cards on long bus rides and promise to get brunch when we return to the United States. We have our inside jokes, and they go on a t-shirt, which we wear with pride.  

The trip is a whirlwind. It’s how Birthright trips are meant to pass.

Many people will argue that this leaves no time to think critically about Israel’s political situation, it’s colonialism in the West Bank or the state’s crimes against the Palestinian people.

In a hotel, in Jerusalem, a doctoral candidate in Middle Eastern Relations and Policy comes to present the history of Israel and Palestine. He is candid. He cites sources. He provides a detailed, unbiased, view of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. He shows us how maps have changed. He tells us how many times Palestinian leaders have refused to work with Israeli peace offers. He shows us how Israel has committed war crimes.

When antisemitic comments on Facebook call Birthright ‘apartheid propaganda,’ they don’t know about that night in Jerusalem. They don’t know that the soldiers we were with criticized Israel. They don’t know about the nights we spent heatedly debating Israel’s foreign policy, whether or not they should give back the Golan Heights for peace or whether or not Israel should de-occupy the Western Bank. They don’t know that Birthright, for the most part, has tried to become better about presenting a neutral, pluralistic view of the Israel/Palestine conflict.

I am more than aware that Israel isn’t perfect. I’m reminded of the young nation’s imperfections in the media I consume and in the news I read. But on this trip, where I have made friends, learned about my history, grown closer to G-d, and became a Bat Mitzvah, is criticizing Israel really the point?

—

“I pick at my skin,” I say, my voice wavering, my hand reaching for my back as I do when I am anxious, though the movement is jutted and aborted. “I pick at my skin when I’m anxious, or bored. It’s a form of self-harm that I’ve done since I was diagnosed with depression when I was fourteen. And I was so worried this entire trip I wouldn’t be able to go in the Dead Sea today because the salt would hurt the open sores on my back.”

The group is silent. Beside me, Mitchell, who I met six days ago, holds my hand, woolen mittens clutching my knit gloves. I have never admitted this aloud before, but the desert demands honesty, and so does my love for my friends.

“But when I walked into the Dead Sea today, I didn’t feel any pain. The salt didn’t sting.” A tear falls from my cheek and wets the scarf wrapped tightly around my neck. “I was having too much fun with y’all to pick. I didn’t have to worry about anything. I was never bored. I’ve never gone this long without picking. And I did that because of y’all.”

In the desert, I am honest. And under billions of stars, holding hands with my new family, I am free.

I always hesitated to call myself a writer before this year, which is odd, because all I do is write. All I have ever done is write. From a very young age, I wrote story after story, created whole worlds in my head, wrote fanfiction, and wrote three 50,000-word novels. I wrote a play. I knew, logically, that I was good at writing.

But I would never dare to call myself a writer.

My late grandfather once said, venomously, that all artists were poor. My Nana, his ex-wife, is an artist; she makes beautiful mosaics and paintings. But he is correct: she is poor.

Writing is art. The two have always been equivalents in my head. So it was never a question that I could write professionally, lest I be poor. And I like shopping and take-out too much to be poor.

Then two things happened at once: my play became a finalist out of 18 submissions in a highly competitive writers’ festival, and I took Christine Cozzens’ Creative Nonfiction class.

In a red journal, I take to prompts like a bird to flight. My fingers cramp as I try to scribble every last word my mind springs forth, like an unending well of creativity. I have so many stories to be told, and the rapidly-filling pages of my journal are evidence. I’m a history major, after all. I love evidence.

This is not to say there is no difficulty in Creative Nonfiction. I quite dislike the craft. I’d much rather create characters and draw from my experiences for a dynamic, self-invented plot, rather than dig through my feelings and draw them out on paper. My memory is weak, and in what memories I do have, everything seems exaggerated. I’m a storyteller, a liar, an actress, an inventor: everything I have ever retold is inflated in some shape or form. That leads to a very inaccurate memory.

Still, I am writing, and writing well, and I could not be happier. For once, I felt my confidence in my work was not unearned or exaggerated. Just because I am not a creative writing major, doesn’t mean I can’t call a spade a spade: I am a writer.

I wear the badge proudly, however many sideways glances of annoyance I receive from my peers. I hesitate to take writing classes on campus; students don’t like me, or my ego. They think I’m brash and obnoxious. I can take criticism– when I know, it’s coming from neutrality and not dislike. I feel like an imposter around them. To me, the writers at Agnes Scott College have always seemed egotistical and clique-ish. They have wanted to be writers since the day they stepped foot on this campus. It appeared that, unless I were a major or a Center for Writing and Speaking tutor, I couldn’t dare call myself a writer. I now realize how foolish those thoughts seem.

Now I want to take as many writing classes as I can before I graduate. Before I become an author or a playwright or a dramaturg or whatever I may become, I am first, and foremost, a writer.

Realizing the Future: Bridge to Business Analysis and Reflection

When I first arrived at Agnes Scott College in August 2015, I knew what my future held. I was going to study International Relations, with a double minor in History and French. I was going to get a 170 on the LSAT and receive my dual J.D./M.A. in International Affairs from my dream school– Georgetown.

That dream abruptly ended when I realized how much I hated the methodology of International Relations, how little I wanted to be a lawyer, and maybe most importantly, how much I despised the thought of spending four years in grad school. But I had this dream ever since my ninth grade Honors Government class– what was I supposed to do now?

My advisor gently reminded me that I was working in a social media job, I was the social media or marketing chair for several organizations on campus, and my mother had her MBA in Marketing, my father, the same advanced degree in International Business. Maybe, she suggested, it was time to stop avoiding the obvious, and enroll in a couple business courses.

I immediately knew I made the right decision, even if I did feel like I was selling out. But how could I know for sure a career in business was right for me?

I had been interested in the Women’s Bridge to Business since before my first year at Agnes Scott– I received a pamphlet shortly after a visit to the campus in my junior year of high school. But as a Sophomore at Agnes Scott, I decided that it would be the final test– a confirmation of whether or not I was sure I would study business.

The good news is, I am now positive that I want an MBA. The even better news is that I want to receive that MBA at Georgia Tech’s Scheller College of Business (or Chicago’s Booth School of Business, like my dad). Opportunity is in Atlanta, and that is abundantly apparent after my three weeks in the Bridge to Business program.

It was hard to choose which functional areas I was most attracted to over the course of the program. I think my favorite was Marketing because I feel as if I have a natural affinity for it, but I was also fascinated by Project Management and International Business. I think this may lead to a future in Brand Management, something I have always found interesting and a natural progression within my future career.

Within these modules, I was able to relate to the content and the skills being offered by professors with a wealth of knowledge. I could imagine myself, in their shoes, after years of experience working and learning, teaching to another young Scottie. I believe I enjoyed these areas because they required creative, critical thinking, and I aspire to have a career where I am creatively challenged and learning every day.

However, even though I enjoyed these areas of the program, it was the modules more tailored to our careers and futures that I found most rewarding. The modules spent with Catherine Neiner provoked me to ask questions about my future that I hadn’t considered. She was frank and honest about the future of working as women, and I appreciated that– often times at Agnes Scott, we live in a bubble where we think the future will tailor itself to us, and that is simply not the case, especially in the business world. It was incredibly refreshing to hear a powerful woman say, “you may be called brazen, bossy, or bitchy. Here’s why you should be proud of that.”

Similarly, I found our session with Gail Evans to be, quite frankly, the most rewarding three hours of my academic career. She encouraged me to think of myself, my personal brand, and my future in ways that I had never before. I was taught why ‘hardworking’ is a bad word, and that if I want to promote myself, I need to tailor my language to my own success. Instead of referring to myself as hardworking, driven, and creative, I will now refer to myself as productive, promising, and passionate. Because, as Ms. Evans said, that is how a CEO refers to herself. I have already engrossed myself in the book she gave to me, and I plan to make my mother read it as well.

While I immensely enjoyed my three weeks in the Bridge to Business program, there were some things that I definitely knew weren’t for me. My father is an accountant, but staring at financial statements, fiddling with Excel, and pulling my hair out over ratios and vertical analyses just wasn’t for me. Still, I gave it my best effort, and I was pleasantly surprised at the rewarding feeling I felt when all the numbers equaled 100.

I also was very frustrated with the Strategic Management Simulation, Minnesota Micromotors, which was disappointing, as I found the Strategic Management module fascinating. I always love to focus on the big picture, and I felt I did well in the ‘strategic plan for Agnes Scott’ activity. However, after I got fired three times, I figured that I can still think big picture and focus on the future of an organization– I’ll just leave the customer service, price management, and research & development to the experts.

I think I was fascinated by Strategic Management because it closely relates to Marketing and Brand Management, two things I see in my future. In marketing and brand management, you must think creatively and anticipate what the customer wants to see, and needs to see, in the future. I think Strategic Management combines all those things, and maybe, is the culmination of many different aspects of a business.

Another module I struggled with was negotiating– kind of. It wasn’t as if I didn’t do well in the activities– I did extremely well. I just felt so unconfident– which is very unlike me. I love to speak publicly, argue, and get my way– negotiating comes naturally to me. However, afterward, when thinking about the future and negotiating my future salary– a topic discussed with Dawn Killenberg– I felt worried.  What if I’m not worth the price I ask for? What if I’m laughed at? What if my job is taken away from me?

All these questions may seem silly, but I called my mother, and she confessed that she has the same fears. She has negotiated dozens of salaries and raises from dozens of employers over her incredibly long and successful career. And yet, she fears what I fear. Is she worth the money? Is she asking for too much? Too little? What will they think of her?

I wonder if men experience these fears as women do. I wonder if, by-product of more and more women entering the workforce and negotiating for themselves, these fears will slowly become less ingrained in our minds. I hope so because I never want to make any less than a man, especially if he is equally or less qualified than me. But before these past few weeks, I hadn’t even considered, nor confronted, these fears that now seem ever present in my mind.

Maybe that is the real reward of the Bridge to Business program– learning valuable life skills that will help me in my future profession, like being able to confront my fears over negotiation, or balance a budget even though the black and white numbers make my vision swim and my brain hurt. I know I will be successful in marketing, or brand management, or social media, or whatever my specialty may be. But I know I will have to confront what I am less excellent at– that’s life, and that’s business.

The Bridge to Business program taught me that, and those lessons are valuable– more valuable than being assured that yes, I’m good at marketing and more valuable than reassuring me that I want an MBA. I knew those things before I enrolled in this program. But to learn to face your fears and try something new, and at the end of the day, still want to dress in a suit and go to work in an organization, trying to change the world or the marketplace, is something unique. And it is definitely unique to the Bridge to Business program.

Ma grande famille

J’ai une grande famille. En plus de ma mère et mon père, j’ai deux sœurs, deux frères, deux nièces, un neveu, et deux chiens! Décembre Dernière, toute ma famille a visité pour la fête des Lumières, Hanoucca! C’était bon de visite avec ma famille.

Pour Hanoucca, mon frère, Douglas, a voyagé de New York avec ma nièce, Ashley, et mon neveu, JJ. Je n’ai visité pas Douglas depuis longtemps. Il est plus âgé que moi. J’ai 21 ans, mais Douglas a 34 ans. Nous avons visité plus souvent avant j’ai quitter New York. Ma nièce, Ashley, a treize ans. Elle est très intelligente et elle aime écrit. Mon neveu, JJ, a sept ans. Il est un petit comédien!

Ma sœur, Bethany, visite de la Virginie, avec son mari, Tommy, et son bébé! J’aime visiter avec ma sœur parce que son bébé, Ava, a un an et elle est trop mignonne!  Elle est très amusante à regarder. Ava apprendre à parler et à marcher. Elle a de grands yeux bleus et des cheveux blonde. J’aime visiter avec Bethany, Tommy, et Ava beaucoup. Ava me rend très heureuse.

Mon frère, Harrison, a 24 ans. Il vit en Atlanta avec son chien, Max. Il a conduit d’Atlanta pour Hanoucca. Harrison travaille avec les ordinateurs, et il est très riche. Je l’aime, mais il me met en colère. Toutefois, il me fait rire aussi.

Ma petite sœur, Frances, a quatorze ans. Elle habite avec mes parents. Elle est une gymnaste. Dans son école, elle est très populaire. Elle a beaucoup ses amies. Elle est très dramatique. Nous nous battons, mais je l’aime.

Nous sommes restés à la maison de mes parents. Je vis avec mes parents quand je ne suis pas à l’école. Mes parents, Alan et Laura, sont très intelligents. Alan a son MBA. Laura a sa MBA aussi. Alan travaille pour l’institut de technologie de Géorgie, et Laura travaille pour l’université de Géorgie. Ils vivent à Athènes, en Géorgie.

Mon père, Alan, est juif, et ma mère, Laura, est catholique. Nous célébrons Noël et Hanoucca. J’aime quand nous sommes tous ensemble. Parfois, nous célébrons Hanoucca ensemble, et parfois nous célébrons Noël ensemble. Quand nous sommes ensemble, nous sommes bruyants et fous. Nous sommes comme un cirque! Ma famille m’énerve de temps en temps, mais je les aime!

My eyes scan the paper once, then once again.

Four sopranos, four tenors, four basses, four altos. A perfectly balanced chamber choir. The same chamber choir I was proud to be a member of since freshman year of high school.

Four sopranos, four tenors, four basses… and three altos.

Tears begin to run down my face. My hands begin to shake. My eyes scan the paper again and again as if the innocent, white printer paper is playing a trick on me.

Surely, there was a reason why my name was missing as the fourth alto in my high school’s elite audition-only choir. After three years in this elite, audition-only choir, after five years of singing with the same director, surely there was a reason why my name, Zoe Katz, was left of the sheet of paper that listed the names of the sixteen– fifteen– members of this elite, audition-only choir.

Zoe Katz, a senior, the senior, the student president of the North Oconee High School Choir Program, a devoted singer who spent thousands of hours rehearsing with the same students, the same director, over and over again. Who spent ten years of her life working towards college auditions to become an opera singer, who spent the summer in a choral intensive in Pennsylvania, was left out of the group that would surely book her ticket into the best conservatories in the country.

My choir director rounds the corner, stacks of paper in her hands. I look at her, openly weeping, hot and angry, my face red and swollen. She sighs. She seems apologetic. “Come in my office,” She says. “Let’s talk.”   

—

I sit in the same grey chair in which I have always sat. I have chosen sheet music for concerts here. I have practiced for All-State and Honor Choir auditions here. I have napped here. I’ve even babysat my director’s children here.

I’m still crying. Renee Costigan, my choir director since seventh grade, looks at me. She still seems apologetic.

“You had a bad audition, Zoe.” She says. Her voice is atonal and pitchy, like a missed note on black keys. She has wild, black, tangled hair and a lazy eye that seems to follow you when you mess up a measure of sight reading. When she talks, spittle forms on her lips, and when her back is turned, focused on the piano or sheet music, teenagers mock her relentlessly about these attributes. I used to defend her or tell them to knock it off. Now, I want to stand alongside my peers and make fun of a grown woman who seemingly doesn’t brush her hair.

I tell her I don’t understand. She knows I have audition anxiety; she’s heard me sing for five years, it’s my senior year, come on, Mrs. Costigan, please, you know me.

She remains resolute. I gave a bad audition.

I tell her it makes no sense. Why have an unbalanced group? Why four sopranos, four tenors, four basses, and three altos? The same sixteen people sang together last year. We received awards and praise. Why the change now? Why fifteen?

“You can still remain involved in choir. You can still be president.” She says as if this consolation prize is not using my time and talents to take advantage.

I look at her. The same face I have looked at for five years, the same face that has smiled at me as I win a solo or receive an award or nail an audition. She had held my hand when I dumped my first boyfriend. She has promised to write me letters of recommendation. Those letters are the key to college applications. The key to my college auditions. The key to my future.

Wetness has dampened the collar of my shirt. I can barely see her face– the face I trusted– because of my vision clouding with tears. It’s my senior year.

Later, I will regret the next few minutes. Later, I will feel pride when I think back to what I am about to do. Later, I will find new passions, evolve and grow not only as a student and as a human, but as an artist. Later, I will feel grateful that I spent my senior year discovering playwriting and directing and European History, rather than agonizing over the approval of a woman who would never matter, in the long run. Later, later, later.

Now, I look at Renee Costigan. With my voice thick, stuck in the back of my throat from mucus and anger, I call her a fucking bitch and leave.

A fucking bitch.

There go those letters of recommendation.

In their usual restaurant, with their usual menus and their usual table, their usual waiter, in her black apron and loose tie, asked for their drink orders, Alan ordered waters, instead of their usual beers.

Laura was pregnant, which was not usual, and as they sat in that restaurant, waiting for their spaghetti with clam sauce, they discussed the name for their baby, soon to arrive, a little boy or girl who would change their lives forever.

This baby kicked incessantly and never seemed to stop moving. This baby who, even before seeing the light of day, was already a handful. This baby was a miracle, as, perhaps, all babies are, and his or her name was a point of contention between Alan and Laura. As, perhaps, all baby names are.

Alan wanted a boy named Harry. It made sense– his grandfather was a Harry, her grandfather was a Harry– they could kill two birds with one stone, and honor both of them with one kid. Laura hated the name Harry. Their son would be Harry Katz, and that was a kid waiting to be teased. Still, she relented.

Laura wanted a girl named Zoë. She loved the name ever since she was a teenager. Alan was against it– how could a computer ever type the two dots above the E? It wasn’t practical.

They were interrupted by a woman one table over. She turned in her chair, a smile on her face.

“I hate to interrupt,” She said, “but my daughter is named Zoe. And she is one of the most beautiful, vibrant, joyous girls to live. Zoe is a beautiful name– did you know it means life in Greek?”

So it was settled. They would name the baby Zoe– if they dropped the diacritic. And a few months later, Harrison John Katz was born.

Three years later, my parents finally got to use the name Zoe. To me, the name Zoe has always been so fitting, so beautiful, that I could never imagine anything else. But I nearly wasn’t Zoe– my parents had an entire other name picked out, for a boy who was never born. They had picked out such a meaningful name for my brother, that surely they would choose one equally as beautiful for their second son.

They chose Greg.

Greg.

Why the hell would they choose Greg? I didn’t know a single Greg. I had no uncles, nor grandfathers named Greg. I didn’t even know any strangers named Greg. To me, the name seemed so pedestrian, so dissimilar to the whimsy of Zoe, that it was almost offensive.

My brother had Zoe (Zoe!) as a backup. And I had Greg?

Even my sister, who was born six years after me, had two beautiful, meaningful given names. If she were a girl, she would be Frances, honoring my great-grandmother who passed away a few months before she was born. If she were a boy, she would be Noah, the leader of the ark, the forefather of Judaism, the man who entered into the first covenant with G-d.

But I had Greg.

Gregs do not change the world. Gregs do not make art, nor write symphonies, nor become president. There are no king Gregs. There are no statues to Gregs. Sure, there is plenty of beauty and honor in the name Gregory, but I wouldn’t be called Gregory. I would be called Greg.

Who would Greg Katz be? Would he be as comedic as I? As attention-seeking? A middle child, waiting for the spotlight, with a flair for the dramatic and an astounding ability to mismanage money? Would he be a good son? A good student? A good person? Or would he be as ordinary as his name?

Would the world be the same, if there was never a Zoe Katz in it?

Thankfully, I am not Greg Katz. Just as my sister is not Noah, nor is my brother Zoe. Just as you are not Will, or Anne, or Sonya, or James.

I am Zoe, the Greek transliteration of the Hebrew Eve, born of the Hellenization of the wandering Jews. A name, like Eve, is G-d-given, birthed from the ashes, fertilized in the soil of the garden of Eden. I am Zoe, and all the vibrancy and hope that name carries. I have grown into this immense, expressive name, the name of queens, of stars, of the mother of life itself. I am the humidity of the August day I was born. I am the laughter I cause, and the tears that I cry. I am the infinite sadness and optimism and multitudes that exist within me.

But somewhere, I am Greg. A name I once thought of as pedestrian. As boring. As unimportant. I am Greg, who, I learned, was my father’s best friend from college. Greg, who was just as full of life and laughter as I am today. A man that passed away, lymph-nodes cancerous and swollen, too young, taken before his time.

I am Zoe. But more importantly, I was almost Greg.

This essay was written for ENG-208, Intro to Non-Fiction Writing and was selected as an example of the best work in the class. The prompt was to write an essay about your name to introduce yourself to the class. 

For the past four years, I have written, re-written, workshopped, and rewritten again. Finally, I proclaimed it finished. Taking a chance, I submitted it to the Agnes Scott College Writers’ Festival Creative Writing Contest.

Over break, in the middle of the Negev desert, I learned that I was a finalist in the contest.

I am so thrilled to have this play published in the Writers’ Festival magazine, as well as be judged by some amazing authors, against some amazing writers. Hopefully, I will try to chronical my experiences throughout the Writers’ Festival, here on this very blog.

What is Pathways about, you ask?

SYNOPSIS
Pathways is a one-act dramedy that discusses the question of “what happens after high school?” James, already graduated, is interested in joining the armed forces to receive an education, instead of paying substantial tuition for a school near home. However, he is in a long-term relationship with Sarah, who is about to graduate from high school and is both academically and monetarily prepared for university. With Dan and Emily, James’ and Sarah’s best friends respectively, the audience gets a glimpse of the complications that post-graduate plans create. As James joins the army and prepares for his departure, we see Sarah become desperate to make him stay, before eventually supporting him and letting him go on. The play takes place in present day, and ten years in the future, giving us insight into the lives and futures of these dynamic characters.

PRODUCTION HISTORY
Pathways initially began as one scene in a show called “Mad World” for an acting class. Through that, the author developed the show one scene at a time, until she was satisfied, and submitted it to the Georgia Thespian Conference Playworks competition. After feedback, she continued to form and shape the show. It was performed for the first time at North Oconee High School, with Thomas Peck portraying James Taylor, Rachel Bolden portraying Sarah Stewart, Kelly Kraft portraying Emily Greene, and Alex Joyner portraying Dan Welles, with author Zoe Katz directing.