My CIA rejection story

To be read in the voice of Fran Drescher

It all started in early 2009, a year after barely graduating from college with one of the world’s most useful degrees: History.

Like many Humanities grads, I found myself awash in a sea of vague job opportunities with few tools to navigate a completely-collapsed job market, as I had graduated into the world’s worst economic recession since the Great Depression.

Before applying to the CIA, I spent my 2008 flying by the seat of my professional pants in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon; the jobs were few and far between, so I took the only two I could snag: Fido’s Doggy Daycare (I’ll never own a beagle) and doing four jobs for the salary of one at a bar and restaurant supply distribution center.

At the end of that year, after moving cross-country to live with my then-boyfriend while also acquiring too many cats, I found myself dumped on a random weeknight and, within a few whirlwind days of packing and crying, I was back in my childhood home, living with my mom: the CIA Reject’s first paid subscriber! Thanks, mom.

Once I mentally and emotionally recovered from my non-dry January of 2009, I began to think about what I actually wanted to do with my professional life, something I hadn’t spent more than 30 seconds contemplating in the previous few years. After honing in on my main interests of languages and history, I decided the CIA seemed like the only a logical choice.

The application

I never wanted to be a spy, although many people don’t believe me. I’d either be a terrible spy, as I have a tendency for hyperbole and no poker face whatsoever, or an amazing one, since I have a knack for learning languages plus I accidentally memorized my high school yearbook (~1,200 students’ names) which is equal parts impressive and creepy.

Instead I wanted to be a translator. My Arabic at the time wasn’t even that advanced, but I figured some level of comprehension would be in demand. I also hoped it would overshadow my terrible GPA and less-than-impressive work history (I left Fido’s Doggy Daycare off, but I’m sure they knew I worked there since, ya know. They know everything.)

When you apply for a job with the CIA, they very bluntly state that if you haven’t heard from them within 45 days, that you’re not considered and don’t bother reaching out. At the time I was a substitute teacher for my local school district. I took the gigs as they came while I trying my best to not keep track of exactly how many days had passed since I applied.

The call

About 35 days later, (I definitely was keeping track) I found myself substitute teaching in my 5th grade classroom. I was channeling my best Meryl Streep, because one thing you DON’T want to do as a substitute teacher is show fear, so acting skills are an unwritten requirement for the job. Students are like sharks: they can smell weakness, even in the water, and once they get a whiff it’s game over.

Out of nowhere, a voice on the PA system told me I had a phone call.

I had no idea who would be calling me at the school instead of on my cell phone, but the only thing on my mind was that I was FINALLY going to see the teacher’s lounge after a lifetime of considering this space to be Narnia. Let’s be honest: when you’re a kid, teachers don’t exist outside of school, they’re all 80 years old, and the teacher’s lounge is most likely where teachers eat and sleep (but not socialize, because teachers also don’t have friends or family.)

So there I was in the teacher’s lounge, which was whelming, to say the least. I found the phone in a windowless 5x5 painted cinderblock room…the kind of mid-century-modern-meets-prison vibe that adorned so many schools in my district. I picked up the phone and the entire exchange couldn’t have lasted longer than 60 seconds.

CIA: I’m so glad I caught you. I’m X from the CIA and I left a meeting to talk with you. I just have a few questions before we get started. Do you live in the US?

Me: Yes. (!!!)

CIA: Great. Were you born in the US?

Me: Yes.

CIA: OK.

<Me thinking I am CRUSHING IT.>

CIA: Have you done illegal drugs in the past 12 months?

So like I mentioned in the beginning of this post, I had just moved home from Oregon…

Me: I thought you had to be 12 months clean once you’re offered a job?

The entire application process with the CIA can supposedly take up to a year, which includes extensive interviews with family, friends, and associates as well as drug and polygraph tests.

CIA: <audible disappointment> No, you have to be 12 months clean at the time of applying. Try reapplying in a year.

CLICK.

The end…

So that was that.

In less than a minute, my future with the CIA ended before it could even begin. The funny thing is, that following year I did “get clean” (which was easy since I had barely smoked weed in Oregon because I actually didn’t like it or West Coast weed culture in general) plus I had hired an Arabic tutor to sharpen my language skills.

A year later, I reapplied with what I thought was an even stronger application, and I never heard back.

A handful of years later, I had started learning Russian for fun and thought I’d give the application another whirl. No dice.

Believing the fourth time’s the charm, because who actually likes the number three?, I applied again sometime around 2017 or 2018. Nada.

Since first applying in 2009, I’ve collected language skills like they’re going out of style and I’m fairly immersed in global happenings, or at least as much as one can be as a corporate professional living in Chicago. In other words, I think I’d be a pretty strong candidate, but the ship has clearly sailed.

…..or has it?!

Every once in a while, I think about applying again. But you get to a point in life where you have to decide whether your persistence is admirable or pathetic and I have decidedly hung my hat on the latter.

Plus, having a Substack called “The CIA Reject” is probably not conducive to getting a job at said CIA.

Or it could be the perfect cover for being a spy.

Hey, CIA. If you’re reading this, I’m متاح للعمل.

Epilogue part 1

One random day in the years between my many applications, I was thinking about my short-lived exchange with the CIA and it dawned on me: why didn’t they just call me on my cell phone?

Because they knew they exactly where I was!

What a flex!

Epilogue part 2

And then literally in the past day, while thinking about the epilogue you just read, I realized: OK sure, either they were “flexing” because it’s the CIA and they can “flex” (I’m not Gen Z, so I’m not sure why I’m using that term) whenever they want, or they simply called you at your workplace because it was listed on your resume.

Either way, I prefer Epilogue part 1 because when you’re unemployed and spend 80% of your time filling out Workday applications, it’s nice to pretend like there was a time when an organization wanted to impress you as much as you hoped to impress them.