Change the World

When the interviewer, Bob, asked why I was interested in actuary science and an internship at his firm, I looked at him squarely in the eye and replied, “Well Bob, the... genesis of my interest in this field came from my passion for quantifying risk. In particular, I would like to help further implement Asset Liability Management, not just on risk mitigation, but as a framework to achieve financial objectives subject to risk tolerances and constraints.”

It was one of those moments where I was actually watching myself talk, like I was running on auto-pilot.

Bob was just an old human resources guy whose job mostly was to give out free mugs, so he was too confused to realize I didn’t really answer his question. He grinned and said, “Well hey, that’s what we’ll pay you the big bucks for, eh?”

We both leaned back in our seats, looked at the ceiling, and chuckled.

“So you really have a passion for quantifying risk, eh?”

That’s when I thought about my childhood love for art. All the awards I used to win. How hundreds of drawings used to be proudly littered all over the floor of my old bedroom as a kid and how I couldn’t wait to grow up so that I could change the world with my art.

And then I thought about my recent obsession with writing and my aspirations to become a published novelist — and not just any kind of novelist, but one of those renegade types with cult followings like J.D. Salinger or Kurt Vonnegut or Bret Easton Ellis or Chuck Palahniuk — and the things I would write about would connect with people by destroying their convictions.

“Definitely,” I answered. “Quantifying risk is my reason for living. I heart risk assessment!”

Once more, Bob grinned. Maybe he knew that this was all bullshit, I don’t know. Bob grinned some more, his teeth sparkled ding, and he said, “Why do you think you’ll be an asset to this company?”

I matched him grin for grin and decided that a little bit of quasi-egotism would do the trick. “Bob, actuaries are the most rigorously-tested professionals in business today, yet I’ve already passed my first two actuarial exams. No easy task. And did you notice my quantitative score for my GRE on the resume? 780 out of 800. Doogie Howser couldn’t get that!”

Bob laughed at my exaggerated lack of modesty. I continued, “...And heck Bob, let’s be frank — but you can still be Bob — with my 4.0, prior internship experience, and dashing good looks, anything is possible! I can help change the world.”

That last sentence clinched it. The interview was a success, and for the next 15 minutes we just shot the shit about the upcoming Superbowl.

Again, I was on auto-pilot. My mind however was somewhere else, thinking about the time in high school when my dad opened my desk and saw, to his horror, hundreds of drawings and scribbles everywhere. I remember eavesdropping on my parents in the kitchen and hearing my dad ask my mom how I could ever become a doctor if I spent all of my time drawing stupid pictures. From that point on, I gave up art and never drew again. Just to spite my dad.

And here I was, years later, sitting in an interview room watching myself talk to Bob.

I’m about to enter a very lucrative field where in a few years from now, I’ll be filthy rich and the pride of the Nguyen household. I don’t hate actuary science — I love how it challenges me and I love how I’m good at it — but there’s always going to be a part of me that wishes I had become an artist and changed the world. I still have that chance now, as a writer, but I don’t know why I continue to treat it as “just” a hobby.

What I’ve become now is a far cry from what I had dreamt my life would be. How the hell did I get here? What am I doing climbing the corporate ladder? I’m 24 years old. Why haven’t I changed the world yet?

Bob grinned and patted me on the back as he guided me towards the door of the interview room. We shook hands furiously, then said goodbye. Before I closed the door, I peeked back in and said, “...And Bob?”

“Yes?”

“Fo’ shizzle.”

Bob, somehow flattered, pointed to me like he was Eugene Levy and said, “You’re the man now, dog! Catch ya on the flip side.”

Walking down the hallway, past other patiently waiting interviewees, my suddenly mundane life came in full-view. And I thought about Marlon Brando’s famous monologue at the end of On the Waterfront.

I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of an actuary, which is what I am.