I was dazzled. Aged just 15, working at a real theatre. Getting up every day for two weeks and taking the train from Wembley to Sloane Square – Sloane Square! – to help backstage at the Royal Court. It was the stuff that dreams are made of and to this day, I’m grateful that my school had a partnership that made those two weeks of GSCE work experience possible.
My family didn’t have contacts that would have got me something like this. My parents were handbag-makers. They may have sold their (rather beautiful) leather bags to shops round the corner from the Royal Court, but that wasn’t going to open any professional doors for me.
Work experience is supposed to show young people the realities and demands of having a ‘real job’. It should give you an insight into a bunch of things that aren’t really on the curriculum. The importance of showing up on time, taking responsibility and initiative, developing those ‘soft skills’ of self-presentation and interaction, which, for some of us, aren’t an automatic thing that we see role modeled in what’s going on at home.
But in truth, much of this wasn’t really news to me. I already had a Saturday job in a local video store. Two pounds an hour to rent out videos, manage stock, cash-up and even lock up at 11pm (don’t worry, my Dad used to walk the dog down and wait outside to make sure I was safe). Looking back, I’m not sure how legal it all was, but I loved it.
So what did I get from that fairy-tale experience, apart from meeting the famous people who were in the play?
I learned not to always take my boss at their word. And I learned about regret.
Let me explain. I was working backstage making props for the show, but as is often the case with work experience, they weren’t really prepared for me and for the first few days there wasn’t much to do. I found things to work on – including a task I will never forget, which was getting a new address book and making it look old enough to be a convincing prop in the play. Think tea-bag stains and hours spent writing in addresses. Who knew?
Eventually my supervisor said that I may as well not come in for a few days because there wasn’t anything else to do. I was disappointed but I did as they said. The whole experience ended on more of a high as then dress rehearsals started and we all pitched in. On the very last day I made more of a personal connection with the rest of the backstage team, and it was so wonderful to really feel part of something.
Then I got my evaluation report. Although my work had been recognised, one biting bit of feedback was that my attendance hadn’t been 100%. My heart sank. There was no right to reply or to explain. That’s just what was sent to my school. And I was gutted.
That learning struck deep. Ever since then, I’ve been inclined to question what will happen if I just do what my boss suggests. I learned to decide for myself. I’ve also tried not to hang back and wait to be invited into the group, because you might just run out of time and that’s such a shame. My heart still sinks 35 years later when I think about how I wasted all that time sitting quietly on my own, filling in the address book, instead of meeting and building relationships with the others. I thought I was being a good girl.
I think it also shaped how I lead. I became much more conscious of inviting others in – something that’s so important for genuine inclusion. As they say, you don’t just get someone to come to the party, you also need to ask them to dance.
This post was sparked by the things I’ve been noticing in the leaders I coach who come from less traditional backgrounds in their fields. Those who have “made it” but who perhaps feel like they still don’t quite belong, or that they need to work harder to understand a set of unwritten rules that seem clearer to everyone else. Those for whom the ambition to succeed – and indeed the fear of loss – is somehow freighted with additional expectations because they’ve come so far.
I’d love to hear from you if this resonates with your experience.
