This past summer, I interned at the Albany Times Union, a publication serving New York’s capital region. But, contrary to my first-day thoughts, being an intern wasn’t any sort of The Devil Wears Prada experience.
Hearing I’d been accepted to the Times Union’s summer internship program, I felt a calling to read up on Starbucks’ menu because, after all, don’t interns just go on coffee runs? I mean, that’s what I’d been told.
Well, it turns out that wasn’t the case for me—at all, really.
Of course at huge corporations—headquartered inside of inner-city skyscrapers—that might be the case. But that’s just a part of the deal.
Typically, an intern for those “big name” businesses, you find yourself removed from the workplace upper echelon because, with so many employees, it’s a little more difficult for supervisors to allot a great deal of attention to every intern.
Thankfully, I worked at a mid-size publication—where, although there was a decent-size staff, I was still afforded the kind of one-on-one experience every intern hopes for.
Still, prepared to be the “bitch” of the office, I walked through the front doors of the TU on May 25, wide-eyed and skeptical.
Honestly, at that point, I was just hoping I’d gone through the right entrance to the building—fronted by a vibrant green lawn, adorned with an amalgamation of flags. It was all so intimidating: A building full of foreign faces and unknown expectations.
As fate had it, I did pass through the right entrance—landing me in the human resources office, getting my headshot taken and a badge made up. The first faces I encountered offered me inviting smiles—asking what school I attended and the newsroom I’d be working in—and, so, my nerves subsided (well, as much as an intern’s nerves can subside).
Scanning my ID at the door adjacent to the tiny human resources office, I made my way down a lengthy hallway to the front door of my assigned newsroom, covering local news. Fluorescent lights overhead, award-winning photos and articles displayed on each side of the hallway, I couldn’t help but think, “Am I cut out for this?”
Still, I continued through the doorway into a room full of tight-knit cubicles and clicking keyboards.
As I entered, I anticipated passing by hoards of elderly men in khaki pants, with droopy eyes and coffee-stained button downs. Truth be told, I encountered just that—and that’s not all.
I found an array of people, some like myself and, others, polar opposites. There were college students, parents and grandparents. It seemed like the ultimate personality-clash situation but, within my first five minutes at my desk, the surrounding conversation proved otherwise.
I had become a part of a generationally divided group—connected by penmanship and a willingness to disagree.
Across from me sat a mother of two. Behind me sat a recent college graduate, participating in a two-year, postgraduate fellowship. To my left, another young college student and, quite possibly, the most liberal-looking man I’d ever seen. To my right, my advisor, a quirky mother of two whose personality hailed straight from a reality television show (Long Island Medium, maybe).
Linked by our love of the craft, I grew a relationship with those people over the next four months.
Immersed in assignments, we only spoke when sharing advice, feedback and, occasionally, stories from our days off. Sure, the conversation was limited—but that made it all-the-better.
We were stressed and trying to meet a deadline—with fingers cramping and brains taxed—but we still made time for conversation; there was something so personal about that.
Every day in that newsroom brought a new challenge, too. I never knew what to expect—minus my oh-so-stereotypical morning coffee stops. Again, I was happy to find out that I’m only expected to grab a coffee for myself.
In those four months, I found myself doing things I never dreamed of and, sometimes, never hoped to do.
Afraid of heights, I soared down a newly installed zipline course, with a pulsating heart and GoPro strapped to my head. Later, I found out that zipline course hadn’t met its safety requirements. Needless to say, my review took up a new angle and I had a reflective “Thank God I’m alive” moment.
Too, I found myself in the home of an interior designer who had a hawk fly through her window earlier that morning, initiating a pretty comical animal control case around their house.
In those four months, I had some commend me on my work, others complain and, at one point, was told to “f*ck off” by a biker who didn’t take so kindly to my request for a photo of him on his Harley Davidson. I thought the photo would be perfect for a gallery on the TU’s webpage—and apparently he didn’t.
I also wrote about tragedies: Missing persons, house fires and arrests. Of course those weren’t as enjoyable but, still, they gave me a better understanding of the flexibility journalism begs for.
I landed on my section’s front page, last page and, sometimes, on no page. Again, I learned to never assume.
Really, there’s one overarching thing I learned in that newsroom and, somehow, it extends beyond insight into my potential career path. I learned the importance of an open mind.
Never knowing if I’d spend my first two hours in the newsroom writing cop briefs or responding to breaking news on-the-scene meant I had to be ready for anything; I had to accept whatever challenge was thrown my way, even if the stress of it called for a few more coffees and, honestly, grey hairs. Disclaimer: I ended up just dying it grey.
To be completely frank, though, that’s the beauty of this field. You become an expert of all things and, in turn, willing to listen.
Sure, I didn’t win a Pulitzer Prize during my time at the TU, but I did win one thing—an appreciation for this craft.
Photo: Liam McGurl