Gwendolyn Sobkowiak | staff writer

Joe Pug released the song “I Don’t Work in a Bank” in 2019:

Oh I don’t work in a bank

That was fine when I was a kid

The awful truth I’ve learned

Things would be better if I did.

Pug was contemplating his career as a musician, following an argument with his wife. The song is catchy, yet pessimistic. Pug’s conclusion isn’t what you typically hear. He doesn’t celebrate his choice to pursue his dream career. He honestly laments it.

Am I finally learning this awful truth?

As my time at college inches closer and closer to the end, my looming job hunt brings this question to a glaring head. As much as I wish it wasn’t, the biggest thing I’m struggling with is how much my decision should be guided by my income.

I grew up with a childhood that I would like to compare to that of a possum. I was feral in a round edged and docile way, perpetually barefoot with dirty blonde hair and a stack of dog-eared books under my shoulder. My family camped and gardened, and we frequented the local library. My family showed me early on the value of things that could be accessed without a massive income.

I firmly held onto this as I grew older. I didn’t really have many thoughts of mansions or sports cars.

Instead, I dreamed pretentiously of owning a single floor house in Maine that had an open kitchen plan and overlooked the forest. Part of it was family values and part of it was personality.

My mom likes to tell the story of when I was five and asked the mall Santa for a pair of mittens. I have always been happy with a little life. But it’s odd sometimes — being at the point of needing to provide for myself. I can finally make the decision of what my adult life will look like, and it has dollar signs floating ominously in my eyes.

I’m studying speech language pathology (SLP) right now, and I’m in the first year of Duquesne’s graduate program. I pretty much have a guaranteed job right after graduation. But depending on where I end up, my life may look very different, thanks in big part to the compensation received. SLPs generally make between $50,000 to $85,000 a year, right out of college. It’s a massive range to say the least, and it doesn’t necessarily correlate to the difficulty of the work we’re being paid for. Out of the many fields that I have the option of working in, I’ve really narrowed it down to two. The problem is, they’re almost on the opposite ends of the scale in terms of income.

I’m picturing myself working as a school SLP, with full summers off and guaranteed weekends. I’m at every family gathering with fun stories that make people slightly worried about the state of public education.

Sure, I won’t be paid as well as I should be for the first couple of years, but if I really wanted this I don’t think that would matter.

The lousy part of this would be a caseload of around 70 children that I see weekly, if not daily. I’m in group sessions with up to eight kids at a time, each vying for attention or escape. Most of my day is behavior management and all of the rehabilitative strategies I learned start to boil down to repetitive cues to “tighten your tongue” or “use your popping sound.”

I turn into a babysitter with a fancy title, and I spend my days trying to make a five-minute session between classes have an impact. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids, and growing up can be tough enough without a communication disorder. It’s just that it doesn’t feel like my calling right now. Then again maybe it’s just the low paycheck.

If not that then I’d go to the hospitals. Something about scrubs and pulled back hair genuinely makes me feel so productive that this option tempts me. I like activities that force me to shut down different areas of my brain to focus on an objective, and a medical care facility would definitely do that in my imagination.

I want to work in acute care right now. Although a lot of the focus is on swallowing, I still feel a great deal of variety is offered in the hospital setting. I have a lot of empathy, and the hospital can often feel devoid of emotion on the practitioner’s end. It’s an intense but necessary job that  needs filling. I’d be happy to play a rehabilitative role, and I think I could find it really rewarding if it doesn’t burn me out like a cheap fluorescent light bulb. The possibility of a triple-digit income does tempt me though, as upsetting as that is.

The debate in my head is migraine inducing, and it’s one I don’t think I’m alone in. Everyone says to listen to your gut, but what if my gut’s turning out to be greedy? I want to know the right answer right now, or I’m worried my frontal lobe will blow.

I’m hoping little me wouldn’t be disappointed. I want to be above putting weight behind cash, but every year that feels less and less possible. Maybe I’m not as enlightened and in touch with the universe as my 10-year-old self. I want mittens, but I also want to sleep at night and never worry about bills. It’s just about what that’s going to cost me.

Should I work in a bank in the metaphorical sense? I’m worried that I’ll find out the hard way, after it’s far too late and I’ve already long been warned.

Gwendolyn Sobkowiak can be reached at sobkowiakg@duq.edu