i don't want to make money, i just want to be wonderful
I. I walk into the store and he, dressed head to toe in black and looking more put together than ever, shrieks: “Marc Jacobs, is that you in the flesh?” He touches my shoulders delicately and gives me the obligatory kisses to the cheek. To my eyebrow-raised mother, I explain, since the first day we were introduced, he’s nicknamed me MJ for my clothing preferences.
She laughed almost triumphantly and said, “Material world, huh? This is why money is power, darling. Would you really want to be nicknamed Salvation Army?”
II. Interning in the events department for an international human rights organization is somewhat of an oxymoron. When I first applied, idealistic as can be, I had high hopes that yes, your skills and passions can be reconciled. I found out I got the position, back in May, an hour following my second interview and signed my lease then and there, no questions asked. Could I start right after finals? Sure. Could I stay three more months away from home? Of course. It was my dream job, and I was the lucky girl who got what she wanted.
It’s not that I didn’t expect it to a degree, but I was genuinely surprised to find that the people I’ve met during my internship were some of the most judgmental I’ve yet to come across. There are unspoken expectations of the kind of person you are to be: you should be prim and proper, your first interest should be human rights, you should be a Democrat, you should watch documentaries about child soldiers in your spare time and you should be able to describe that moment you decided to commit your life to the cause, that spark that changed everything.
Well, I don’t fully satisfy any of the above.
I suppose as much as we work in the same organization, the other departments are much different from mine. We are concerned with flights, hotels, concerts and private functions, catering and budgeting while they focus on Senate hearings, protests and spreadsheets. Our job requires a healthy dose of cynicism while theirs asks for unrelenting optimism.
And I will be the first to admit, I care as much about as Tom Ford as I do Mahvish Khan. I say questionable things sometimes (“guys, what are t-storms?”), I’m younger than most other interns and believe in a life of numerous passions. But I’m qualified, I’m good at what I do and I’ve worked diligently for three months without compensation because I believe in the work this organization does. And yet, I’m constantly underestimated here. While I don’t mind, and while there’s nothing I love more than proving them wrong -
Have our world come to care about ‘the right image’ so much that even those who claim to promote big ideas like justice, freedom and equal rights can’t get past a pair of overpriced heels?
III. Outside the subway station, the heat is barely bearable, despite the late hour on the clock. He tells me, it took me a long time to get over the fact that I couldn’t provide for her like that. I couldn’t take her out, say choose what you like, I’ve got this. Funny, you know, coming from a guy who carried the girl on his back for a week when she hurt her ankle. He waited for her in the hospital for three hours just so he could bring her back, make sure she was safe.
I say, here’s the thing. Girls don’t want human credit cards. They don’t want a bank statement, just someone who gets it.
That's what they say but you can never be too sure, he argues. How are you supposed to know that unless you hear it straight? Have you ever told someone that?
Nah, I reply. That’s not something I’d have to say, if he really knew me.