Sara Kinninmont – The Voice https://www.voicemagazine.org By AU Students, For AU Students Fri, 06 Jan 2006 00:00:00 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://www.voicemagazine.org/app/uploads/cropped-voicemark-large-32x32.png Sara Kinninmont – The Voice https://www.voicemagazine.org 32 32 137402384 In Dependent Times https://www.voicemagazine.org/2006/01/06/in-dependent-times-1/ Fri, 06 Jan 2006 00:00:00 +0000 https://www.voicemagazine.org/?p=4405 Read more »]]> Sara Kinninmont has been writing for the Voice since the summer of 2003. Her contributions are not frequent, but they are always memorable and strike a chord with Voice readers. An AU graduate, Sara explores the conflicted middle-ground between adulthood and late adolescence that is the third decade of life in North America. Where once it was assumed that people in their twenties would graduate from school, marry, buy homes and begin a family, early adulthood has become a time of extended decision making and exploration for many. Here Sara considers plunging into the murky waters of independent living. This article was originally published on January 26, 2005

What do I know about independence? That depends. The concept is certainly one I’m familiar with, but I won’t lie, it’s not one I’ve put into practice. My level of personal independence rivals that of a cat. I come and go as I please without a care in the world, yet when it comes to basic necessities like food, shelter, and Internet access, I’m completely dependent. For years, I’ve lived in my bubble of dependency, blissfully unconcerned that I’m nearing my mid-twenties, still live at home, have no real career on the horizon, and have been toiling away at my university degree part-time for the better part of five years. As they say, “all good things must come to an end.”

Sadly, this appears to be all too true in my case. My twenty-fifth birthday blind-sided me, plunging me into a quarter-life crisis. Gone was the not-a-care-in-the-world girl, and in her place was self-doubting self-loathing introspective girl. She was the one that brought up the point that maybe I should be a little more concerned about the fact that I’m twenty-five and not yet self-sufficient. I decided to humour her, hoping that it would lead to her hasty departure, which is how I found myself plumbing the depths of my psyche in an attempt to find the root of my dependency.

Here’s what I learned.

My dependence is primarily fed by what I’ve dubbed Affluence Addiction Syndrome, a rarely acknowledged condition that has become rampant as the Baby Boomers’ offspring have been reaching their twenties. The Syndrome is especially prevalent in twenty-somethings raised in upper-to-middle-class neighbourhoods, with its occurrence skyrocketing where the cost of living is exceedingly high. The double whammy of high cost of living and being accustomed to the good life is a direct factor in its onset. The twenty-something in question realises if they move out that their standard of living will plummet, thereby trading off their aspirations of independence for the dependence-induced illusion of affluence.

Several factors contribute to the spread of the Syndrome. First off, good jobs are scarce, which has resulted in almost mandatory post-secondary education of some kind, even post-graduate studies. The combination of few good jobs, the high cost of living, and the likely four-to-six year stretch of university, plus the fact that education is ridiculously expensive in itself, all contribute to its prevalence. Another factor that directly feeds Affluence Addiction Syndrome is the media and pop culture influence. Twenty-somethings today have never known life without TV, and are likely forgetting what life was like before the Internet. They’ve been exposed to pop cultural imagery their entire lives, with its incessant message that you can, should, and deserve to have it all. And therein lies the root of my problem.

I’ve bought into the cachet that surrounds the upwardly mobile existence. All the things pop culture has pimped to me are the things that I covet. Meaning, I want the good life: lots of travel, eating out, a nice car, and entertainment in its various forms. After being bombarded with the message that I can have it all, can you blame me? Shouldn’t I be able to go for brunch, sushi, gelato, or tapas whenever I want? Shouldn’t I be able to afford Pilates, yoga, and a gym membership? Is it too much to expect bi-monthly facials or visits to my Chinese herbalist? What’s wrong with wanting to buy all the magazines and books that interest me? How can I not travel and explore all the places in the world that capture my imagination?

For years, I’ve knowingly traded my independence for all of the above. Sure, I could move out, embrace my independence, and give it all up. But why? To finally be granted that coveted independence badge from the would-be girl-scout leader that is modern day society? I don’t covet the independence badge any more than I do the one for sewing, fire starting, or the ability to execute the perfect bowline knot. It seems when I weigh my options that independence is simply too costly.

Due to extensive and none-too-scientific research, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not an anomaly. There are many Syndrome sufferers out there. Over the years, as I’ve run into various ex-classmates, and had the horrible mandatory “so what are you doing now?” conversation, I’ve discovered that many of them have also chosen the route of dependence. Having even come across a few recovered Syndrome sufferers, it seems that one’s chance at recovery is directly related to whether or not there is a repressive regime on the home front. The more repressive the regime, the faster the Syndrome will dissipate, which explains why I am a lost cause. In my case, there is no regime. On the contrary, the home front is downright utopian.

Admittedly, knowing that I am one of many has helped soften the blow, not to mention the fact that it helped take some of the steam out of introspective girl’s judgmental onslaught. I’ve managed to get rid of her, albeit temporarily, with the promise to continue to work at independence. Now that I’ve addressed the problem, I realise it is no easy thing to rectify. I certainly won’t be cured overnight. Clearly, I’m going to have to take it day by day. I’ve already started looking into aromatherapy. Maybe a lovely scented candle or essential oil is the key to my embracing independence? Feng Shui is also a possibility. Maybe I’ve been enslaved by bad energy?

All in all, this independence thing is going to be a gradual process. No need for me to jump into it blindly. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’ve staved off introspective girl until my thirtieth birthday. However, just in case she plans to pop in unannounced at my twenty-sixth, I’m planning to spend it pondering my plight on the beaches of Costa Rica, a paradise far from the prying eyes of little miss party pooper.

]]>
4405
Re-Generation X: Writer displays his use of the other 3Rs https://www.voicemagazine.org/2005/08/12/re-generation-x-writer-displays-his-use-of-the-other-3rs/ Fri, 12 Aug 2005 00:00:00 +0000 https://www.voicemagazine.org/?p=4026 Read more »]]> In November of 2003, Douglas Coupland was given the keys to a house in his hometown of Vancouver, Canada. The place had been uninhabited for two years and was slated for demolition. Coupland was given only two weeks to take full advantage of the space. The result was one part home makeover show, one part artistic expression, and one part patriotism. He named the instillation Canada House.

To the majority of the world, Coupland is best known as the writer of Generation X (1991), Miss Wyoming (2001), All Families are Psychotic (2002), and, most recently, Eleanor Rigby (2005), to name only a few. Truth is, he was originally an artist and ended up writing as a result of a lucky coincidence when an editor happened upon a postcard that he had penned while living in Japan. The rest, as they say, is history. Before seducing the world with the written word, he specialized in sculpture at the Emily Carr College of Art and Design, followed by studies at the European Design Institute in Milan and finally studies at the Hokkaido College of Art and Design in Sapporo. Canada House isn’t simply an attempt at a medium change by a writer deciding to try his hand at something new, but instead a case of Coupland re-exploring his first love.

In Coupland’s book, Souvenir of Canada 2 (2005), there is a 30-page layout dedicated to the house and its contents. In it, he writes, “For years, I’ve been collecting images, objects, scraps and ideas with the end purpose of using them to build a uniquely Canadian environment” (p.41). The first step in achieving that goal involved painting the entire inside of the house white, creating a blank canvas to work from. Nothing was spared. The appliances, the fireplace, and the windows — everything was blanketed in white leaving only a fresh space as a stage for his many pieces. The instillation featured various forms of lighting, textiles, furniture, photography, and visual art. Initially, Canada House may seem primarily to have been an exercise in ardent patriotism, but it was, in fact, as much an exercise in eco-conscious expression. The 3Rs that enabled the creation of the space were reclaim, reuse, and regenerate. It’s Douglas Coupland. What did you expect for the 3Rs? Reduce, reuse, and recycle? Too predictable!

From the dozens of lamps made of old fishing floats to a large Inuit formation, called an inuksuk, fashioned out of foam that had washed up on a beach near the writer’s home, many of the pieces on display in the house were comprised of found objects. Coupland reclaimed them from the environment and made them his own. His reaction to finding the materials was mixed. At first, it was “Wow! All of these beautiful treasure-like things just lying here, free!” (p.44). Then after, “Holy crap! All of this plastic junk littering these otherwise pristine beaches!” (p.44). Garbage and litter may seem trifling to some, but not to Coupland. He explains, “Canada is a northern country, and because of this, plastics can take tens of thousands of times longer to decompose than they might at the Equator with all its heat, sunlight and bacteria. Plastics discarded in the far Arctic will remain intact until, scientifically, mathematically, our universe ends.” (p.48). His scavenging and reuse not only breathed new life into the discarded objects, but his efforts also helped regenerate, albeit on a small scale, the beaches and water that had been burdened by the trash.

A house just wouldn’t be complete without furniture and Canada House is no exception. Coupland constructed cabinets and chests of drawers out of random objects like a collapsed box of Kraft cheese Singles, an incomplete Wayne Gretzky puzzle, and even a freezer door. There were no beds, but plenty of quilts on hand, one of which was made up of reused materials including an old T-shirt with a picture of a wolf howling at the moon, an empty package of Tater Tots, a container of de-icing road salt, and, of course, squares of lumber jack-style plaid flannel. Certainly a quilt unlike anything granny ever made!

There were also things that, though not made up of found objects, fit under the eco-conscious umbrella by virtue of drawing attention to practices and objects that threaten our environment daily. One such piece was a ladder painted a rainbow of salmony-pink colors that Coupland dubbed “the spawning ladder” because “the colours come from a scientific measuring system that allows fish farmers to pre-select the flesh tone of their fish” (p.64)– a fitting addition to the kitchen since it’s a place where many people devour filets of the faux fabricated fish, for the most part completely unaware of the havoc reeked on the surrounding waters and sea life on their behalf.

While there may not have been a huge budget, a nauseatingly cheerful host, or the ubiquitous product placement of some sort of cleaning supply, unless you count the empty packet of Ivory Snow laundry detergent holding court on the previously mentioned quilt, Canada House did have one commonality with those insanely popular home makeover shows, the shared goal of regenerating a tired space. In the end, it may have only been open for five days, but for that short period of time it was transformed into a house of ideas. And somehow Coupland was able to create it with the use of the 3Rs and a little eh.

Note of interest: Coupland’s latest exhibit entitled “Super City” opens at the Canadian Centre for Architecture in Montreal on June 9, 2005 and runs through to November 20, 2005. See this site for photos from Canada House: http://www.coupland.com/art/art08.html

References
Coupland, D. (1991). Generation X: Tales for an accelerated culture. St. Martin’s Griffin.
Coupland, D. (2001). Miss Wyoming. Vintage Contemporaries Series. Vintage.
Coupland, D. (2002). All families are psychotic: A novel. Bloomsbury USA.
Coupland, D. (2005). Eleanor Rigby: A novel. Bloomsbury USA.
Coupland, D. (2005). Souvenir of Canada 2. Douglas & McIntyre.

]]>
4026
Diploma-induced Dichotomy https://www.voicemagazine.org/2005/07/13/diploma-induced-dichotomy/ Wed, 13 Jul 2005 00:00:00 +0000 https://www.voicemagazine.org/?p=3954 Read more »]]> I officially have in my possession a piece of paper that cost me somewhere in the five figure range. Acquiring it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done (and no, it wasn’t a result of a booze-blurred bidding war on e-Bay). Paper in hand, I don’t regret any of what I went through to get it. Am I crazy? No, but I am a graduate.

As with any student at the end of their university education, I’m faced with many difficult decisions, all of which lead to the ultimate question: what now? For those of us lucky enough not to have enormous student loans to tackle, and who can forego the post-university migration to Asia to teach English in hope of paying them off, we have the luxury of choice.

Choice, although liberating, can be frightening, especially when it takes the form of the follow-your-dream-or-play-it-safe dichotomy.

This dichotomy rears its ugly head when the path you followed throughout your education ends and you find yourself at an intersection. Which way do you go? Do you risk heading in the direction that might lead to the utopian community you’ve heard about called Dreamland? Do you choose that route even though you’re not sure how to get there? Not only has no one you know ever made it, but there is no way of knowing ahead of time the perils and triumphs that may lie in wait. While the old path, the one you followed as a student, may have been challenging and seemingly impossible at times, at the very least, the direction was clear and you knew that with persistence and perseverance you would be rewarded for your efforts in the end.

If you do decide to attempt to find Dreamland, people will inevitably say you’re wasting your time heading in the wrong direction, a direction they are convinced can only lead to a dead-end. Those same people are the ones to tout the virtues of the opposite direction, the one leading to Practicalville. It’s far safer. The road is straight and flat, making it easy to navigate. It’s user friendly, little-to-no effort is required. Certainly, no risk. Everyone keeps emphasizing that the residents have good dental plans and get two weeks paid vacation each year. Once a decision has been made, there may be lingering doubts about whether it was, in fact, the right one. Did I take a wrong turn back there? Should I have gone left at the Petro Canada Station? Maybe left would have been better? More scenic? Less bumpy? Even if you bravely choose the direction you thought led to Dreamland, you quickly realize it too leads to Practicalville, and that there is no paved and marked route to Dreamland. Everyone who made forged their own way.

Your original journey along the scholarly path left you with grand ideas and plans, yet as you head along the eight-lane superhighway that is life, you wonder if that little moped built out of bits and pieces of university idealism and accumulated knowledge will be able to maintain its speed and stay on course, even with its Premium Dream Fuel. At the first rest stop, you take a drink of water and debate whether or not you should trade it in for a more practical vehicle. Isn’t that what everyone else is traveling in? It has dawned on you that the little moped that was perfect for cruising around the campus might not be well suited to carry you through the “real world”. You sit on a picnic table overlooking the highway while eating a box of Smarties from the vending machine. You watch all the people drive by in their no-nonsense practical sedans and minivans, all running on Daily Drudgery Crude instead of Premium Dream Fuel. They all look the same, polluting the air with their playing-it-safe petroleum products.

In the sea of non-descript metal you see faces full of sadness and anger, but mostly blank faces seemingly going through the motions. You realize that the superhighway is only designed as a means of shuffling the masses back and forth. Day after day, the same stretch of asphalt. Always moving, but never actually going anywhere, at least not anywhere new or adventurous. You look at your candy-coloured Vespa parked next to the table. It doesn’t look like anything else you’ve ever seen. And that’s okay. It may not keep up with all the cars, but you don’t mind having to go slowly along the shoulder. While it may not be as efficient as the fast lane, your pace allows you to take in the scenery. You get so caught up enjoying the ride; you don’t even notice the exits for Practicalville. You’re not quite sure where you’re going, but are confident you’ll get there in time.

]]>
3954
A Self-Admitted Outdoor Unenthusiast https://www.voicemagazine.org/2005/06/01/a-self-admitted-outdoor-unenthusiast/ Wed, 01 Jun 2005 00:00:00 +0000 https://www.voicemagazine.org/?p=3862 Read more »]]> I have no proof, but I’m fairly certain whenever a child is born in Vancouver that the parents are required to sign a legally binding contract, which obliges them to freely use guilt as a means of making their offspring go outside and enjoy the outdoors. “It’s such a beautiful day. Why aren’t you outside taking advantage of it?” Those words have haunted me for years, especially when it’s sunny and I happen to find myself indoors. The excessive year-round rain does nothing but reinforce the guilt by placing far too much emphasis on those too-rare sunny days. The contract, at the root of it all, likely stems from the deal our ancestors made with the devil in order to inhabit this truly majestic city. And who can blame them? With the ocean, the mountains, and the climate — what more could you ask for?

Well, one thing, actually: that I’m left to enjoy our bounty as I see fit. You see, although rare on the West Coast, I’m what is known as an outdoor unenthusiast. For years, we were rumoured to be nothing more than an urban legend in these parts. The majority of the population refusing to believe there could possibly be anyone in this city who does not embrace an outdoorsy lifestyle. It has taken time, but finally I’m comfortable enough to admit it openly. My name is Sara and I’m an outdoor unenthusiast.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate being outside, per se. I simply prefer to enjoy it from the patio of a favourite café or restaurant, while reading a good book or enjoying a friend’s company, instead of from the seat of a mountain bike on some North Shore obscure trail, or when I’m laced into my near-death-experience-inducing-booties-on-wheels, also known as rollerblades. Does that make me a pariah? Am I but one step above a smoker on the echelon of life?

This seems to be the consensus among outdoorsy-types when they are faced with my choice of lifestyle. They can’t seem to comprehend it. Now that I’m an adult and no longer have to abide by my parents’ rules, you would think I had escaped the guilt trip, not so. Avid outdoorsy-types are constantly trying to push their fleece-clad Gore-tex wearing lifestyles on me. If I’m at all unreceptive, they shower me with the same guilt I had to contend with as a child, except that their version has a twist. Not only do I have to be outside when it’s sunny, but I also have to engage in some sort of activity. Not just any activity (apparently, window-shopping and latte drinking don’t count), but one that may very well be featured in the X games. When I tell them I’m not the least bit interested in spending a glorious sunny day kayaking around English Bay, or doing some crazy activity that involves strapping myself into a harness, like rock climbing, I get unwarranted looks of disbelief and pity, as though I’m misguided or even possibly a bit simple for eschewing this essential facet of Vancouver life. In fact, it’s very likely I’ll be pelted with half-eaten Power Bars next time I walk down the street for writing this. And surely, it’s a risk I’m willing to take. I’m tired of the charade.

Admittedly, my stance is not a popular one in the current climate of an expanding obesity epidemic. Don’t get me wrong. I do value exercise. While this article may leave you with the impression that I lead a sloth-like existence, that is not the case, I’m actually in fairly good shape. Cardiovascular exercise and weight training are my friends. I simply don’t want to be force-fed a lifestyle that doesn’t interest me, and I know for a fact it doesn’t interest me because I have tried it on for size and found it to be ill fitting.

In the past, I’ve done my fair share of hiking, biking, snowboarding, rollerblading, kayaking, and rock climbing. Even when I made a concerted effort to embrace the active outdoorsy lifestyle, it was clear we were incompatible. Snowboarding and I were a mismatch from the beginning. This became increasingly clear when I began to spend more time exploring the nuances of après-ski and chalet life than I did in the snow. Why would I want to spend my time out in the cold waiting in endless chair-lift line-ups when I could be in the chalet drinking hot chocolate? The relationship officially ended when my knee gave out as I unsuccessfully attempted to land a jump and, as a result, found myself on crutches for the better part of a month. Oh, how love gone wrong hurts! With rollerblading, a more recent casualty, I tried really hard. I wanted to make it work, but it just wasn’t meant to be. Case in point, one broken arm and severe road rash on my right buttock. The scar remains as a daily reminder of why I gladly gave my rollerblades away. As for hiking, biking, kayaking, and rock climbing, I never had strong feelings for any of them. It was all pretty casual, and as such I felt absolutely no remorse in cutting them out of my life without warning.

As soon as I rid my life of these unfulfilling relationships, I was infinitely happier. Relationships built on guilt are never healthy. Now, I’m completely comfortable admitting that I’m an outdoor unenthusiast. In fact, I’ve come to embrace it. You can be sure the next time I decide to stay indoors and enjoy a sunny day through my living room window, I won’t feel the slightest bit guilty, even when I hear the odd Power Ba bounce off the glass.

Sara Kinninmont lives happily guilt-free in Vancouver.

]]>
3862
In Dependent Times https://www.voicemagazine.org/2005/01/26/in-dependent-times/ Wed, 26 Jan 2005 00:00:00 +0000 https://www.voicemagazine.org/?p=3517 Read more »]]> What do I know about independence? That depends. The concept is certainly one I’m familiar with, but I won’t lie, it’s not one I’ve put into practice. My level of personal independence rivals that of a cat. I come and go as I please without a care in the world, yet when it comes to basic necessities like food, shelter, and Internet access, I’m completely dependent. For years, I’ve lived in my bubble of dependency, blissfully unconcerned that I’m nearing my mid-twenties, still live at home, have no real career on the horizon, and have been toiling away at my university degree part-time for the better part of five years. As they say, “all good things must come to an end.”

Sadly, this appears to be all too true in my case. My twenty-fifth birthday blind-sided me, plunging me into a quarter-life crisis. Gone was the not-a-care-in-the-world girl, and in her place was self-doubting self-loathing introspective girl. She was the one that brought up the point that maybe I should be a little more concerned about the fact that I’m twenty-five and not yet self-sufficient. I decided to humour her, hoping that it would lead to her hasty departure, which is how I found myself plumbing the depths of my psyche in an attempt to find the root of my dependency.

Here’s what I learned.

My dependence is primarily fed by what I’ve dubbed Affluence Addiction Syndrome, a rarely acknowledged condition that has become rampant as the Baby Boomers’ offspring have been reaching their twenties. The Syndrome is especially prevalent in twenty-somethings raised in upper-to-middle-class neighbourhoods, with its occurrence skyrocketing where the cost of living is exceedingly high. The double whammy of high cost of living and being accustomed to the good life is a direct factor in its onset. The twenty-something in question realises if they move out that their standard of living will plummet, thereby trading off their aspirations of independence for the dependence-induced illusion of affluence.

Several factors contribute to the spread of the Syndrome. First off, good jobs are scarce, which has resulted in almost mandatory post-secondary education of some kind, even post-graduate studies. The combination of few good jobs, the high cost of living, and the likely four-to-six year stretch of university, plus the fact that education is ridiculously expensive in itself, all contribute to its prevalence. Another factor that directly feeds Affluence Addiction Syndrome is the media and pop culture influence. Twenty-somethings today have never known life without TV, and are likely forgetting what life was like before the Internet. They’ve been exposed to pop cultural imagery their entire lives, with its incessant message that you can, should, and deserve to have it all. And therein lies the root of my problem.

I’ve bought into the cachet that surrounds the upwardly mobile existence. All the things pop culture has pimped to me are the things that I covet. Meaning, I want the good life: lots of travel, eating out, a nice car, and entertainment in its various forms. After being bombarded with the message that I can have it all, can you blame me? Shouldn’t I be able to go for brunch, sushi, gelato, or tapas whenever I want? Shouldn’t I be able to afford Pilates, yoga, and a gym membership? Is it too much to expect bi-monthly facials or visits to my Chinese herbalist? What’s wrong with wanting to buy all the magazines and books that interest me? How can I not travel and explore all the places in the world that capture my imagination?

For years, I’ve knowingly traded my independence for all of the above. Sure, I could move out, embrace my independence, and give it all up. But why? To finally be granted that coveted independence badge from the would-be girl-scout leader that is modern day society? I don’t covet the independence badge any more than I do the one for sewing, fire starting, or the ability to execute the perfect bowline knot. It seems when I weigh my options that independence is simply too costly.

Due to extensive and none-too-scientific research, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not an anomaly. There are many Syndrome sufferers out there. Over the years, as I’ve run into various ex-classmates, and had the horrible mandatory “so what are you doing now?” conversation, I’ve discovered that many of them have also chosen the route of dependence. Having even come across a few recovered Syndrome sufferers, it seems that one’s chance at recovery is directly related to whether or not there is a repressive regime on the home front. The more repressive the regime, the faster the Syndrome will dissipate, which explains why I am a lost cause. In my case, there is no regime. On the contrary, the home front is downright utopian.

Admittedly, knowing that I am one of many has helped soften the blow, not to mention the fact that it helped take some of the steam out of introspective girl’s judgmental onslaught. I’ve managed to get rid of her, albeit temporarily, with the promise to continue to work at independence. Now that I’ve addressed the problem, I realise it is no easy thing to rectify. I certainly won’t be cured overnight. Clearly, I’m going to have to take it day by day. I’ve already started looking into aromatherapy. Maybe a lovely scented candle or essential oil is the key to my embracing independence? Feng Shui is also a possibility. Maybe I’ve been enslaved by bad energy?

All in all, this independence thing is going to be a gradual process. No need for me to jump into it blindly. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’ve staved off introspective girl until my thirtieth birthday. However, just in case she plans to pop in unannounced at my twenty-sixth, I’m planning to spend it pondering my plight on the beaches of Costa Rica, a paradise far from the prying eyes of little miss party pooper.

]]>
3517
Internship or Bust https://www.voicemagazine.org/2005/01/05/internship-or-bust-1/ Wed, 05 Jan 2005 00:00:00 +0000 https://www.voicemagazine.org/?p=3456 Read more »]]> Internship or Bust is the journey of every student preparing to leave the cocoon of student security to navigate the bustling world of resumes, cover letters, and coveted internships with the most promising companies. Originally published on April 14, 2004 [v12 i15], this article is, like many of Sara’s contributions, one that takes the reader along for the ride. Anecdotes and details abound, injecting the article with a reality and sincerity that brings leaves the reader wanting more…

Several months ago, after years of toiling away at my Bachelor’s Degree with a major in English, and waitressing to pay for it all, I realised that I was finally in the home stretch of my post-secondary education. I had just five classes to go before I was to be unleashed upon the world, yet, truth be told, I wasn’t ready. All I had to get by on was my imagination, creativity, youthful enthusiasm, and way with words. The articles I’d written for The Voice were an asset, but I needed more.

I knew I had all the raw materials, many of which were desirable to prospective employers, but I lacked the one thing that would bring them all together into a marketable package: work experience. It became clear that I was suffering from SS (student stigma). SS is a rarely acknowledged condition that runs rampant among post-secondary students. Its symptoms include being educated, but inexperienced. One direct contributor to SS is the vicious cycle known as the need-experience-to-get-experience paradox. Many a graduate has felt helpless at the hands of this infuriating conundrum. Although I had been in denial about my condition for many years, I knew that with a little persistence I could beat it. All I needed was a heavy dose of work experience. But where could I find such a thing?

The search for the elusive experience became my own private El Dorado. As I searched, it became apparent rather quickly that work experience often camouflages itself in the form of an internship. An internship is an aberrant work situation in which a student works for no pay. The company gets free labour while the student gains valuable experience; sort of a win-win situation, except for that no-pay part.

To ease my search, I made a list of places where I thought I might enjoy interning. It was a short list. In the end, I simply emailed my favourite magazine, Jane, asking if they offered summer internships. I suppose it may seem impractical or imprudent to put all of one’s eggs in one basket, perhaps it even seems like a recipe for failure, but at the time it seemed perfectly reasonable.

Luckily, it turns out that I had, unknowingly, unearthed the motherload of internship opportunities. Jane magazine’s publisher, Fairchild Publishing, not only offers internships all year round, all of which count as credit for school, but they offer internships at all 14, soon to be 15, of their magazines. Now that I had found this bounty, I had to figure out how to make a piece of it mine. Most importantly, I needed Fairchild to realize that they wanted me as much as I wanted them. No small task, indeed. The only thing I could do was to rely on my arsenal of imagination, creativity, youthful enthusiasm, and way with words. I used this fierce quartet of skills to write, quite possibly, the least conventional cover letter in existence. Risky yes, but how else can you get anyone to take notice of you in a page or less?

Meanwhile, that pesky voice of reason in my head kept taunting me. Are you crazy? Do you know how many people apply for those things? And if you do get it, how are you going to be able to afford to live in New York? It doesn’t matter. You probably won’t even get a response.

It’s a good thing I tuned that voice out. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. So what if hundreds of people apply, how long does it take to whip up a cool cover letter and email it off with a resume? I had nothing to lose except maybe the few hours it would take me to write the letter, and even then it would be good practice.

Despite all my optimism, I was admittedly astounded when I got an email telling me that upon reviewing my resume that I had been selected to interview for an internship opportunity. To many, it might seem crazy to fly from Vancouver to New York at my own expense, to interview for an unpaid internship that I may or may not get, but for me it would have been crazy not to. Sure, it was possible I’d fly all that way and not even be chosen, but the alternative would be that I’d never know what could have been. If I didn’t go, I would likely always wonder.

Once my plane ticket was bought, my hotel room was booked, and my best friend was recruited to support me on my journey, I threw myself into preparing for my interview. I put together a portfolio of all my published writing, and updated my resume. And, for the first time, I had a legitimate excuse to indulge my chronic magazine-buying impulse. I spent hours reading and researching Fairchild magazines, two of which, luckily, happen to be my favourites: Jane and Details. I took notes on my favourite columns, articles, contributors, and, basically, on anything that I thought might be relevant to the interview process.

Again, I think ignorance is bliss. Because I truly hadn’t expected a positive response, I was rather nonchalant about the whole thing, which didn’t mean I was unprepared, it just meant I didn’t fully realise what a big deal it was. I had no idea what to expect. It felt great simply to have been chosen for an interview, but I kept in mind the fact that it was a distinct possibility that I might show up to find hundreds of other people who also felt great about having been chosen. My only recourse was to make sure I was prepared, so that I would stand out from my competition.

I spent the entire flight from Vancouver to New York going through the notes I’d taken on the various Fairchild magazines. My carry-on bag was full of issues of Jane, Details, and W. I had no choice but to focus my research on those three for the rest of Fairchild’s magazines are trade publications that aren’t available on news stands, with the exception of Elegant Bride, which, in truth, I contemplated buying if only to give my boyfriend a heart attack.

Apart from my marathon magazine reading, I tried to prepare myself for what I thought would be potential interview questions. While it seems the majority of twenty-somethings are somewhat self-absorbed, myself included, I realised I was wholly unprepared to answer questions about myself. It seems simple and straightforward, in theory anyway. How hard can it be to answer questions about yourself? No one knows you any better than you know yourself, but it’s not that easy. It’s like trying to describe the sound of your own voice. Of course, you know everything about it, but just try and describe it to someone else; chances are even if you could, their perception of it is likely to be drastically different than yours.

In an effort to appear at least somewhat articulate when it came time to talk about myself, I embraced self-absorption at a whole new level. I took notes on my strengths, my weaknesses, my writing goals, my writing influences, my favourite authors, my favourite books and movies, the accomplishment I’m most proud of, my role models, and, of course, why they should choose me as their intern. As I got off the plane at JFK, I felt confident that I would be able to answer almost anything they threw my way.

The morning of the interview, my friend and I went to the famed Hudson Hotel for a leisurely brunch. I tried to relax and enjoy my french toast instead of dwelling on what was in store for me later that day. Afterwards, seeing as it was a beautiful day, we decided to walk the twenty-five blocks to the interview. We walked from West 59th down to 34th, right across from the Empire State Building. While she went in search of Macy’s, I walked into the building that I hoped housed the antidote to my stigma.

I signed in with the security guard in the lobby and took the elevator up to the 5th floor conference rooms. Once on the 5th floor, I signed in again, but this time with the head of human resources. With my nametag on and my information packet in hand, I headed into the conference room to join my fellow SS sufferers. The room was set up in such a way that there were tables along three of the walls, each with pictures of the magazines looking for interns lined up on them. In between the tables were three rows of twelve chairs. I breathed a sigh of relief as I realised that I hadn’t entered a room equipped to seat hundreds, simply a couple dozen. Despite my being over twenty minutes early, the whole first row and half of the second were already full. I sat down and started going through my packet. The atmosphere was one of masked nervousness. Clearly, the majority of us were nervous, but we all valiantly attempted to hide it. I was a lot calmer than I had anticipated, but I won’t lie I was definitely a little on edge as I sat and waited for things to begin.

The room was full of women with the exception of about four guys. Some sat quietly reading and filling out their information packets. Others sized up the competition. A few chatted with their neighbours. As I’m a die-hard people-watcher, I sat and observed the goings-on around me. There was a girl in the back row who kept trying to sneak looks at what the girl next to her was writing on her forms. Another girl in the front row was wearing a petal pink satin suit that was either recycled from a bridesmaid stint at a relative’s wedding or a remnant costume from the movie Steel Magnolias.

I also took time to scan the three tables looking at the magazines that would have internships available. Women’s Wear Daily, W Accessories, Elegant Bride, Vitals, Details, Home Furnishings News, DNR, W, and Supermarket News all had openings for the summer term. As I looked between the heads of the people in the front row, I tried to see where the Jane representative would be sitting. I wasn’t the only one who realised there was absolutely no sign of anyone from Jane being present for the meeting. There were murmurs all around the room. “Where’s Jane?” “Why isn’t Jane here?” Clearly, I hadn’t been the only one with my sights set on interning at the magazine.

I had no time to dwell on the fact that the magazine I had my heart set on wasn’t even an option. The head of human resources came in and got the proceedings under way. She gave us a run down on what to expect over the course of the hour and a half we’d be there, and gave us a brief overview of Fairchild itself. Once she was done, the representatives from the magazines each stood up and told us what type of internships they were offering, whether editorial or fashion based. Each one described the duties that would be expected of us, as well as the availability needed. Some were looking for as many as five interns, others only one or two. All of the reps were very candid in stating that the positions were in no way glamorous. I believe comfortable shoes were stressed many times, especially for the fashion positions. The girl sitting next to me was going to have to think twice about the towering stilettos she was wearing if she was given a position, and maybe even the lacy g-string that was a good three inches above the waistband of her jeans, just for good measure.

I appreciated the honesty about the types of tasks that would be required of us: researching, fact checking, transcribing, gathering daily media clips, and various administrative duties. The blunt reality of it, I’m sure, dissolved the misguided notion that many of us had of the magazine business being a glamorous one. My only disappointment, besides the whole Jane not being there thing, was that only one of the nine magazines mentioned anything about the possibility of actually getting to do some writing. Most of then flat out stated that there was no chance of doing any writing. While their honesty was commendable, it was still a letdown. Supermarket News was the only one that mentioned writing as a required duty. In fact, the rep said that in all likelihood that we could have up to twelve or thirteen by-lines by the end of the summer, if we were motivated. Despite the fact that Supermarket News would have been my very last choice when I initially walked in the room, I now knew who I had to interview with right off the bat. My ego, of course, balked, wanting me to interview with the better-known magazines, but my practical realistic I-want-to-be-a-writer side told me to get real.

After all the presentations, the chairs were cleared away and we had the chance to interview with the reps of the magazines that interested us. Despite my ego telling me to head straight to Details, I went for Supermarket News, which, for the record, is not a tabloid although I know it sounds like one. It’s a trade magazine, for people like managers of Safeway or Walmart, that reports on the latest in food trends and developments in that industry. Later on, I did interview with Details and Vitals.

Since all the reps had stressed the need for their interns to be motivated, responsible, and organised, my background in distance education was invaluable. As we all know, we would likely never get a single assignment done if we didn’t possess those qualities. In each of the interviews, it was the skills and qualities that relate directly to my time as an Athabasca student that were my greatest asset, while all the self-absorbed soul searching I had done on the plane ended up being a moot point.

Overall, I know the interviews went well. I left with no regrets. Whether or not I stood out among the other candidates, remains to be seen. For now, I’m simply playing the waiting game. If anything comes from my time in New York, work experience or not, it is that I have added another skill to my arsenal in the fight against SS: interview skills. Now, I am that much closer to being ready to be unleashed upon the world, and embracing life after school, a life that doesn’t include the words “you have a choice of fries or salad with that.”

]]>
3456
The Voice Fiction Feature – Poetry By… https://www.voicemagazine.org/2004/08/04/the-voice-fiction-feature-poetry-by-2/ Wed, 04 Aug 2004 00:00:00 +0000 https://www.voicemagazine.org/?p=3051 Read more »]]> Sleepwalker

he lay
curled on a foam mattress
at the foot of the bed

keeping watch
guarding

his child’s mind
believing

his presence
made it all okay

neither would disappear
if he watched over them

every night
he would curl into a ball
under his Garfield blanket
comforted by their closeness

the night she left

the small boy
at the foot of the bed
slept

Today’s Special

the mainlanders sit
with looks of relaxed
boredom

on their sun-kissed
perfectly bronzed
faces

they sip Mai tais
while deliberating
over

whether or not
to order a poo poo
platter

interest perks up
in the eyes of
many

when the chit chat
turns to talk of the
links

the sun dips
dazzles and disappears
unnoticed

the locals sing
the praises of the evening’s
fish special

an island delicacy

]]>
3051
Fiction Feature – Poetry by… https://www.voicemagazine.org/2004/07/07/fiction-feature-poetry-by-1/ Wed, 07 Jul 2004 00:00:00 +0000 https://www.voicemagazine.org/?p=2981 Read more »]]>

Crumbs

The early days
when you lived
in the one-room apartment
above Balducci’s Deli

that whole summer
spent with
the windows open and
the fan going

Commercial Drive’s melody
floating in
making us
a part of the action

days when your apartment
above the deli’s kitchen
was fifteen degrees hotter
than outside

we’d strip down

me
in my white cotton underwear
and no-nonsense bra

you
in your boxers (the ones your mom made)
with the Flintstone’s on them

on the cool tan vinyl couch
i watched you eat a kiwi
whole
skin and all

not caring
about the green juice
running down your arm
and onto your chest

leaving nothing for me
i licked the tart juice
from your fingers

finding their way
onto my over-heated skin
the lingering taste
of the fuzzy fruit
still on your tongue

faint accordion music
seeped
through the floor boards
an odd soundtrack for our hunger

today
watching you eat samosas
wiping the grease and crumbs
on your pants

pausing only
to cheer for the Canucks
and sip your beer

not once taking your eyes
off the TV to see me
sitting on the same tan couch

I wonder how
I became a girl
willing to settle for
crumbs

Illusions

The sense of satisfaction
I felt last night
as you held me in your arms

while she paged you, wondering
where you were
was short-lived.

Loneliness took up residence
in your place,
shortly after you drove away.

]]>
2981
Cavity Caveat https://www.voicemagazine.org/2004/06/23/cavity-caveat/ Wed, 23 Jun 2004 00:00:00 +0000 https://www.voicemagazine.org/?p=2955 Read more »]]> On a recent flight from Vancouver to New York, I spent the duration listening to music and reading magazines. In that time I’m certain that the Bow Wow Wow song “I want candy” never once played on the in-flight radio, nor did the Archies’ “Sugar, Sugar”, but in retrospect, they should have, for once I was home, it became clear that there were definite saccharine shades to my stay in the Big Apple.

While I was there, I came across candy being touted as a form of relaxation, candy posing as art, and a scion of the high fashion world peddling the couture equivalent of candy from a two-story Midtown Manhattan Candyland-come-to-life.

My first chance encounter with the candy in question was on a sunny Saturday morning in Soho. I was shopping with my best friend, having just come from brunch at Bubby’s Pie Co. in Tribeca. Being that it was a sunny Saturday, of course, everyone and their dog was out, which not surprisingly consisted mostly of Pugs (apparently, Pugs are the new black).

Slowly, we made our way up West Broadway, stopping briefly to listen to five men standing on a doorstep sing a cappella. Continuing on, we popped in and out of stores, people-watched, and enjoyed the sun regardless of the bitterly cold wind. On the corner, we spied one of our favourite stores, Origins. My friend had been a loyal user for years, while I was just a recent convert. We went in to try to score some free samples, as well as to check out their new products. As I made my way to the counter with a basket of items I hadn’t initially set out to buy, one of the sales clerks offered me an Origins’ Peace of Mind relaxation gumball. Never one to say no to a free sample, I took one. In fact, I took two. My friend didn’t want one because it had sugar in it, so I felt entitled to take hers as well. I’m nowhere near as much a devotee of sugar-free gum as she is. What’s a little sugar? As for the relaxation gumball, it’s clearly the embodiment of our instant-gratification-loving fast-paced society in the shape of a tiny white chewable sphere. No time to sit and meditate, breathe deeply, or even take a moment to yourself? No problem, just chew your way to relaxation.

Upon closer scrutiny, a relaxation gumball, with sugar in it, seems about as effective as an aerobic meditation class. Skeptical or not, I popped it in my mouth. While minty and refreshing, it tasted no different than any other mint gumball. I certainly didn’t feel myself slipping into a blissful state with every chew. I pocketed the other gumball in case of a possible stress attack at the Guggenheim later that day. Modern art can be very stressful to look at. What does it all mean?

Little did I know that I wouldn’t need the gumball, at least not in the event of a possible sugar jonze, although it really could have come in handy to alleviate the stress of trying to decipher the many inexplicable art pieces: “But that’s just a pile of twigs? Is that art? Is it really art if I made that exact same thing when I was five?”

While I was paying for my admission, I had no idea that again my sweet tooth was to be sated. We made our way up the circular ramp of the museum, more often than not shaking our heads in bewilderment at what constitutes art. Apparently — and this was news to me — a room painted entirely white with absolutely no adornment on the walls is art. I left the room convinced that I’d just witnessed the second coming of the emperor’s new clothes. Tell them it’s art, and even if there’s nothing there no one will be brave enough to question it.

Nearing the upper section of the ramp, we came across an odd piece (okay, one of many). What stood out about it was that it consisted solely of the floor being blanketed in hard black candies in clear wrappers. I stood in front of the carpet of confections and took it in. My friend and I joked about what would happen if we took one. As we were about to move on to the next display, a security guard came over to us. Guiltily, I imagined she’d read our minds and was coming over to tell us to step away from the candy. Instead, she told us we could, in fact, take one.

When I tell people I took a piece of an exhibit at the Guggenheim, they look at me completely appalled. How could I have done something so disrespectful? Stealing art? How terrible. Yes, that’s me, the art thief, a twenty-something female-version of Thomas Crown. Not quite. Truth is, it’s an interactive art piece, and taking a candy allows for you to be a part of it. Don’t worry. There’s enough for everyone. The candy is replenished every night. The “Untitled” piece was created by American artist Felix Gonzalez-Torres (1957-1996). I was in such awe of the candy-strewn floor that I made a point of writing part of the accompanying caption down. It read, “The missile-like shape of the candy and its brooding, almost sinister, appearance allude to our culture’s pervasive militaristic outlook and hostile hegemonic stance.” While a compelling description, last time I checked, the only sinister thing about a licorice-flavoured candy is its foul flavour. Have you tasted a licorice candy lately? Definitely sinister, no doubt about it.

After getting our fill of art, we made our way from the Upper East Side down to Midtown. Kitty-corner from Bloomingdale’s is another upscale store, this one a purveyor of candy, but not just any candy, quite possibly the couture equivalent of candy. In the midst of the concrete jungle, on the corner of Third Ave and 60th Street, is a Candy Land-like oasis called Dylan’s Candy Bar. Opened by Ralph Lauren’s daughter, Dylan, the store is awe-inspiring by any standards. The two-floor candy-lovers’ mecca houses anything and everything your little sugar-loving heart could possibly desire, as well as many things it never would have thought to desire. Dylan’s carries over 4,000 different kinds of candy, which includes 21 different colours of M&Ms, 16 flavours of Skittles, and 12 colours of Hershey’s Kisses. They have a mind-boggling array of bulk candy, and a line of Dylan’s Chocolate Bars, all of which happen to be kosher. The store also boasts a collection of Pez dispensers that run anywhere from $2 upwards of $2000 for a Swarovski crystal-encrusted or vintage one, not to mention their array of lollipops that run from 3oz to over 3 feet tall.

Needless to say, as soon as I walked in the door, I was like a kid in a candy store, and began filling my basket at a vigorous pace. I started by selecting one of each flavour of Dylan’s Chocolate Bars. Then, I moved onto the bulk candy, which took up residence next to my chocolate-in-the-shape-of-sushi kit, complete with ginger-flavoured white chocolate for rice, green tea-flavoured candy paste for wasabi, and fudge syrup standing in for soy sauce. I also had to have Twinkie-flavoured lip balm and the Pez-scented hand soap. I did, however, draw the line at the indoor Smores maker, but only because I couldn’t possibly see how it would fit in my suitcase.

It was in the basement of the store that I came across something I had never seen before, a rare species of tree, the Candy Tree. As I did a double take, I realised it must only be native to the New York area. Officially, the tree is known as Dylan’s Chocolate Lovers Topiary Cone, and is said to be “a ‘tree’mendous ‘tree’at”. The fact that the Candy Tree’s foliage is made up entirely of mini chocolate bars like, Kit Kat, Mounds, Baby Ruth, Almond Joy, Pay Day, Butterfinger, Twix, and bags of regular and peanut M&Ms, is not the only thing that makes it exclusive and unique. This 4-foot tree is truly the couture equivalent of candy, and as such, will cost you about $600. I cringe to think what that is in Canadian dollars. Other than the odd Park Avenue mother buying one for a birthday party that likely cost more than my entire university education, who can possibly afford such a candy concoction? Not I. I contented myself with the vast array of under $500 candy, of which there were many.

Looking back, it’s clear that my trip to New York should have come with a cavity caveat. My suitcase, on the way home, contained one Peace of Mind gumball, a few sinister licorice candies, and a vast array of Dylan’s finest. In the end, even if I had wanted to buy the Candy Tree, I wouldn’t have been able to bring it home. You know how picky they are about letting you bring plants through customs.

]]>
2955
Internship or Bust https://www.voicemagazine.org/2004/04/14/internship-or-bust/ Wed, 14 Apr 2004 00:00:00 +0000 https://www.voicemagazine.org/?p=2761 Read more »]]> Several months ago, after years of toiling away at my Bachelor’s Degree with a major in English, and waitressing to pay for it all, I realised that I was finally in the home stretch of my post-secondary education. I had just five classes to go before I was to be unleashed upon the world, yet, truth be told, I wasn’t ready. All I had to get by on was my imagination, creativity, youthful enthusiasm, and way with words. The articles I’d written for The Voice were an asset, but I needed more.

I knew I had all the raw materials, many of which were desirable to prospective employers, but I lacked the one thing that would bring them all together into a marketable package: work experience. It became clear that I was suffering from SS (student stigma). SS is a rarely acknowledged condition that runs rampant among post-secondary students. Its symptoms include being educated, but inexperienced. One direct contributor to SS is the vicious cycle known as the need-experience-to-get-experience paradox. Many a graduate has felt helpless at the hands of this infuriating conundrum. Although I had been in denial about my condition for many years, I knew that with a little persistence I could beat it. All I needed was a heavy dose of work experience. But where could I find such a thing?

The search for the elusive experience became my own private El Dorado. As I searched, it became apparent rather quickly that work experience often camouflages itself in the form of an internship. An internship is an aberrant work situation in which a student works for no pay. The company gets free labour while the student gains valuable experience; sort of a win-win situation, except for that no-pay part.

To ease my search, I made a list of places where I thought I might enjoy interning. It was a short list. In the end, I simply emailed my favourite magazine, Jane, asking if they offered summer internships. I suppose it may seem impractical or imprudent to put all of one’s eggs in one basket, perhaps it even seems like a recipe for failure, but at the time it seemed perfectly reasonable.

Luckily, it turns out that I had, unknowingly, unearthed the motherload of internship opportunities. Jane magazine’s publisher, Fairchild Publishing, not only offers internships all year round, all of which count as credit for school, but they offer internships at all 14, soon to be 15, of their magazines. Now that I had found this bounty, I had to figure out how to make a piece of it mine. Most importantly, I needed Fairchild to realize that they wanted me as much as I wanted them. No small task, indeed. The only thing I could do was to rely on my arsenal of imagination, creativity, youthful enthusiasm, and way with words. I used this fierce quartet of skills to write, quite possibly, the least conventional cover letter in existence. Risky yes, but how else can you get anyone to take notice of you in a page or less?

Meanwhile, that pesky voice of reason in my head kept taunting me. Are you crazy? Do you know how many people apply for those things? And if you do get it, how are you going to be able to afford to live in New York? It doesn’t matter. You probably won’t even get a response.

It’s a good thing I tuned that voice out. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. So what if hundreds of people apply, how long does it take to whip up a cool cover letter and email it off with a resume? I had nothing to lose except maybe the few hours it would take me to write the letter, and even then it would be good practice.

Despite all my optimism, I was admittedly astounded when I got an email telling me that upon reviewing my resume that I had been selected to interview for an internship opportunity. To many, it might seem crazy to fly from Vancouver to New York at my own expense, to interview for an unpaid internship that I may or may not get, but for me it would have been crazy not to. Sure, it was possible I’d fly all that way and not even be chosen, but the alternative would be that I’d never know what could have been. If I didn’t go, I would likely always wonder.

Once my plane ticket was bought, my hotel room was booked, and my best friend was recruited to support me on my journey, I threw myself into preparing for my interview. I put together a portfolio of all my published writing, and updated my resume. And, for the first time, I had a legitimate excuse to indulge my chronic magazine-buying impulse. I spent hours reading and researching Fairchild magazines, two of which, luckily, happen to be my favourites: Jane and Details. I took notes on my favourite columns, articles, contributors, and, basically, on anything that I thought might be relevant to the interview process.

Again, I think ignorance is bliss. Because I truly hadn’t expected a positive response, I was rather nonchalant about the whole thing, which didn’t mean I was unprepared, it just meant I didn’t fully realise what a big deal it was. I had no idea what to expect. It felt great simply to have been chosen for an interview, but I kept in mind the fact that it was a distinct possibility that I might show up to find hundreds of other people who also felt great about having been chosen. My only recourse was to make sure I was prepared, so that I would stand out from my competition.

I spent the entire flight from Vancouver to New York going through the notes I’d taken on the various Fairchild magazines. My carry-on bag was full of issues of Jane, Details, and W. I had no choice but to focus my research on those three for the rest of Fairchild’s magazines are trade publications that aren’t available on news stands, with the exception of Elegant Bride, which, in truth, I contemplated buying if only to give my boyfriend a heart attack.

Apart from my marathon magazine reading, I tried to prepare myself for what I thought would be potential interview questions. While it seems the majority of twenty-somethings are somewhat self-absorbed, myself included, I realised I was wholly unprepared to answer questions about myself. It seems simple and straightforward, in theory anyway. How hard can it be to answer questions about yourself? No one knows you any better than you know yourself, but it’s not that easy. It’s like trying to describe the sound of your own voice. Of course, you know everything about it, but just try and describe it to someone else; chances are even if you could, their perception of it is likely to be drastically different than yours.

In an effort to appear at least somewhat articulate when it came time to talk about myself, I embraced self-absorption at a whole new level. I took notes on my strengths, my weaknesses, my writing goals, my writing influences, my favourite authors, my favourite books and movies, the accomplishment I’m most proud of, my role models, and, of course, why they should choose me as their intern. As I got off the plane at JFK, I felt confident that I would be able to answer almost anything they threw my way.

The morning of the interview, my friend and I went to the famed Hudson Hotel for a leisurely brunch. I tried to relax and enjoy my french toast instead of dwelling on what was in store for me later that day. Afterwards, seeing as it was a beautiful day, we decided to walk the twenty-five blocks to the interview. We walked from West 59th down to 34th, right across from the Empire State Building. While she went in search of Macy’s, I walked into the building that I hoped housed the antidote to my stigma.

I signed in with the security guard in the lobby and took the elevator up to the 5th floor conference rooms. Once on the 5th floor, I signed in again, but this time with the head of human resources. With my nametag on and my information packet in hand, I headed into the conference room to join my fellow SS sufferers. The room was set up in such a way that there were tables along three of the walls, each with pictures of the magazines looking for interns lined up on them. In between the tables were three rows of twelve chairs. I breathed a sigh of relief as I realised that I hadn’t entered a room equipped to seat hundreds, simply a couple dozen. Despite my being over twenty minutes early, the whole first row and half of the second were already full. I sat down and started going through my packet. The atmosphere was one of masked nervousness. Clearly, the majority of us were nervous, but we all valiantly attempted to hide it. I was a lot calmer than I had anticipated, but I won’t lie I was definitely a little on edge as I sat and waited for things to begin.

The room was full of women with the exception of about four guys. Some sat quietly reading and filling out their information packets. Others sized up the competition. A few chatted with their neighbours. As I’m a die-hard people-watcher, I sat and observed the goings-on around me. There was a girl in the back row who kept trying to sneak looks at what the girl next to her was writing on her forms. Another girl in the front row was wearing a petal pink satin suit that was either recycled from a bridesmaid stint at a relative’s wedding or a remnant costume from the movie Steel Magnolias.

I also took time to scan the three tables looking at the magazines that would have internships available. Women’s Wear Daily, W Accessories, Elegant Bride, Vitals, Details, Home Furnishings News, DNR, W, and Supermarket News all had openings for the summer term. As I looked between the heads of the people in the front row, I tried to see where the Jane representative would be sitting. I wasn’t the only one who realised there was absolutely no sign of anyone from Jane being present for the meeting. There were murmurs all around the room. “Where’s Jane?” “Why isn’t Jane here?” Clearly, I hadn’t been the only one with my sights set on interning at the magazine.

I had no time to dwell on the fact that the magazine I had my heart set on wasn’t even an option. The head of human resources came in and got the proceedings under way. She gave us a run down on what to expect over the course of the hour and a half we’d be there, and gave us a brief overview of Fairchild itself. Once she was done, the representatives from the magazines each stood up and told us what type of internships they were offering, whether editorial or fashion based. Each one described the duties that would be expected of us, as well as the availability needed. Some were looking for as many as five interns, others only one or two. All of the reps were very candid in stating that the positions were in no way glamorous. I believe comfortable shoes were stressed many times, especially for the fashion positions. The girl sitting next to me was going to have to think twice about the towering stilettos she was wearing if she was given a position, and maybe even the lacy g-string that was a good three inches above the waistband of her jeans, just for good measure.

I appreciated the honesty about the types of tasks that would be required of us: researching, fact checking, transcribing, gathering daily media clips, and various administrative duties. The blunt reality of it, I’m sure, dissolved the misguided notion that many of us had of the magazine business being a glamorous one. My only disappointment, besides the whole Jane not being there thing, was that only one of the nine magazines mentioned anything about the possibility of actually getting to do some writing. Most of then flat out stated that there was no chance of doing any writing. While their honesty was commendable, it was still a letdown. Supermarket News was the only one that mentioned writing as a required duty. In fact, the rep said that in all likelihood that we could have up to twelve or thirteen by-lines by the end of the summer, if we were motivated. Despite the fact that Supermarket News would have been my very last choice when I initially walked in the room, I now knew who I had to interview with right off the bat. My ego, of course, balked, wanting me to interview with the better-known magazines, but my practical realistic I-want-to-be-a-writer side told me to get real.

After all the presentations, the chairs were cleared away and we had the chance to interview with the reps of the magazines that interested us. Despite my ego telling me to head straight to Details, I went for Supermarket News, which, for the record, is not a tabloid although I know it sounds like one. It’s a trade magazine, for people like managers of Safeway or Walmart, that reports on the latest in food trends and developments in that industry. Later on, I did interview with Details and Vitals.

Since all the reps had stressed the need for their interns to be motivated, responsible, and organised, my background in distance education was invaluable. As we all know, we would likely never get a single assignment done if we didn’t possess those qualities. In each of the interviews, it was the skills and qualities that relate directly to my time as an Athabasca student that were my greatest asset, while all the self-absorbed soul searching I had done on the plane ended up being a moot point.

Overall, I know the interviews went well. I left with no regrets. Whether or not I stood out among the other candidates, remains to be seen. For now, I’m simply playing the waiting game. If anything comes from my time in New York, work experience or not, it is that I have added another skill to my arsenal in the fight against SS: interview skills. Now, I am that much closer to being ready to be unleashed upon the world, and embracing life after school, a life that doesn’t include the words “you have a choice of fries or salad with that.”

]]>
2761