The Grand Illusion: A Lesson in Titles, Pronouns, and the Reality of Job Interviews

By? Maria Angelis

It all began, as these things often do, with an illustrious LinkedIn message.

The sender—a man of impeccable credentials, at least according to his well-groomed profile—extended the kind of invitation that one does not simply decline.

His title?

A five-million-dollar spectacle of linguistic grandeur.

Something along the lines of:

"Executive Supreme Global Architect of Transformational Educational Ecosystems and Strategic Leadership Development for Vision 2030 and Beyond."

I was, of course, immediately enthralled.

Had I spent enough time keeping up with cutting-edge educational trends?

Was my knowledge of pedagogical revolutions sufficiently robust?

Had I, in all my years of experience, failed to grasp some elusive, cosmic truth about curriculum reform?

Naturally, I did what any serious professional would do in such circumstances—I spent hours revisiting my vast reservoir of educational expertise, brushing up on global best practices, digital transformation, AI integration, and the intricate interplay between policy and pedagogy.

In other words, I panicked slightly before convincing myself that I had this in the bag.

Then, of course, I accepted.

How could I refuse? Here was a distinguished gentleman, a keeper of knowledge and authority, a man whose LinkedIn credentials gleamed with the polish of a Versailles chandelier.

He was working with the government, no less!

This, surely, was the KSA Renaissance my friends had been whispering about.

I had arrived.

And then, as all great tales of intrigue begin, the first crack appeared.

The Impressive CEO—let’s call him that, for clarity—promised to send an official interview request.

I waited in noble anticipation, and at last, it arrived.

But upon opening it, I found myself face to face with an enigma.

Six People. One Pronoun. A Mystery Unfolds.

Firstly, the six people CC’d.

Six.

This was no ordinary correspondence.

No, this was a council, a jury, a committee of the wise convened to bear witness to my intellectual worth.

The gravity of the situation was immediately apparent.

"They must mean business," I thought, leaning back with the air of one who had just been shortlisted for a diplomatic summit.

And then, the pronoun.

Ah, the pronoun.

For all my contributions to academia, my leadership in educational consulting, and my deep reverence for KSA’s progressive vision, I had been misunderstood on a fundamental level.

They had referred to me as male by calling me “he,” even though it was quite obvious that I was a woman.

Odd, I thought.

Surely a mere typo.

An innocent oversight.

A misplaced keystroke in an otherwise satisfactory document of invitation.

Or was it?

I dismissed it for the time being.

I would, after all, be engaging with the new and improved Saudi Arabia.

A land of change, reform, and visionary strides toward the future.

What was one rogue pronoun compared to the great transformational leap I was about to witness?

And so, I began to prepare.

The Ritual of Readiness

I was not going to take this lightly.

This was, after all, an opportunity to contribute to the future of education in KSA.

I read Vision 2030, not once, not twice, but three times.

I then turned to my most trusted advisor.

ChatGPT.

Loyal, tireless, and never once confused about my gender, ChatGPT became my study partner, my coach, my virtual mentor.

Together, we ran mock interviews, simulated tricky scenarios, and analyzed possible strategic responses.

After all, this was going to be big.

Six serious, influential individuals were going to interview me.

I owed it to them to match their level of preparedness.

Thirty hours of study.

And finally, the morning of the interview arrived.

Eight hours of sleep. Exercise to optimize frontal lobe function. A regimented lineup of cognitive-enhancing supplements. A breakfast befitting a scholar and strategist.

I was ready.

Or so I thought.

The Meeting That Wasn’t There

To ensure everything went smoothly, I logged in early.

And then I waited.

And waited.

Five minutes past the scheduled time.

Odd.

I refreshed the page. Nothing.

Six people had been CC’d. Six.

Surely, one of them had control over the meeting link.

So, ever the professional, I sent a polite yet assertive email:

"Dear all, I am online and waiting to be admitted to the meeting."

A moment later, an email pinged into my inbox.

"We are waiting for you."

Ah.

I was waiting for them.

They were waiting for me.

We were, in effect, waiting for each other, but in entirely separate dimensions.

And then, after three long minutes, I was admitted into the meeting.

And that is when I discovered that the grand assembly of six highly esteemed professionals had been reduced to… two.

One kept his camera off entirely.?

“I don’t know what happened, I am sorry,” I mumbled.

“Don’t worry,” replied the man with the closed camera. “This happens to everyone we interview, and we don’t know why.”?

-“Odd,” I thought. Why don’t they fix it?

From the background, it looked like the other man sat casually at home. He was dressed in a white T-shirt.

And then, White T-Shirt Man spoke.

"I’m sorry I’m late. I had to go to the toilet."

I blinked.

The image of him in the toilet threw me completely off balance.

"Too much information," I thought.

Then, blinked again.

"Far, far too much information."

White T-Shirt Man smiled at me, apparently pleased with his announcement.

I, meanwhile, felt my entire enthusiasm deflate in real-time.

And then, the first question.

"Why do you think you are the best candidate?"

The most predictable question in interview history.

At that moment, clarity struck me.

I had overestimated everything.

The position.

The job description.

The company aura.

The impeccable LinkedIn profiles.

The grandiose job titles.

The Council of Six.

I had inflated it all in my head.

And now, confronted with this most uninspired question, I saw the truth.

What I was facing was a live example of what I imagined resolving.?