INTERNSHIP 5: A Routine is Born

Or, The Self Indulgent Part you would probably skim in my autobiography where I record the minute details of my daily life that I will revel in reading in later years and will bore you to tears presently (You may skip this entry).

Most week days from June 18-July 3^rd, 2009

My first few weeks at Streetwise were spent in easy rhythm. While I love to explore and love adventure, there is a wonderful feeling to establishing a routine—especially one that makes you excited to get up every day.  I’d get up at six and pound along the lakeside, then loop behind the museum, through the ivied University of Chicago campus, then up shady residential streets back to Blackstone. A shower, the making of tea, the spreading of peanut butter on a banana, the frantic reading of as many news stories as I could fit in before I inevitably ran for the bus, clutching my pink mug, spilling hot tea and banging my laptop painfully against my hip. Sometimes I’d run, and just barely catch it. Sometimes I’d run and then wait for what seemed like hours and once was upward of twenty-five minutes. I used to question each bus driver—is their a scheduled time you come to this stop? No, was the general consensus.

The bus was usually pretty full and demographically consisted of entirely African-American passengers and me and maybe one other white person (usually a weird looking University of Chicago student or one of my fellow classmates at the Chicago Center headed to their respective internships.) At the 51^st Street Greenline stop, I’d hop off and ride the shaky escalator up to the platform.

I soon learned to stand pretty far down on the platform, because trains are shorter than you might think and I’d have to run for the very last car. There was another reason too—my first few days, I’d run to the last door of the car and it would open to reveal an emerging man-- a mountain of a man, slobbery and strange looking, in an electric wheelchair. He would rant loudly as he bumped onto the platform, looking like he might pitch forward and be left beached on the platform. I’d watch, breathless, hoping he wouldn’t fall until it got too disturbing for me. I haven’t seen him since, but then again, I make sure to stand farther up to platform. It may be a cruel choice but I was too disturbed by his angry talk and precarious bulk.

The ride is always smooth and lovely. I read my book—Always Running by Luis Rodriguez (a tale of barrio gang life in LA), The Autobiography of Malcolm X or Dreams of My Father by Barack Obama. Each one of those touches Chicago in a major way and in haunting prose helps me to understand my surroundings. My train passes Bronzeville—which is Chicago’s own version of the Harlem of New York and birthed and nutured such figures as Gwendolyn Brooks. I then enter the loop; tall buildings springing up on either side of me. The tea is finished, banana is consumed and I have moved on to scrawling in my journal when the train pulls into Ashland.

As I hop off onto the platform, I call my mom (it’s routine) and chat with her as I walk the four blocks, once sketchy which have now become familiar. I pass a park often filled with yelling children enrolled in summer sport’s camps, then enter a desolate stretch of warehouses populated by a strange assortment of people. I see dogs bathing in a pool in a dog daycare. I see the occasional business professional. I see a place to buy wholesale meats and outside of it is a truck where a Chicano couple sell breakfast to the workers there. Our conversations are often interrupted by a speeding train going over head. I have learned to keep talking

Soon, I arrive at the StreetWise Office (or warehouse), give my mom love, and buzz to be let in. 

INTERNSHIP 4: On the Beat at StreetWise

Working at StreetWise equals fulfillment of my own idiosyncratic dream: I am their immigration beat reporter. My editor let me develop my own series on homeless immigrants and the stories that I am writing now will become cover issues in the next month. Everything is self-initiated; I can call whomever, go wherever. I have the freedom to research and really know my topics and the freedom to travel the city and interview people from all different organizations and walks of life I have the press pass of being with an actual magazine. I only have to check-in occasionally with my editor. I have utter support from my editor and my co-workers and StreetWise is a base of incredible knowledgeable people from which to work.

I spend most of my time in pursuit of the stories I am writing, but when I am not doing that, I am taking the amazing assignments and opportunities handed to me by my editor. My third day, my editor had me connected to a phone conference with national advocates from immigration reform. I researched each participant beforehand and took frantic and voracious notes as I listened to them speak. After they spoke, the floor was opened for questions. The first question came from a reporter from NPR. I couldn’t believe it: I was in the same phone conference as NPR. The story I wrote about Obama’s meeting on immigration reform was spiced with quotes from these experts and was turned in the next day, for publication in the issue going to print early the next week. 

And my stories, oh my stories. I have traveled the city, uncovering truths and hearing people’s stories. I am writing about what happens to the homeless in the three largest immigrant communities in Chicago—Mexican (Chicago is the third largest Mexican city after Mexico City and LA), Polish and Indian. The more I discover, the more important these stories seem to me.

Yes, she trails off… it is a dream come true. And now that you all have the basics of what I am doing down, I can start describing the experiences I have had there. 

INTERNSHIP 3: Interview #3, In These Times

It had been roughly thirty seconds since the confirmation call from StreetWise to say that I would indeed be their intern and my phone rang.

Chicago number.

Hello? I said.

This is Joel Bleifuss, editor of In These Times, said the deep voice at the other end.

In These Times had been my number one place to intern. I had discovered this publication when first looking at Chicago internship sites back in February. I had been wowed immediately by their all star staff—Barbara Ehrenreich, my personal hero and author of the book Nickel and Dimed, all about minimum wage jobs in America, had started out writing for them. In These Times was Kurt Vonnegut’s favorite magazine. And the articles? Wow. Cleverly and articulately written, they were all about the issues in the world and in this country that I care most about—politics, injustice and the human casualties of it all.

When I had arrived in Chicago and contacted them, Mr. Bleifuss had apologetically told me that they already had enough interns for the summer and they wouldn’t be needing me. I was devastated. I e-mailed him my resume, all the same: Just in case, I said.

And now, it was Mr. Bleifuss on the other end. One of our interns had to leave, he said. Would you like the position?

I was shocked. This was not just an offer for an interview. This was an offer of a position at my dream internship. And literally thirty seconds before, I had accepted at StreetWise. My initial response was to thank him, but to explain the situation. I expressed regret, he sounded sad. I hung up.

I started to pace. Had I really just hung up on In These Times? I called the Chicago Center and asked for their advice. See if you can interview there all the same, Althea said, Go check it out.

I called Mr. Bleifuss back. When are you free? I asked. Can we talk possibilities?

Anytime today, he said.

I hung up, rushed to get ready, looked up directions and I was off.

*

When I arrived at the site, I called my journalism advisor at KU before I went in. I also called my mom. I agreed to call them back after I had interviewed.

I entered the dusty hallway sandwiched next to a discount clothing store. I almost missed it, except for the peeling letters that said In This Times on the glass door. Surrounding me were large cardboard boxes, stuffed with copies of the magazine. Up until now, I had only seen it online. Now, I saw the beautiful copies in person. They were wonderful, so much prettier than StreetWise, I thought wistfully, flipping through one.

I climbed up the rickety stairs and entered a space just like how I imagined it would be. Shelves were stacked with books I lusted after: alternative titles, journalistic accounts of injustice and human rights cases. Other shelves held copy after copy of the magazine. Someone’s bike was parked in the corner. Incredible posters of past events and local art shows graced the walls. I wandered the sunlit corridor until I stumbled upon Mr. Bleifuss’ office.

Mr. Bleifuss is an academic, a former reader from Colombia, Missouri, where he was a sociology professor. He became editor several years ago. He spoke with a slight lisp and seemed eager for me to start as soon as possible, barely skimming the resume and work samples I handed him.

He spoke of the magazine’s projects—a companion magazine about immigration and worker’s rights in Spanish (my eyes lit up—I’m your girl, I think I said—exactly what I said at StreetWise.)  He spoke about the other interns—assembled from the best schools in the nation. I was a little awed to be counted among them.

But, all the same, I had a little bit of a sinking feeling. I wanted so much to intern here; to be amongst the other hotshot interns and to have In These Times glowing on my resume. But at the same time, the more I talked to him, the more I realized that the kind of work I would be doing, while it would be for an exciting magazine, would not be inherently exciting. I’d be reviewing books occasionally, but mostly, I’d be proof reading the work of others. I’d be expected to blog a little, but I doubted very much that anyone would read it. Even Mr. Bleifuss himself seemed to only be including the blog component to keep up with these modern times, he even said he didn’t care much for it.

When I talked to another intern, she confirmed this thought.

I wandered away, shocked at the feelings that were swirling in my stomach. I had been offered my dream internship and my heart told me to take the one at a low-budget street paper instead.

*

I had the weekend to decide. I flirted with doing both for awhile—one day a week at In These Times, just to be in that climate and to get the name on my resume. But in my heart, I knew that wasn’t the ticket. I had a learned a hard lesson about overbooking myself last semester and I didn’t want to let anyone down again. I needed to throw myself into whatever internship I decided to do. Philipp, my room mate, counseled me to do the same, pointing out that if anyone asked, I would have to explain how little time I spent at each site.

And so, Monday morning, I called Joel Bleifuss at In These Times and my friend Gabriel Piemonte at The Hyde Park Herald. I left messages and penned a e-mail to each. I’d be going with StreetWise, I said, but it was a hard decision. Neither of them ever got back to me and I don’t really blame them. One little intern who says no isn’t that important in the long run to the running of a magazine. I am sure they were each a little bit miffed and each very busy.

And soon, I’d be busy myself. Because I had just made one of the best decisions of my life. 

Internship: Interview 1

All signs said no when I left Blackstone for my first interview. It was starting to rain and you could practically see steam rising from me I was so upset. I had spoken to my top three internship sites earlier that morning and each one had told me they were full up to their quota of interns-- paid or unpaid. Most let me know I was late in asking, which was the most frustrating part because I had been advised by the staff at the Chicago center to wait until now to contact anyone. 

The storm clouds were as dark as my mood and flustered, I had left the house with neither coat nor umbrella. I stood at the bus stop in heels and dress, ranting my woes to my sympathetic mom. The phone was getting poor reception and I had to practically shout to make myself heard over the rowdy crowd of high schoolers. Just then, something other than raindrops fell from the sky. Bird shit, landing squarely on my bag. 

Just then, the bus pulled up and I jostled on amongst the high schoolers. Plopping into a seat, I found a wet wipe and began furiously scrubbing the white smear off of the black bag. A sinking thought invaded my inner dialogue-- was it on my back, too? I looked around the bus. Well, I concluded grimly, at least I'll make some kids laugh.

"'Scuse me," I said, tapping the shoulder of the nearest fifteen-year-old. "Do I have bird shit on my back?" 

"Nah, nah," he managed before exploding into laughter.

Things Can't Get Worse

At the train station, rain began to fall in sheets. As the rain fell, I decided just to enjoy my luck. I mean, it'd make a good story, right?

The train ride was uneventful, until I descended at my stop. Could this be real? I wondered. A man leered at me as I maneuvered the steep metal stairs in my retro heels. I was in what looked like an industrial wasteland. But the intersection seemed right. I walked along under the El tracks. I was in a meat packing district and it was mostly abandoned-- except for 25 dogs who charged at me from behind a fence. Luckily, the motley crew then bedan to wag tails and I saw a swimming pool, reassuring me that it was a doggy daycare and not a training facility for killers. It was still raining and my delicate sweater and curled hair were damp and lank. Finally, on a warehouse not unlike the others I walked past, I saw a sign for Streetwise. I rang the bell. Here goes nothing, I thought. 

The Clouds Dissipate

From the second a smiling man welcomed me in, things took a dramatically different course. I was ushered into the office of Ben Cook. He had originally interned with Streetwise as a student in the Chicago Center program. Now, he had a full time position there.

Ben had brown eyes and a friendly manner. We got to talking and soon learned that the Chicago Center was far from our only connection. We had the same home state and when I confessed my rejections from the other sites, he nodded. "That was me, too," he said. "I wanted to work at In These Times."

That had been my No. 1 choice, too. 

After chatting with Ben, I felt considerably better. Flipping through old issues of Streetwise, I thought about how similar Ben and I were. If he had liked the internship so much that he had accepted a job here, it could be great for me, too. I began to absorb my rather unconventional setting. The office was wide and spacious, constructed by thin walls and dividers set up in the open space of the warehouse. The mixed crowd reflected the paper's mission. While Streetwise has a professional staff, its vendors are homeless or those at risk of being homeless. There was a vendor's meeting going on in a big room next door, so while half of the people I saw looked like typical office staff, dressed up in business casual, the other kind were (literally) off of the streets. 

I continued flipping through the magazine with a rather critical eye until my editor burst in. Her huge, circular glasses and frizzy hair gave her a kooky, unkempt appearance. She started chatting right away and I couldn't deny she was friendly, even if I wasn't exactly sure what she was saying. I nodded and smiled. After getting me a glass of water from a kitchen where huge, steaming trays of lasagna were currently being dished out to vendors and finding me a chair, the interview began. 

You know the type of interview, or indeed, conversation where you want so desperately to like the program-- you feel like you are trying so hard to meet them halfway and you feel like you should like it and yet, they offer absolutely nothing to make you excited about? Well, the first part of that was true. I was trying so hard to like it, but just not convinced. Then, the editor, in her goofy way, starts flipping through the list of potential stories. We need a person to write a story on... homeless immigrants. 

The magic key. I could not fully express my joy, my enthusiasm, my shock. This presented the chance to actually write about my idiosyncratic field-- my dream is to be a reporter on issues of immigration. And even better-- Streetwise would let me write about these topics AND to be published? 

The answer was yes right then but I listened joyously as she went on to explain how certain ethnic aid groups provide special services to their populations-- some are given special holiday food, etc. Many of the immigrant homeless are manual laborers, cut in the recession. Some, however, are driven to drink by loneliness. Sometimes, Suzanne told me, the aid societies even send an immigrant home. 

I was sold. The chance to report a story like that? Once in a lifetime. 

And so I left. As I walked past the dogs, I waved. I took photos of the El clattering above me. Well, it wasn't how I had envisioned an internship-- but it would make a good story.