A messy note of gratitude

When I quit my first job at a semiconductor company, my boss gave me some advice: “Make sure, in your career, you really show that you want to be there,” where there is defined as “whatever your job is at the time.” Her point, in the end, was that I’d done a miserable job pretending I could get excited about editing technical manuals written by angry French engineers the rest of my life.

From day one at that job, I’d been applying like mad for out-of-reach gigs like “broadcast writer” at the AP. But as it turns out, a couple dozen columns and film reviews in the college paper don’t really get you in the door. Especially circa 2007-08, as the entire industry was in meltdown.

So I left Austin. My next “job” was a voluntary gig, helping a buddy with her research on domestic workers in northeast India. It was mind blowingly redirective. My life could be about a Something. I thought journalism could be that Something, so I wrote a lot, and published a little.

So, naturally, ignoring that impulse, I followed all that up with an internship at an NGO in DC. Loved the people; doubted the mission. And I began to wonder why I was wussing out on storytelling. I resolved to stay in DC and force my way into something journalistic.

What followed: Canvassing for the Dems via a pretty scummy grassroots campaign group. Processing early voting data for the Dems by night, interning at VOA’s Afghan station by day. Desk assistant at the PBS NewsHour. Freelance TV production work at Al Jazeera and elsewhere (like the AARP). Web and video production and reporting at National Journal. Then a nice long stretch as a fact checker, reporter, and various-etc. man at Mother Jones.

I was making *some* money. All of those places paid me, and did their best to take care of me, which is way more than you can say for a lot of shops. But in an egregiously expensive city, you never really feel like you’ve achieved any sort of financial escape velocity. I constantly felt on the verge of burning out and giving up — not because I didn’t think the work was worth it, but because there’s only so long you can feel like you’re just barely getting by, while transitioning into a respectable adulthood.

There was also the anger and gnawing doubt. The possibility that I wasn’t interested in the right stories and personalities. Didn’t know enough about the people and histories from which those stories and people emerged — that my sensibilities were poorly formed and flaccid. That I didn’t go to the right college, or grow up in the right part of the country. I wasn’t right for the business, and had nothing to show for it.

But after a more years of reporting and a thinktank stint, somehow I wound up back in The Game (I don’t intend to leave it voluntarily, ever). I see now that that time in the wilderness was about concretizing my values: learning about power, the abuse of power, the corrupting nature of power, and reporting out narratives (with varying degrees of success) that showed my growth as a thinker. I also had to remember that my cultural and intellectual DNA — that of an Assamese-American obsessed with film, television, theater, and literature — is core to who I am and the work I produce. Rejecting it, de-emphasizing it, does me no good. This process is messy. But it has been essential and legitimizing.

I know now that I wasn’t interested in the wrong things. Maybe those several years of relentless self-flagellation were what it took to refine my bad habits while somehow honing back in on what really mattered to me. Plenty of people helped me find my confidence again, and let me know my opinions and attitudes mattered. That’s something I intend to pay forward, wherever I go. Folks took a chance on me, and I’m forever grateful.


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