Italian Recruiting Is Paradise
You wake up at your family’s olive oil farm in Sicily. It’s 8:00am, sun already warm, gabagool cooling on the counter next to nonna’s leftover macaroni and gravy. August 1st, and somehow the worst weather you’ve seen all summer.
Internship apps drop today. Forty near-identical CVs in your Drive, finger over submit the second the forms open. Uncle Sal already blessed the laptop this morning, just in case.
No springs but whatever. Networking over here is just your cousin Vinny, who "does constructions," saying he “knows a guy” at the bank. 50,000 British kids applying for 10 seats, and you figure your Italian blood alone is worth at least three of theirs. Surely they're not giving it to some random euro guy. Surely.
You’ve already got an interview with a real bank in a few hours. Behaviourals locked, technicals clean, hair slicked back… double finger snap, thumbs up… ayyye. Couldn’t be tighter.
You start picturing it: London desk, 90-hour weeks for twice of what the Italian guys make. Maybe you finally get to move out of your mother's house. One can only hope.
HR pings the interviewer’s name. British, obviously. You’re sure he won’t favor his own people. You’ll show him what an Italian boy brings to the table. The whole family’s counting on you from the kitchen. Somebody lights a candle for you, just in case.
You join the call. The British guy got that accent that makes every word sound like a complaint. He asks you to introduce yourself like he’s doing you a favor. You give him the whole polished speech, the one you rehearsed forty times in the bathroom mirror doing your best Pacino.
He asks you to repeat your name. Twice. Not because he didn't hear it but because apparently Frankie “Four Fingers” Carpino is a lot to ask of a man from Surrey.
You sit there after the call ends, staring at the blank screen. The seats already went to his people. You know it. Your family back in the kitchen already knows it too, somehow, before you even say a word.
How much more betrayal can you take?
Italian recruiting is paradise.
Too long to read this slop.
You realize you show us all that you are not so smart in less words. I knew by the title you were a window licker. No need for all the paragraphs bro that was stoopid
ni hao
I'll tell you what it is, it's anti-Italian discrimination
2/10 - OP is on the wrong island.
"You wake up on your
family’s olive oil farm in Sicilyparents' front yard on Staten Island"FTFY
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