An Ode to the Good Old-Fashioned Rejection Letter
My 16-year-old daughter T. landed her first job this summer. It was relatively easy, at least compared to my efforts as a 49-year-old hack ill-suited for corporate gigs. She interviewed for two jobs and got the second one nearly on the spot. I’m not miffed that I got zero follow-ups for my uploaded resume PDF and generic cover letter; I was frustrated that she heard nothing after an in-person interview with two different managers at a well-respected business based in our hometown. She languished in those days when she heard nothing, and desperately wanted to know why she was rejected: Was someone more qualified? Was it her age? Did she not come across well in the interview? Alas, we’ll never know. Ghosted her first time up at employee bat.
I know the sting of rejection all too well, as reflected in that thick stack of failure in my attempt to gain attention from a long list of publishers and literary agents. As I rifle through the 23-year-old letters, I realize how lucky I was to have heard back, to not be left in limbo, wondering, hoping, expecting. I could check that outlet off the list and move on to the next one.
In contrast, ghosting offers the basic effects of rejection (no reply=no book deal), and piles on disregard and disrespect, with extra layers of confusion, ambiguity, self-doubt. Not knowing, not understanding, not moving on. If T. hadn’t gotten the second job, she’d probably still be hoping to hear back from the first one.
My old rejection letters show a remarkable dose of humanity, even as they dashed my hopes. Someone respected me enough to at least place a Xeroxed form in an envelope, write my name up top and on the envelope, lick and affix a stamp, and send the letter out with the mailman. Maybe even go so far as to type a fresh letter with my name and address, add Dear in front of my name, perhaps even mention the work I submitted, sign the letter with an actual pen. Those were really special. It just doesn’t take that much effort to show a little respect, and it’s palpable.
Of course, my golden oldie rejections came in an age when companies of all sizes and stripes had legally unpaid interns to do their Xeroxing and stamp-licking, and when the applications or submissions arrived via the mail in the first place. A season one episode of “Friends” seems like a relic from a time capsule, when Rachel enlists everyone to help stuff envelopes with resumes to mail out to a hundred prospective employers. Replying with a physical letter was appropriate and expected before the World Wide Web automated everything with online templates and auto-reply. Recently I watched idly as my daughter navigated on her phone to different websites for all the local businesses she could think of— she applied within minutes. Gone are the days of “pounding the pavement” to find work; it ain’t so bad to only have to pound Easy Apply buttons on any of the zillion job boards. I can’t complain about that.
But the advent of easy online applications shouldn’t preclude the practice of sending a rejection letter. Now college admission updates are delivered via online message systems: You’ve Got Rejection! Is it too much to ask for some sort of acknowledgement after what seems like a successful job interview? I recognize it may be unrealistic for all applications to get a response, especially in a time when mass unemployment likely creates harrowing inbox alerts after one open job posting. I get it, you may not be able to reply to every single one. Surely a business can manage a rejection email or text to the handful that made it to the talk-to-a-person stage?
As the Director of Instruction for a reading program, my husband, John, hires dozens of teachers every year. Pre-Covid the number was scores a season for in-person classes, leading to hundreds under his supervision every year, but as the company has shifted completely online, everything has downsized. Even before, his policy was the same: Every application gets a status update, with increasing levels of personalization as the candidate gets closer to a job offer. Even basic applications are promised a response within a timeline, and rejection emails are sent in that time frame. They aren’t obligated to do so, of course, but as a company they made a decision of courtesy that if you take the time to apply, you deserve a reply.
John has a boilerplate for the early round rejections: Dear <merge name field>, Thank you for your interest in a teaching position but we will not be pursuing you as a candidate. Later rejections acknowledge the time and effort involved deeper in the process, and always contain an infusion of compassion: We have had a lot of strong response to our job opening, which means there are good people I must disappoint.
As a person often singly focused on hiring and retaining qualified talent, John never forgets there are humans on the other end of that electronic pipeline. They are anxious people, checking their email too frequently, waiting and hoping and perking with each new ding of incoming messages. Maybe THIS will be the one that gives them the status update, good or bad. Please let it be You’ve Got a Job!
