Lucky Week #13 – I arrive on Monday thinking it would just be an ordinary week: three days in my little cubicle, foraging for stories and hoping contacts will finally email me back. When I open my email, I discover we have a meeting at 11:30, so at least I get to hear the lineups for the next couple of issues and hopefully get a blurb or two to write for various editors. I do, in fact, get assigned a “Letter to Self” intro, but I am also asked to videotape at the two photoshoots for the week. I had only attended one photoshoot in my previous twelve weeks at the magazine, so I was definitely eager to be at more, where you meet amazing dancers and get the behind-the-scenes scoop on how a photo spread evolves from the ground up. No matter who was at the photoshoots, I wanted to be there.

Then I find out that we are shooting SYTYCD winner Melanie Moore the next day, so I’ll have to videotape her…oh, bummer. What a drag haha. Melanie is one of the few dancers from the show that I am actually excited to continue following her career and that I am realllllyyyyyy hoping will end up in a professional company rather than just dancing backup for Lady Gaga. That girl can perform and would be perfect for contact improv and modern duets. She told us at the shoot that she is hoping to go back to college to learn how to choreograph. Yes! College is the way to go for that!

Our second photoshoot was in downtown Manhattan, so I figured out how to take the subway down to Wall Street, walked to our shooting site, and met 5 teen dancers extremely excited for our fashion shoot. They all belong to the same competition company, so they are extremely close, know dances to every single pop song out there, and were nervous when I took them in the dressing room for one minute interviews (I’m not intimidating, right?) Needless to say, they made me miss when I belonged to a studio and would go over to the other dancers’ houses after a full day of dancing only to pop in an old recital DVD or turn on music to continue dancing. Also, I am always amazed by our photographers’ abilities to capture the dancers in mid-air at the exact peak of their jump, or when their leg is at its fullest extention. The photos we have to choose from are superb.

Inspired by these young dancers with big dreams, I returned to my studio on Thursday and Friday to take ballet, tap, jazz, and vocal classes. Saturday and Sunday, I could barely walk because my calves were screaming in pain…that’s what I get for not doing petite allegro for three months. Overall, this internship has reaffirmed my love for dance and my determination to pursue a career that encompasses dance in some way, whether performing, choreographing, writing, or teaching. I cannot wait to get back to Conn and into Myers Studio. But I will miss hearing those great New York pickup lines like, “Did you come down the stairs just to be my friend?” Yes, weird Postal Service guy, that was my sole intention.

Today was my last day at the newspaper. It was the last day I would sit at my cubicle, the last day I would type up an article on Fake Word and the last day I would confusedly wander into the photo lab looking for help (or ketchup).

Another chapter has closed, rather abruptly and without much notice (except by me and maybe the understaffed arts section).

I wrote fifteen articles for no pay (forecast: my future), and instead the editors provided me with knowledge, experience, connections and an awkward headshot that I will do my best to keep away from the Voice office.

I began in May as a frightened little intern with a spiral-bound reporter’s notebook and no idea what I was getting myself into. Now, it’s August, and I’ve gone through three notebooks, $300 worth of gas for my car and withdrawals from sleep and sanity. But has it been worth it? Of course.

I had two and a half months of bylines, funny taglines, super interesting and less than super interesting stories to cover. I went to an Irish folk festival and a production of “Spring Awakening” for free. I was asked to ride in a boat during Providence’s hit event WaterFire and write a first-person perspective of the volunteers’ jobs. I wrote a few personal essays, more in the style of my writing. (With sharp or stupid side comments put inside parentheses after a mundane statement to spice it up.)

I’m grateful for my editors’ patience and advice. I now have more friends acquaintances people who might say hi to me if we bumped into each other outside of the office. I even had a fan email me to say “great article” after I wrote the WaterFire narrative and gave me no information about himself whatsoever. Thanks, random reader, for your support.

I’ve met fascinating and talented people on my interviews, which might be one of my favorite things about journalism. You get to interact with remarkable characters and learn about their lives, their careers, their interests. It’s inevitable that you learn new things by talking to strangers for two hours. I now know what gouache paint is, who in my town likes to dress up for Harry Potter premieres and what it’s like to live with a Seeing Eye dog.

I’d like to think I improved my people skills. Having to constantly email, call or hassle people in public for an interview or a quote has really worked toward strengthening how I interact with others. Except for that time I tried to ask someone’s grandpa at an elderly home if he knew what a Kindle was. He didn’t even know what I was saying. So I tried increasing my volume and making buffoon-like hand gestures.

“I’m a reporter at the newspaper (points across the street). I’m writing a story about e-books (points to book). What’s your opinion on the Kindle? (Makes scrolling motion in air with finger).”

The gentleman in question turned to his friend and yelled, “Do you know what she’s saying?”

He shook his head and put his cards down on the table (literally – they were playing Go Fish).

The first man turned back to me and said (I kid you not), “Do you want money?”

I stopped and considered this for a moment, but then decided that stealing money from an old, deaf man might not be the best thing I could do in this situation.

“No, thank you,” I said and then walked out of the elderly home.

Other than that, my dealings with people have run pretty smoothly.

On the down side, I didn’t meet any celebrities – unless you count the accordion player outside a local ice cream shop. I don’t think he’s gone mainstream yet, but his cover of “Michael Row Your Boat” might be on iTunes. And we didn’t so much meet as exchange a smile and awkward nod of approval at my choice of Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup.

Then again, I was covering stories for my local newspaper and our town isn’t really a celebrity stomping ground. Though, fun fact: Bobby Brown was arrested at my high school back in 2007, and this summer, Michael Todd, bassist for Coheed & Cambria, was arrested for robbing a drugstore that I used to frequent. (The band was opening for Soundgarden two towns over.)

So we’re a good place for shady celebrities to commit crimes. That’s pretty sweet.

Ah, I may have lied to you about one little part. While my internship was unpaid, I did receive a check for one assignment because it was freelance and out of state. This was the first piece of writing that I have ever been paid for. I freaked out as I was writing it, thinking it had to be over-the-top-amazing because it would go down in history as “My First Paid Piece.” I went through at least five drafts, highlighting and deleting sections like crazy. Finally, I handed it in to my editor. He didn’t like it. I rewrote it, adding his suggestions. He loved it. Phew. It had a cool photo spread courtesy of one of their staff photographers. I felt awesome.

The thing about being paid for one assignment is you want more. It’s like my scratch ticket addiction. (I do not actually have a gambling problem.) One isn’t enough. Five bucks? What’s that? I want fifty. Ten cards and ten bucks later and you’re losing money rather than making it. Patience, my friend. You will get there one day. For now, I must go back to slaving over pieces for the love, not the money. I guess I can manage that…for now.

So, as I finished editing my last articles, making my last phone calls and thanking the staff for having me, I felt a mix of emotions. Relief at finishing the tasks set before me and at having a few weeks of free time before heading back to Conn (so soon). Fright at the lady who was standing behind the bathroom door as I opened it to leave. (She screamed. I jumped back in horror. We laughed and are now bffls. That last part is another lie.) And sadness at another closed door. (A figurative door this time.)

The walk from my desk down the hallway and out to the parking lot felt longer than usual today. The familiar sights will now be a distant memory – my summer at the newspaper, I’ll think, as I look back on my life years from now. What will I feel then? Will the next generation even know what a newspaper is? Who knows. For now, I’ll just sit back and enjoy my few weeks off because before I know it, we’ll all be back in the Voice office, swapping crazy summer stories and listening to the Biebs (if the EIC has any say over the playlist).

Rock on Camels and see you soon enough,

T-Bo

Facebook is not my homepage. It never will be. For as long as I can remember, so at least a semester, it has been the Opinion section of the New York Times. My first snort of the Opinion crack (that’s not a good metaphor, is it?) came with Gandhi Wuz Robbed, by Maureen Dowd. Dowd painted a caricature of Obama (or “President Paris Hilton”) as D.C.’s new it-boy, turning the Nobel Peace prize into a popularity contest, with a fake phone call between Dubya and Clinton providing the backdrop. ‘This is the New York Times,’ (imagine I said the title in my snooty voice) ‘people are allowed to do that?’ My incredulousness didn’t lie with her fictitious phone-hacking, but that the Times would allow a z in its headline. Incredible.

MoDo got me hooked, and I became a willing disciple of her and the rest of the section, bumping it up to homepage status when I took another Borer class. Dowd is easily the most talked-about columnist, and easily my favorite—and if you read her, you’ll find out why. But the rest are great too, and I read them daily, unless they’re talking about the economy. They, as a collective, are the archetype of a writer—well-rounded, solid audience, many dissenters, a constant paycheck. They’re the some of the most well-respected writers in the world, and they’re my type of guys.

At the start of my Opinion love, there were 11 columnists: Dowd, Gail Collins, Nicholas Kristoff, Bob Herbert, Charles M. Blow, Frank Rich, David Brooks, Roger Cohen, Ross Douthat, Thomas Friedman, and Paul Krugman. The landscape has changed in the past six or seven months, including the departure of Frank Rich to, of all things, a magazine—but it’s mine! Frank Rich is now employed by New York, and he has a cubicle that he’s never at. Our shared tenure at the magazine, however—his first day was my first day, although I wasn’t greeted with a bouquet of flowers, but it’s fine—has resulted in a strong, long-lasting friendship of Person Who is Too Important to Be in the Office and Intern Who Checks His Voicemail. Four times a week, Frank Rich and I email back and forth about the copies of TIME and Fortune he has on his desk and phone calls I return for him. Once, an excited man who thought he had a story for Frich, as I lovingly call him (on my notepad), CC-ed me on an email full of documents. Silly man, I’m just an intern! Frich is super nice, though. We talk about the weather sometimes. I’ve never met him in person.

My other NYT columnist run in has been with none other than Charles M. Blow, Remaining Black Guy and the clear winner in Best Picture. Our friendship first flourished when we got into a Twitter argument over the use of the word ‘very,’ (he was for it; I’m vehemently against), tweets of which I am printing out and including as a job reference. Then, walking from the G train, I spotted a familiar face. “KELLZ,” I stage whispered. “I think that’s the guy from the New York Times!” She looked. “Where?” “AHH DON’T LOOK.” I tweeted instead: “May have seen Charles M. Blow and/or a random black guy.” It was him.

Last Friday, I was sitting at my favorite place in the world, Madiba, the South African restaurant around the corner from my apartment, when Charles M. Blow tweeted a complaint about the heat in Madiba. I yelped. I tweeted back: “I officially see @CharlesMBlow everywhere. Sup madiba” He responded with some song lyrics, which was weird. But still. A real, live, possibly underpaid writer was sitting feet from me. I ushered my party outside so I could find him, create a connection, pass on some of my writing, get some advice, ask for a reference—the writing world was mine. But I got too scared and just stared at him for an hour before he got up and drove away in his Mercedes. He’s skinnier than I thought.

My roommates and I are embroiled in a celebrity sighting contest: the tallies were once drawn in chalk on our living room wall, but we couldn’t wash it off and had to paint over it and you can still see it a little, so it’s mental now. Sadly, Meaghan works in Brooklyn, so she’s practically out; but I count my NYT sightings to be equal with Rachel’s of Shia LeBouf and Tyrese in Bryant Park, if not more, because, really, Tyrese? With every tweet and voicemail and random restaurant in Brooklyn, I’ve encountered more examples, more ‘celebrities,’ more real-life writers than I would’ve imagined. It’s corny, but it’s true, and it’s supremely exciting. Also, I got published in the magazine, which I suppose makes me a real writer too. Summer is almost over, my sublet will soon expire, and the paper is mine again, for real this time. Life is moving pretty fast, and I’m trying to stop and look around before I miss it. Chik, chik chik chickahhhh.

ADDENDUM: After posting this, I go to Frich’s desk to check his mail before I leave.  There’s someone sitting there, which is not out of the norm, since writers will take his spot if their computers are on the fritz. I lean over the guy and say, “I just need to grab something– WOW, YOU’RE FRANK RICH!” We shook hands and had a lovely conversation and he’s heard “good things about Conn College.” He had very warm hands.

And usually those kinds of conversations are pretty harmless – a comment about how crowded it is, something about the unpleasant smell that comes from having so many people crammed into a small space, or will this connect to the red line? But the T conversation that continues to stay with me was one I overheard, and it wasn’t so harmless.

Picture a male, about 20-25 years in age, standing next to another male around the same age. The first male turns to the second and in what could have been considered a friendly manner, asks: “?de donde eres?” The first male, who is Caucasian, has made the assumption that the man next to him must speak Spanishand isn’t originally from the US because of his skin color. His assumption is entirely wrong, as the man responds in perfect Standard English with: “excuse me? I don’t speak Spanish, I’m Arabic” and turns his back to him.

This simple exchange of words, 11 to be exact, holds a significant amount of meaning. Whether or not he is conscious of the implications his words have, the Caucasian male was following in the footsteps of every storeowner who has ever watched a customer more closely than others for fear of theft and every person who has assumed someone is an employee even if he isn’t wearing a uniform – just because of skin color.

I then thought of my job. For many applications (food stamps, housing, cash assistance, etc.), the person must give his or her ethnicity and race. As this is self-reported, the creators of these forms might think that those two questions are easy to answer. But refugees and asylees often times come from countries with different definitions of race, or none at all. My conversations with IIB’s clients regarding race can get confusing and I am sometimes left checking off the box with what others would classify the client as being.

And through all of this I realize, unlike the Caucasian male on the T that day, I understand the implications of what he said and the issues that come with placing people in categorical boxes, thanks to every sociology class I have ever taken at Connecticut College…. Bringing my educational experiences to Boston without knowing it…? Maybe I am ready for the real world.

Now if only my newfound T skills could translate back to CC. Perhaps I could start a new surfing club on campus with my awesome ability to balance myself in a moving subway…? I could ask that guy who is always balancing an open book, a cup of coffee, and talking on his cellphone to be the coach… but I can’t bring myself to be one of those strangers who strikes up random conversations.

The past couple of weeks of my Dance Spirit internship have proved a turning point. I have two feature articles now on their way to being published, a better understanding of what is expected of me everyday, and an appreciation for editors who make writing articles that appeal to teens look like a breeze. After  three years of attempting to create college-level essays, I find it difficult to entertain readers and give them valuable information in a simplistic manner. After staring at articles for hours on end, they start to look like, “Pat can run. Pat can swim. Pat likes dogs.” Dance magazine writing and official science writing are at exact opposite ends of the spectrum, and I imagine that by the time I head back to Conn in 6 weeks, I will have the urge to insert “fun”, “exciting”, and “extraordinary” into my lab reports, to the aggravation of my chemistry professors.

After talking to the various editors around the office, you have to love your job to be here. Oh, and be good at it, obviously. Our editors are often working on multiple publications, so they have to stay organized, efficient, and be willing to work well past 5. As an intern, you have the awkward feeling of wanting to help out and stay busy while also not wanting to bother your editors, who always look like they’re deep in thought on a project. Any way that you can find work on your own, you do it, which usually means spending the majority of your afternoon trying to find interesting tidbits to put in various sections of upcoming magazines. Patience, grasshopper.

NYC is now becoming a bit more familiar and less intimidating, although I am in NO WAY an expert, after trying to meet a friend outside of Penn Station and being told that all New Yorkers consider 7th and 34th to be Penn, not the actual 7th avenue entrance. Fail. But I do get asked for directions while I’m waiting for my train in Penn, so I at least appear knowledgeable to those only visiting the city for a few days. Tips for taking the train in the summer – bring a sweater, it’s freezing!

Fingers crossed that I get to attend the cover shoot with the SYTYCD winner in August…

If you looked at that castle and guessed that it was Neuschwanstein, you‘re right.  The man in the picture is Ludwig II of Bavaria, better known to the English-speaking world as „Mad King Ludwig“, a 19th Century Style european playboy of the highest caliber, who spent the entire Bavarian treasury putting on grand fairs, cultural events, the plays of his good friend Richard Wagner, and, perhaps most famously building the castle upon which Walt Disney based his works.  German history professors and tour guides, I have learned, particularly hate him because he made entire generations of American children grow up thinking that medieval castles actually looked like Neuschwanstein.  In reality, the castle was built in the late 19th century.

Actually it was never finished, but despite this, it is still one of the single top tourist attractions for Americans visiting Germany, and one of the most visited sites in the country.  And this brings me to my point.  Bavaria is not like other parts of Germany, as some may have noticed from reading my first post.  Therefore, DO NOT READ THIS BLOG AND EXPECT TO LEARN WHAT GERMANY IS ACTUALLY LIKE.

I should qualify that statement actually- because I am going to try to talk about the daily life and things that aren‘t plastered all over the tourist routes and guide books, because you could just read one of those.  However, if you‘re planning on going to Munich and only visit the tourist sites, do not expect to see the real Germany.  Thats not because it isn‘t in Munich (in general germans live here like they live anywhere else), but because, due to the huge numbers of tourists arriving every year, the Münchners have become extremely proficient at marketing the ridiculous, lederhosen/dirndl clad, Maß-beer drinking tourist Munich, which exists in all of its kitschy-glory right alongside the daily-life Munich.

Which leads me back to Neuschwanschtein.  I didn‘t like it.  For two reasons.  One, it was incredibly short tour, and as a history buff I usually like having time to see little details if I want to.   When you arrive you are segregated into huge groups by language by means of a series of polished steel barricades vaguely reminiscent of the stockyard of a slaughterhouse.  I was visiting with a group of students from my Study Abroad program, and so we were herded into a very large group of about 50 Germans.  Groups left at precisely scheduled 5 minute intervals, and once inside we were herded through the entire castle in about 30 minutes.  We went by literally bejewelled ceilings and huge murals of scenes from Wagner‘s operas at a speed that almost blurred them.  The bored guide gave us a few choice sentences of history as we sped past.  We spent maybe a minute in Ludwig‘s bed chamber, possibly the most ornate room of them all, with private chapel, bath with the first working toilet in Germany, and a bed made of over a thousand individual, tiny, carved, wood castle towers.  Then we were allowed as much time as we wanted to buy over-priced post cards and knickknacks in one of three different gift shops on the way down through the unfinished part of the castle.

At the risk of complaining even more, I will simply say, that of all of the amazing things there are to do and see in Europe, I am saddened that this is among the most popular, especially as it is so obviously a romanticized reproduction of something much older.  Definitely go see it if you visit here, but please don‘t make it the highlight of your stay.

After reading my lovely rant, here are some words about my daily life.  I wake up early in the morning, and go to your average, 9-5 internship.  As an intern I am basically a mixture of research assistant, and anything else they need me to be.  This means that, while I spend most of my time reading and collecting research material from archives, 40 year old newspapers, etc, I also do translation and bibliography work for english language publications.  I was not aware of how bad my own knowledge of the English language was with regard to specific grammar rules until I started translating.

Doing such research is interesting and boring at the same time.  My office‘s research topic, German responses to terrorism, makes everything a really interesting read.  Unfortunately, I do not get to simply read everything at my leisure, most of what I do involves extracting specific things from the texts and putting them in endless tables with all sorts of data for further reference.   After three weeks, I already know that this is not what I want to do for the rest of my life.

Thats not to say that work is not good, its actually pretty awesome.  At the end of my first week of work I got to sit in on a conference about the Weimar Republic, probably one of the most interesting and misunderstood periods in German history.   After each presentation, the other 20 experts sitting at the round table proceeded to tear the presenters work apart with constructive (and not so constructive) criticism.  I definitely do not want to present at German academic conferences!

Not to self.  Actually get these things published more regularly!

On July 5th, True Colors started a 6-week summer program called “Queer Academy.”  It was I who came up with the name.  Basically, Queer Academy is a series of activities Monday-Friday for the mentees in the program.  The main goal or desire outcome for this program is to teach these LGBT youth, who mainly come from foster care and group homes, basic job skills.  Half of the mentees participating in Queer Academy are actually between the ages of 19 and 21, but because of their lack of work experience while in foster care, they do not have job skills or anything else to write resumes and references pages.

On Mondays, we spend two-three hours at a community garden.  After gardening we have “community engay-gement” where we go somewhere in Hartford.  Our first trip was to the library so that the mentees could obtain library cards and register to vote.  Next week, we will go to the park and play games.

On Tuesdays, we have “Tuesdays at the Movies” and we watch one movie with queer/gay themes.  For example, next week we will watch “Paris is Burning” and learn about and discuss the drag ball culture.  After the movie, we have Activities Committee where we help the Group Activity Coordinator, Alison Berk, plan mentoring activities.

Finally on Wednesdays, we have “True Voices Live” in the morning, our own TV show on the Hartford Public Access channel.  This show is awesome for the mentees, as they are trained in every role of television production.  One of the mentees is even applying for a job at the Hartford Public Access, using this show as work experience.  After the show, we have “Pride Group” in which we as a group meet with a prominent LGBT activist in Connecticut and interview them about their life story.  So far, we have interviewed Florette King, who is the director of UCONN’s Rainbow Center.

Queer Academy is really fun in that as an intern, I can engage in direct work with the youth, being able to teach them about LGBT culture and history.  It is also fun and rewarding to plan the Tuesdays at the Movies syllabus and the Pride Group Syllabus.  The only challenge is being the ‘adult’ or ‘instructor’ when half of the ‘youth’ are my age.  The others are between the age of 17 and 20, so barely younger than I am.  The age conflict makes it difficult for the mentees to respect me or my lessons.  Nevertheless, I am establishing really nice relationships with everyone and Queer Academy is already becoming a summer success!

My 'home far away from home,' Brighton, England.

I made a list of six places that I have called ‘home’ in my life, starting with my hometown, where I have lived since birth. I’m a “right outside of Boston” kid and, I have to say, living eight miles north of the city, to be exact, is a pretty great thing. I count Boston as a second sort of ‘home,’ despite never actually living in the city, because I’ve been there way more times than I can count, can navigate the T with ease, and miss it when I’m away. I think having a deep knowledge of a place and an emotional connection to it are essential factors towards calling said place a home.

My third ‘home’ is in Aroostook County, Maine. Yes, the largest county east of the Mississippi and the one that has proposed splitting off into its own state since the ‘90s. I have been taking the eight-hour trip up to my grandparents’ cottage on Madawaska Lake since I was a baby. It is a place of family, relaxation and quiet. My fourth ‘home’ is, of course, New London, CT. My home for the “best four years of my life.” Connecticut College is actually more of a home to me than the city itself, though Captain Scott’s Lobster Dock may just fit all the criteria of a home for me. Good food, good memories, and a prime waterside view. Brighton, England, where I spent last fall semester abroad, is definitely my ‘home.’ I met some of the greatest people there and had an entirely new experience in a fantastic place. I still miss it everyday and would love to be able to go back and visit someday.

“Does this bus stop near the movie theater?” “You mean the American Apparel that just looks like a movie theater? Yeah, it does!” Typical Brooklyn.

And finally, Brooklyn, NY. I have to admit, I never really loved New York City every time I visited in the past. I don’t really know why, but it seemed much too cold and busy for me. It still can be a bit cold and busy, but I really do love NYC now that I’ve lived here for a month and a half. I can navigate the subway system with relative ease, which is saying something when the MTA is biased against Brooklyn. I also know my bus route to and from work particularly well. When a woman asked me if the bus would be stopping at a particular stop, I felt great when I knew the answer. We’ve got a good thing going here in our apartment, as well. Taking out the trash and doing the dishes often turn into screaming matches, but we only scream with love. Similarly, we complain about living in Brooklyn quite often, but really, we love it here. I would certainly consider it a home. Plus, I’m paying bills to live here. Like, internet and electricity. It’s a big deal. This must be what real life is like.

As for my internship, I am definitely acclimating at work, as well. Past ‘jobs’ have included: cashier at Au Bon Pain for 3+ years, education intern at the Lyman Allyn Art Museum, and coordinator at the LGBTQ Center on campus. Those jobs have all had their ups and downs, just like this one. Sometimes, I have to do typical intern tasks. Today, I went into Manhattan to see a woman on the 12th floor about some tea bags (don’t ask; I sure didn’t) and buy roach traps. I’ve only had to do the expected coffee run a few times. More often, my boss runs out to Starbucks and picks one up for me…for free. Most of the work I’ve done so far has been heavily research-oriented. I’ve done research for our educator (reviewing study guides, fact-checking), our director and editor (finding up-to-date coverage of the situation in Sudan for use in the film, fact-checking), and our animator (locating images of doors at a straight-on angle, close ups of windows with snow on them, not fact-checking). It’s exciting stuff.

'Perseverance leads to payoff'...unless you're Rover.

But, really. The other day, I located a cable from an archive in Budapest that we had started looking for over a year ago. I was like, “Hey, did you check this box?” and BOOM!, there it was. I’ve also seen the images I have found for our animator become translated into animations for the film. Awesome stuff. Perseverance leads to payoff. Besides those minor (I would say major, but it’s all relative) victories, I’ve started to also feel like I actually belong where I work. We’ve started having lunches together with the entire staff (there’s five of us, but still). I’m trusted to do big tasks. Today, my boss gave me all the information that we plan to put on our website, told me to organize it, and gave me free reign to come up with creative ideas to make it the best website ever. We’re even getting a new intern next week! And, I’m sort of in charge of her! We’ll be working together on generating website content, including going through raw footage and editing it to be included as bonus content online. I’m rambling, but I’m excited. Basically, what it comes down to is that I feel like I belong here, both in the city and in my internship. I’m a Boston girl who is falling for New York. Never the Yankees, though. I’m not a total traitor.

Go Sox!

Meaghan

Even though I’ve been an intern here since the end of May, I’ve finally entered the big boy’s league and I get to have my picture next to my byline.

It’s pretty cool.

What’s not cool is that I’ve been sick for a week, and I’m not the most photogenic person as is. (Fourth grade school picture: Harry Potter. That’s all I’m saying.) I walked into the photo lab and asked the nice photographer if I could have my picture taken. He directed me to a small room with huge lights and cameras, a big gray screen and ketchup and mustard bottles sitting on the ground. (Secret lunchroom? I didn’t question it.)

Instead, I sat down on a stool, leaned to the left and cocked my head (which is the perfect position for headshots).

Then he asked if I was ready. I was not, but I said “sure.”

I hope my hair looks okay…but it’s too late for that.*

And then I learned an important lesson. Life’s going to throw a bunch of unexpected things your way and you’re going to have to deal with them, ready or not, head congested or nasal passages in perfect working order.

I’ve been pretty low-functioning all week and not really on my A-game. I’m a little cranky and I know I’ve been taking things too personally. I feel like I’m letting people down, but in actuality, I’m probably the only person I’m letting down. Prescription: sleep more and chill out.

I know, it sounds obvious, but it’s a concept I can’t seem to grasp. I keep working, working, working. My hands and brain won’t let me stop writing. (Case in point, I’m at the office writing this right now before I move on and work on another piece for the paper.)

I feel like if I stop writing, well…I guess nothing will happen. I suppose I could take a break and pick back up where I left off in a week or two and everything would still be happy-merry-sunshiny.

But since I’m already writing, I’ll tell you what else I’ve learned today.

Interning at a newspaper has taught me some things about editors. They’re really helpful. And some things about writers. They sometimes take things personally when their writing is butchered, which is also what happened today.

I started a piece with a vision. I was excited about it. I saw gathering information and interviewing sources as an adventure.

And then things got hard. (Cue audio clip of angsty teenager complaining about how unfair life is.)

Sources weren’t as helpful as I had assumed they would be. I grew frustrated, then distracted, then I lost my vision. I threw together what information I had gathered and handed in the piece. Some part of me knew it wasn’t what I wanted it to be. My editor also knew this wasn’t what he wanted it to be.

He reminded me of my original vision, of the piece I had set out in search of. It had a much more interesting angle than the piece I was staring at on my computer screen. Ultimate decision: I would delete the piece and start again.

Part of me wanted to cry because all my previous efforts were proven futile. But part of me was relieved that I would have a chance to redeem myself and this piece.

I didn’t see this coming a few weeks ago. I’ve never had to highlight and erase 90 percent of an article and start again. But there’s a first time for everything. It’s a learning experience, right?

My high school didn’t have a school newspaper that was an after-school, extracurricular activity. Instead, it offered a journalism class each semester where three levels of students (one, two and independent) worked together to create a newspaper every few months.

This is where my journalistic endeavors began.

I was an editor all three years, and I’ve had to edit some pretty rough pieces. I’ve seen the eye-rolls and the groans of frustration (80 percent caused by normal teenage angst, 20 percent by the edits and suggestions I made). I’ve had to hand a kid his piece back with more red pen marks than typed words and say, “It’s really good. No, really, but you just need to rework it.”

And I was serious. It had potential. It just wasn’t up to par at the moment.

It’s frustrating when you’re the one receiving feedback on your writing. Writers are usually reluctant to hand in a piece until they are sure it’s something that they’re proud of. So when they’re told it’s good but not great or that the angle is all wrong, it doesn’t produce a warm fuzzy feeling.

To have been in both positions, to be an editor and a writer, makes it more understandable and softens the blow. Does it still suck when someone suggests major changes to a piece you’ve worked really hard on? Of course it does. But should you be personally offended? Not at all.

Editors are there to help you improve. They don’t want to insult you by suggesting changes. On the contrary, they want to see you produce the best piece you’re capable of writing. (And yeah, okay, they want great stories for the publication, but that’s not the point.)

It’s necessary to the craft to have an outside opinion, many outside opinions, in fact. Editors catch the mistakes you made, the holes in your argument. And if they’re not interested in what you’ve written, chances are readers won’t be either.

I’ve realized all this today. Instead of drowning myself in self-pity after a failed attempt, I thought back to those times in high school when I had to be the “bad guy” and had only good, sincere intentions. I acknowledged defeat, accepted the suggestions and promised to rewrite the piece, making it better and more relevant.

I guess that perspective is the moral of this story. That and always look in the mirror before you have your picture taken.

Oh, and when correcting someone’s work, never use red pen. Purple is a much friendlier color.

Going to take a much-needed chillaxing break,
T-Bo

*I got a preview of the picture. My hair looks fine but my (fake) smile could use some work. I blame the cold.

But honestly someone might have to drag me away from my internship at the end of August. I was rather hesitant about this summer, as I have spent the past two summers on campus working in the Admissions office. Go ahead; call me crazy or madly obsessed with Connecticut College… I’m both.

So this summer was all about change: living in an apartment, having to cook meals instead of food just magically appearing on my plate in Harris, dealing with rush hour on the subway, and a job in the middle of Boston with a Starbucks and Staples on every corner (problem: if paying rent didn’t make me poor, those two places will).

I am the Intake and Resource Clinic intern at the International Institute of Boston (IIB). A bit of a fancy title but it works. Essentially, I work with refugees and asylees. Depending on the client’s needs, I perform interviews with new clients/walk-ins, serve as a referral source for social service needs, accompany clients to various appointments, provide crisis assessment and intervention, and provide case management services to asylees, victims of domestic violence, and victims of human trafficking.

It went from a “10-4pm with a one-hour lunch job” to a “I want to get to work early, leave late, and oh, it’s already 6pm and I haven’t had lunch?” kind of job.

The first day was the typical orientation stuff: meet everyone in the entire building and pretend to remember their names, sign ten dozen different papers promising confidentiality and acknowledging that sexual harassment is not appropriate (I might have signed my life away, there was a lot of fine print), and sit awkwardly pretending that I belong in the office and know what I’m doing because I’m wearing my newly purchased “office appropriate” clothing.

My first week was spent learning the tricks of the trade: how to use the different databases, remembering who is eligible for what services, and my favorite (which I’ll never master unless I somehow wake up one day with a photographic memory), keeping track of what paperwork is used for what social service and where it has to be sent. My computer is covered in notes with scrawled instructions on how to do what when. By the time August rolls around, Staples will probably just give me a lifetime supply of post-it notes out of pity.

After a week of pretending to know what I was doing with the help of my supervisor, I was left to my own devices. So basically, I continued to pretend that I knew what I was doing. My supervisor had made the mistake of telling me that she liked questions, and so I took advantage. Being only an office door away, I would help a client as much as I could by myself and then run over to her office with 80 different questions.

About five weeks later, and I’m proud to say that I have been able to reduce the 80 questions to about 8… Every day is different. Most days there are scheduled appointments. These are nice, because I know what to expect, or at least some background information on the person. I have time to practice pronouncing the person’s name so I don’t make a fool of myself in the waiting room and I can prepare paperwork ahead of time.

We also get a lot of walk-ins. Today for instance, there were only two scheduled appointments. According to the calendar, it should have been a slow and quiet day. But by the time I finally had a chance to look at a clock, I realized it was already time to leave the office for the night.

My duties vary day to day… some are spent filling out applications with clients for healthcare, housing, food stamps, employment authorization, and job applications. Others are spent staying on hold with the Department of Transitional Assistance for hours while getting increasingly angry because all I want to do is find out why my client has not received his food stamps yet and the elevator-music playing in my ear isn’t even elevator worthy. The lack of people to answer the phones and the risk of being transferred 4 times until my call has been sent outside the DTA office is high. And all I have to take my anger out on is the phone.

It’s been a bit of an emotional roller coaster… Being forced to stay on hold for eternity is, in actuality not that bad. I’ve worked with victims of domestic violence, I’ve listened to clients’ stories of why their lives were at risk in their home countries, of the struggles to put food on the table and to find a place to sleep for the night.

Refugees and asylees come to the United States because their home countries are no longer safe to live in.  And then they arrive to the United States and many of them are left to their own devices. Literally starting anew, there are many unknowns. Having to learn another language, finding a job, a place to stay, childcare, school, and medical care, among many, many other things. Though refugees and asylees are eligible for social service assistance, it can be difficult to understand the system. Immigrants who are legal permanent residents must be in the country for five years before they are eligible for such services, despite also starting over.

As an intern at IIB I’m able to act as an advocate for immigrants. Though some days can be frustrating as I’m not able to help someone as much as I’d like to, my 21 days at IIB have been a rewarding experience – one that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

In an attempt to not end on a sappy, someone find the box of tissues note, I shall leave you with this:

It’s good to know that every aspect of Connecticut College has prepared me for the real world. Even the social life of CC. Oh yeah, that’s right, 3 years of navigating through those quality, sweaty Cro dances filled with far too many people all up in each other’s body parts has thoroughly prepared me for the subway trains filled with far too many people all up in each other’s body parts.