I did intern/temp/consultant (STT) work at the World Bank from the beginning of February till the end of June. I was based in the OAS for my first few months where I felt fashionably inferior next to all the fancy Latinas. The extent of the inferiority of my fashion-ability was exacerbated by the fact that I was sitting in what my co-workers and I affectionately named "the fish bowl." That is, we sat in a glass conference room in the middle of the hallway where I could constantly see the fancy Latinas flaunt by. I wasn’t invisible either. The Italian men would stare at me unabashedly every time they walked by in spite of my terrible clothes. I eventually went shopping.
In spite of these superficial awkward details, I really enjoyed being forced into this little room with some wonderfully quirky co-workers including one Bangladeshi-American that would serve us tea every day at 4:00 and discuss metaphysical dilemmas with me. He conducted daily lessons using the conference room white board. The lessons ranged from reciting Rumi poems, to the origin of alcohol, to the origin of the tales of the 100 Arabian nights, to potatoes, to cows. That's not to say that we didn't focus on our work. We did. However, these little digressions kept the morale up as we crunched data for hours on end.
At some point in the middle of the STT stint, I was in a corner office in the J building. I shared the office with my Bangladeshi friend who solved all my life problems as we continued crunching numbers. He solved my life problems, and I (upon his request) took the role of 'drill sergeant.' That meant that I would slam my hand on the table to keep him on task when he started looking up lyrics to Persian songs (as we were all getting burnt out from the number crunching).
For the last month of my stint the Bank, I was irrevocably torn from the side of my lovely co-workers. I was kind of promoted in pay. However, that meant that I had to be sent to the dungeon, (which is the basement library in the main complex where there is little cell phone service). There, I was shackled to a public expenditure review spreadsheet in which I entered data and made precision codes. Cool as hell. After a month, I managed to get the Cameroonian sitting next to me to utter a daily "hello, how are you" and a "goodbye." Those were the only words I could get out of him. This was quite a contrast from my last working environment. At least I felt fancy, being as the Latinas at the OAS had inspired me to go shopping.
It seems that almost everyone at the World Bank is from the cultural elite from all places in the world. At one point in my struggle to work my way through the Bank I was interviewed by a Kyrgyz lady from Bishkek who had seen on my resume that I spoke Kyrgyz.
"That's not useful here," she said.
I should have responded that of course it isn't useful, but it is a demonstration of my aptitude for languages and my willingness to show respect for other cultures. However, my real response was simply, "yeah, but it's cool."
She introduced me to the big boss who also learned that I spoke Kyrgyz. "Oh, you have that in common!" The big boss responded.
The Kyrgyz lady looked at the ground ashamed. It was clear that she didn't know her own native language. In other words, she was a city girl. She was of the cultural elite.
Of course she was of the cultural elite. How, really, could an average Kyrgyz girl kidnapped and isolated in a rural village have the opportunity to gain the education needed to get to where this lady had gotten? That’s not the question. The question is whether the members of the cultural elites are aware of and grateful for their privilege. Do they wear their elite background on their shoulders like a trophy? Do they really think that they deserve to be where they are more than the average girl does? I am not just talking about developing countries. These problems are present in among us Americans as well. Plenty of talent goes to waste in rural Pennsylvania, in New Orleans, and in rural Kyrgyzstan alike due to unequal opportunities.
By C.S.
In spite of these superficial awkward details, I really enjoyed being forced into this little room with some wonderfully quirky co-workers including one Bangladeshi-American that would serve us tea every day at 4:00 and discuss metaphysical dilemmas with me. He conducted daily lessons using the conference room white board. The lessons ranged from reciting Rumi poems, to the origin of alcohol, to the origin of the tales of the 100 Arabian nights, to potatoes, to cows. That's not to say that we didn't focus on our work. We did. However, these little digressions kept the morale up as we crunched data for hours on end.
At some point in the middle of the STT stint, I was in a corner office in the J building. I shared the office with my Bangladeshi friend who solved all my life problems as we continued crunching numbers. He solved my life problems, and I (upon his request) took the role of 'drill sergeant.' That meant that I would slam my hand on the table to keep him on task when he started looking up lyrics to Persian songs (as we were all getting burnt out from the number crunching).
For the last month of my stint the Bank, I was irrevocably torn from the side of my lovely co-workers. I was kind of promoted in pay. However, that meant that I had to be sent to the dungeon, (which is the basement library in the main complex where there is little cell phone service). There, I was shackled to a public expenditure review spreadsheet in which I entered data and made precision codes. Cool as hell. After a month, I managed to get the Cameroonian sitting next to me to utter a daily "hello, how are you" and a "goodbye." Those were the only words I could get out of him. This was quite a contrast from my last working environment. At least I felt fancy, being as the Latinas at the OAS had inspired me to go shopping.
It seems that almost everyone at the World Bank is from the cultural elite from all places in the world. At one point in my struggle to work my way through the Bank I was interviewed by a Kyrgyz lady from Bishkek who had seen on my resume that I spoke Kyrgyz.
"That's not useful here," she said.
I should have responded that of course it isn't useful, but it is a demonstration of my aptitude for languages and my willingness to show respect for other cultures. However, my real response was simply, "yeah, but it's cool."
She introduced me to the big boss who also learned that I spoke Kyrgyz. "Oh, you have that in common!" The big boss responded.
The Kyrgyz lady looked at the ground ashamed. It was clear that she didn't know her own native language. In other words, she was a city girl. She was of the cultural elite.
Of course she was of the cultural elite. How, really, could an average Kyrgyz girl kidnapped and isolated in a rural village have the opportunity to gain the education needed to get to where this lady had gotten? That’s not the question. The question is whether the members of the cultural elites are aware of and grateful for their privilege. Do they wear their elite background on their shoulders like a trophy? Do they really think that they deserve to be where they are more than the average girl does? I am not just talking about developing countries. These problems are present in among us Americans as well. Plenty of talent goes to waste in rural Pennsylvania, in New Orleans, and in rural Kyrgyzstan alike due to unequal opportunities.
By C.S.
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