Hard Lessons on Path to Career

This summer, my job was to ask questions.

As a 20-year-old intern in the Los Angeles Times’ Ventura County Edition, I got my first taste of a journalist’s life. I got to ask police about criminals they were looking for, business leaders about the economy, even a carnival barker about the odds of winning his dart game: I found out you get a quarter in value for every dollar you spend.

That opened my eyes, but when it came to eye-opening experiences I would have to say my greatest surprise was to find that, a lot of times, people wanted to know as much about me as I did about them.

I call it the reverse interview. I would show up, introduce myself and pull out my notebook. But before I could start firing away, they often got in the first shot.

“You work for The Times?” they would say, incredulously. “How’d you get that job? How old are you?”

Journalism school at Northwestern University didn’t prepare me for this. I knew how to write a lead. I knew how important it was to spell names right and double-check my facts. One thing I didn’t know was how to politely tell people to mind their own business, or how to take control of an interview that was being stolen from me.

Panic. Sweaty palms. I felt these things more than once.

It had all seemed so perfect in the beginning. I was walking on air the day I got the phone call saying I had been chosen for the summer internship program. I was to work for a world-renowned newspaper, I would have my own apartment near the beach, and I would be close to my family in Covina.

It didn’t take long for me to come back to Earth. I landed hard. First, I learned I didn’t like living alone. I’d never done it before. Coming home to an empty apartment was something I had to get used to.

Then the reality of the job hit me. I was expected to actually write stories for this paper I had read all my life, that brought tales from around the world to my parents’ front door.

In the beginning, I was afraid to even use the phone. After putting off necessary calls long enough, I made myself dial. Then, the fear of asking stupid questions caused me to speak so softly that people implored me to “please speak up.”

After a while, however, the phone became my best ally. My voice concealed my youth, and my status. After I mastered my phone manner, people had no idea I was not a professional reporter with many miles on my notebook.

On the other hand, sitting in the office waiting for phone calls made the days creep by. So even though I knew I might be exposing myself to the dreaded reverse interview, I eagerly awaited editors’ visits to my desk to dispatch me to interview kids at a local ice skating rink, anglers at Lake Casitas or teenagers visiting the county fair.

There was something else I needed to learn. How to avoid getting an ulcer before I was old enough to have a beer with my colleagues. I would lie awake at night with a stomachache, worrying about the details of a story. Or I would be on the phone, seeking reassurances from my journalism friends. Or I would bring my latest story to dinner to quadruple-check facts.

Eventually, I learned what every harried professional knows. The only cure for stress is diversion. So nights would find me running on a treadmill, e-mailing friends and chatting on the phone.

While I still wonder if I can handle all this stress for the rest of my life, I now know how to counterattack.

When it came to dealing with other people, I often felt I had to defend my worth as a journalist. Yes, this story is as important as any other, even though the lowly summer intern was sent to cover it, I tried to convince them.

However, being a college-age female did get me some extra attention. Some people asked me to marry them, or have their children, with or without marriage. Others wanted to take my picture. While I tried to interview him at a homeless veterans’ camp, one guy tried to put sunscreen on my “pretty little face.”

Those were the exceptions. Still, I learned a lesson from them, too. I began to curl my hair, use makeup and wear dresses. I thought I should at least try to look older and more prepossessing. Looking at myself, I knew my college friends would never recognize me without the all-too-familiar ponytail, jeans and running shoes.

Of course, one carnie tried to guess my age at the fair and came up with 17, so I’m not sure how well my attempts to look more mature succeeded.

By watching and talking with other reporters, my respect grew for the journalists who do this job. I know they work long hours, sit patiently awaiting phone calls and have the ever-present stress of meeting deadline. Seeing it close up only made me admire them more.

Some people can’t believe I work 45-hour weeks for free. But this summer wouldn’t have been about money even if I were taking home a paycheck. This internship was about learning to live in a new place, surviving the lonely nights and the anxiety, and getting a sneak peek at my future profession.

After 10 weeks, I have been taught things I never could have learned in the classroom. Whether I ever make a career of journalism, I have learned how to look and act professionally, and to meet and overcome daily obstacles that the real world throws in your path. Now, when someone asks how old I am, I have learned to say, “Old enough to be a reporter for the L.A. Times.”

As the summer flew by, I have become more confident. I think I now show through my attitude and reporting that I am a real journalist--even if I am returning to college in a few weeks.

Catherine Enders can be reached by e-mail at c-enders@nwu.edu.