I wish someone would just shake me one morning and say - hey, kid, you're leaving today so pack up your stuff.

That would be preferable to knowing I'm leaving, dreading leaving, getting excited about leaving, freaking out about leaving, and getting incredibly impatient all at once. The last couple of weeks are the worst. I am grumpy.

Being a college student, I pack like it's my job. Friends are somewhere else, family is somewhere else, half my stuff is one place and half in another. No one is where I am, except for a few people, which I will soon leave, making them again, not where I am. Therefore, I know the stages of moving loss very well:

Stage 1: Leaving? What are you talking about? I've got plenty of time left to do everything I need to do. I will obviously develop resolve and energy in the coming week that I never had before but am nonetheless confident will now allow me to do everything. Not worried.

Stage 2: Turns out I really am leaving. Not good. I have 23452345 things left on my list! I didn't savor each day like I should have! I need to devlop a battle plan. I will create a comprehensive list of everything left to do, allot time for each thing, and keep to the schedule with a complicated system of alarms on my cell phone. This is so doable.

Stage 3: It's not gonna happen. There is no physical way I can accomplish all of this. What was I thinking? If I can't do it all, I'll do nothing. I'll sit in front of the TV and watch marathons on Bravo. I have completely and totally failed as a tourist and a human being. I will have to pretend that I took advantage of every opportunity while out here, and hide the fact that I ate a lot of ice cream and bummed around with friends. My life is a lie!

Stage 4: Get me on the plane right now. I mean this second. Waiting around is killing me. Everyone and everything is obnoxious. Let's get a move on, folks.

Stage 5: No! My friends! I'll never see them again! Oh cruel world! Don't make me go!

...and then home.

Well, at least it's predictable. Time to do it again. Once more, with feeling.

Petty. Silly. Irresponsible. Selfish. Greedy. Infuriating. Untrustworthy. Hurtful-ladder-climbing-inconsiderate-meanies.

The things you learn about your coworkers, with the help of time and a keen ear and socializing (alcohol also helps on that last one).

These are smart people. Really. Also charming and personable and gracious, when they want to be. But then again, that is the danger of politics, isn't it? Everyone has charm coursing through their veins, available at a moment's notice, easy and seductive and oh-so-believable.

I tend to believe it. I want to. But there are truths undeniable that generally to reveal themselves when you spend 9 hours a day trapped in a too-small office. I like some of my coworkers more than others, and I trust some more than others. Though it is difficult to realize that they are not all going to be my lifelong friends, there is something to be said for getting to know a group of people so well. I know which person I would call if I ever got thrown in jail and needed bail (product of an actual hilarious conversation with my favorite person in the office). I know which one I would ask for advice about my uncertain future and which ones are almost certainly talking about me when I leave the room.

I'd like to tell them that I know these things. The whole Dilbert comic strip evolved out of that desire. Desperate workers trapped in cubicles absolutely live for the day when they get to burst as they are walking out on their last day and tell everyone in the office what kind of people they really are. Ooooh that would be good. What a delicious thought.

Not many people do it, and I won't either. I already know that. What I will do is hold my tongue, and shoot a knowing glance at my few allies in the office, and we'll have an unspoken little moment of mourning for the death of the righteous outburst dream.

But what a good dream.

This morning my roommate and I dragged myself out of bed to attend the Walk for Women's Lives, an event put on by the Feminist Majority and designed to raise money to fund clinical trials for cancer research. Specifically, reproductive cancers. I seem to be doing chick stuff a lot lately.

Actually it's an incredible story. Talk about watching people sacrificing their own time and money to work for something they believe in. Essentially, this is the deal: mifepristone is a drug that has shown signs that it might be useful in fighting reproductive cancers, especially ovarian and uterine cancers. Mifepristone is not the most politically friendly drug. Mifepristone is half of the equation (the other drug's name escapes me) more commonly known as the "abortion pill." In fact, I attended a briefing about mifepristone about a month ago, and so I was already versed in the uses for the drug and the uproar surrounding it when I went to the walk this morning. This use, however, was not one I was aware of. Not many people are, and that's the point. The Feminist Majority has taken it upon themselves to not only gather the money, but the legal power, to make clinical cancer trials using mifepristone a reality. It is a daunting task. At the event were the presidents of NOW and the Feminist Majority, and they gave thanks to the team of lawyers that has spent thousands of hours working out the legal kinks surrounding the trials - for free. Nothing has a ring of sincerity like pro bono work. Several of the speakers had lost family members to reproductive cancer, one only two weeks ago. This is the first time the Feminist Majority has put on a walk like this in years, and it showed. The event could have been better publicized, and organized. But on the other hand, it was great to be part of something that was happening for the first time. It was less polished than other events of a similar nature, and though that revealed more mistakes, it also revealed the raw effort everyone put into it.

So, we took a little walk. It was supposed to be a 5k though I have a sneaking suspicion it was shorter due to some confusion regarding the route. It started at the Women's Memorial in Arlington Cemetery and wound around the tidal basin before returning to the cemetery. I got a t-shirt. Good deal, even though it was purple and generally shaped like a lumpy grocery bag. I went with friends. It was a nice day.

I don't like that I work here but I don't. There are too many interns going through this place. I understand that that's the point. We are in plentiful supply, and thank goodness, because I have no idea how any office would get things done without our free labor. But I do not like how fine the line is between "plentiful" and "forgettable." Beyond being good at my job, or brilliant, or whatever, what I really want is to be memorable. I think that is what everyone wants.

However. I do not want to be memorable for certain things. I do not want to be memorable because I cozied up to everyone important that ever came in the office. I do not want to be memorable because I was pushy. I definitely don't want to be memorable because I wore scandalous outfits. I don't want to be memorable because I schmoozed with the best of them.

But where is that line? I am vehemently anti-kiss up. Yet I do not want to seem disinterested. This late in the game, I wonder where I fell on the forgettability continuum. If they can't get my name right while I'm here, prospects are not good for when I leave. I've been so busy doing my job, I wonder if I've managed to make them see how interested I actually am in the issues we all work on. It's strange. Everyone is so busy making policy that no one stops to discuss it. They may be certain how they feel on every issue on the planet, but I am not.

I wanted to talk about it. But then the data entry happened. Oh then the tours. Oh and then the constituent surveys, and the phone ringing, and the briefings and the and the and the...

So we don't talk about it. I got with the program, because I wanted to be an excellent employee. And I am. But it occurs to me now that maybe I should have pushed harder. I know everyone is tired and sick of politics and busy. I understand.

But I want to talk about it. I hope they know that.

So, this is not my story, but it's a good one so I'm hijacking it.

To continue the tale of our dear friend Cynthia McKinney...

A few days ago, weeks after the "incident" that landed McKinney in the spotlight, a friend of mine was walking towards work with not a care in the world. He strode up to the door he always goes in, which is the door I always go in, which is the door Cynthia McKinney went in that fateful day. Out of nowhere, a bunch of cops pull him aside. Naturally, he squeals like a small girl as they begin questioning him.

Apparently, he was walked through the door moments before Cynthia McKinney had her moment of glory. How do they know this? They proceed to bust out security photos, which they have blown up, analyzed, and somehow used to discover that my friend was around during the incident. How did they match up a grainy security photo to employee photos of him? How did they know when he was going to walk through the door for work? How did they recognize him?

An hour later, representatives from the U.S. Attorney's office show up at his office, again wielding photos and asking if he remembers anything from that day. My friend is being stalked by the law, who have apparently discovered the identity of absolutely everyone in the vicinity of that door during the McKinney incident. He remembers nothing, he didn't even know he was there around the time it happened, and he has told at least a dozen people this. But here they come, with pictures and questions about what color ties he usually wears to work. Let's all take a moment to appreciate how immune to security and surveillance we've all become. Whoa. Just whoa.

My adoring public (aka parents) have pointed out that I have neglected to mention my class in this journal. My deepest apologies.

Basically, my class is fantastic. It has all the elements of a good class: the profressor is funny, gives minimal homework, and engages the class in discussion (successfully) for the entire class period. The daydreaming factor is low because the subject matter is interesting and the professor does a good job of calling on everyone often enough that we pretty much have to pay attention.

Criminal law is the topic of my class. I have always thought that it is totally insane that nowhere in school do we learn about the law in practice, as it affects our daily lives. Kids can probably rattle off a few of the rights we are supposed to enjoy - freedom of speech, etc. - but ask them if they have to open the door when a cop comes knocking and they have no idea. I think that is just ridiculous. Only a handful of students in my class, most of whom are upperclasssmen in college, could even answer whether or not the police have the right to search your car if you are pulled over for speeding. No one knows. The law is in the hands of the police, it is on Law and Order, and the newspapers are crawling with it, especially when scandals erupt. But it is not in my life and not in the lives of my friends and no one knows how to get it there. So. That's my treatise on why we should have comprehensive civics education in high school.

For now, I'm working on getting myself educated, hence why I took this class. I now know why a cop CAN search your car (it's on wheels and so not a personal residence with an expectation of privacy), why you CAN shoot someone who tries to break into your home but not someone who calls you names in a bar, and why the OJ Simpson verdict makes perfect sense (basically, the LA cops are embarassing beyond belief). Ask me about the OJ Simpson thing sometime, it's really interesting.

Academically, I suppose you could say that this class is a good exercise in thinking clearly and rationally. I don't know that I have any particular aptitude for law. Actually, I tend to be bad at it because I get caught up thinking of every possible avenue of argument and confuse myself rather than cutting right to the heart of the issue quickly. However, law still appeals to me because I love the logic of it. I love that a good argument feels solid, like something you can believe in and feel sure about, because it is based on reason. Maybe I just like arguing because I like being right. That's probably the true mark of a lawyer.

At any rate, it's a fabulous class. The Washington Center seems to have stumbled upon a good programming move. More next time on why I'm positive they didn't do it on purpose.

:)

If you are considering doing your duty as a patriotic American and exercising your right to make your voice heard, here are some simple guidelines to make yourself as annoying as humanly possible when writing your Congressperson:

1. Don't pick one issue. Shoot for at least 14. This makes it impossible for the legislative staff to send you a form letter.

2. While you're at it, write paragraph-long sentences and use no punctuation so picking out your 14 issues is torture.

3. Hand write your name and address messy enough that it takes 40 minutes to decipher but not so illegibly that they can quickly dismiss it as unreadable and shred it.

4. Live in the middle of nowhere so that your address resembles an obscure mathematical language (W123F2 109th county road F19) that makes Mapquest shortcircuit.

5. Request information on several different bills, including the full text of each, so they have to contact several different agencies to assemble the right materials.

6. Demand a signed photo and 67 copies of the Constitution.

7. Fabricate a really convincing lie about knowing the Congresswoman personally so it takes a week of careful fact-checking to discover the truth so the letter can be addressed appropriately.

8. Reference an obscure law that profoundly affects your life so the staff has to learn its every nuance in order to properly respond.

9. Be just nice enough after all your demands to make them feel bad if they start to curse your difficult-to-spell name


Trust me, follow these simple rules, and everyone in the office will have your name committed to memory. You will haunt their dreams. You will be legend.

This past Saturday I made my way over to a cozy little bookstore called Politics and Prose. Now I am pretty picky about my bookstores, and this one certainly impressed me. It is independent, but big. It features new books and a healthy sale section in the basement (and I do love a good basement in a bookstore). It had everything I wanted and the feel of a place that would continue to surprise me should I stay longer. Also, it had a great clientele and a coffeeshop. It is up in Tenleytown near a branch of American University, which accounts for the college town vibe. I trudged through the rain to meet a friend of mine/coworker for an author talk. Long story short, it was much more interesting than I expected it to be. The authors discussed a book they wrote called Breaking the Political Glass Ceiling, in which they created a huge data set used to analyze how and why women do/do not get elected to Congress. Though I'll be the first to admit that gender anything is not my preferred subject area, this was fascinating. The authors ranked every congressional district according to a number of factors which revealed how receptive the area would be to a female candidate. The historical trends were startling, especially when they discussed one of their most compelling discoveries: incumbency, which today is incredibly powerful, did not have that attribute until 1916, when suddenly legislators kept their seats for lifetimes rather than rotating out after a term or two. 1916 is also the year the first woman ran for Congress, and the authors argue that this is not a coincidence. I'd have to read the book to decide if I truly buy it, but it's definitely intriguing. A rainy afternoon put to good use.

Politics is a difficult industry to navigate sometimes. When I came out here, I thought that as a graduating senior I would be an unusual beast. But to my surprise, I've discovered that a lot of interns are graduating in May. There is strategy in this, and now that I see it, it seems so obvious. Hill jobs are not advertised. You know about a job opening if you already work on the Hill. But then how do you get your first job on the Hill? Well obviously, you intern. I can't believe I didn't see it before. You have to know people to get someone to forward you job announcements, but you can't get to know them if you don't already work there. It is infuriating when you think about it.

And I wasn't thinking about it. I had no intention of staying here beyond the semester. Anyone who knows me understands that I suffer from chronic homesickness. I am used to being here now, and I dare say I even enjoy it. But half of me is still stuck in Chicago, and I fear this might be a lifelong affliction. At any rate, I'm comfortable enough now to realize that if I were smart, I would have come out here with the intention of interviewing for jobs and moving here permanently. I am still not convinced that I want to work on the Hill or even in Washington, D.C. It is very far. Without friends, this is an incredibly lonely city. Lots of culture and great things to do, but that's a bit pointless if you have to do it all alone, isn't it? However, some day I may decide I'd like to come back. Or I may decide I should have stayed on now. And at that moment I'm going to realize that without connections who can forward me job announcments, I won't have a way back in. It is a predicament. To be continued, I guess.

Lots of things happen around here. Most of them do not happen in front of me, but the proximity is still exciting.

For example, when CNN airs an interview with the head of the Capitol police, who says that the door Cynthia McKinney went through on the day she hit the police officer is "a very busy door" I can agree. I use that door every day. Imagine my surprise when I went to work last week and a police officer near the door that I always use asks if anyone witnessed an "incident" a few days before. It took a moment for me to connect the two events. As it turns out, two staffers did witness the McKinney-cop throwdown and have been issued subpoenas. It could have easily been me. Geez.

I've been meaning to make this observation for a while.

Last night, as I've done many nights, I went to a reception after work with a few people from my office. This one happened to be honoring the creation of an Ivory Coast caucus. The ambassador from the Ivory Coast was there, and she spoke and we watched a slideshow and then the rest of the night followed around the servers with the food trays. We work a lot and we get hungry. Receptions are often dinner for us. I have never received anything at a reception more exciting or exotic than a glass of wine and some good pasta salad. Usually I end up eating some variation on cheese cubes.

I am all for lobbying/ethics reform, but it needs to be meaningful and sensible. Legislation currently exists that would ban all "gifts," including after-work receptions. I am going to go so far as to make this claim: no one, and I mean no one, is stupid enough to vote a certain way based on some fantastic cheese cubes they ate at a reception. I understand that lobbying reform targets bigger things, like huge wads of unmarked cash in a suitcase. However, blanket legislation that deprives me of my dinner is plain ridiculous. These government-issue cheese cubes are top notch, don't get me wrong, but they're not that good.

...and then there are the downsides.

Lest some of you wonder what became of the Meghan you knew, fear not, I have indeed found a few things to despair over. Life as a small fry is sometimes...well...small.

It is difficult to know that my place in the office is temporary, and everyone knows it, and I am treated accordingly. I know it is only sensible that the staff not invest too much in me, because after all, they go through a dozen interns a year. That's a lot of people to remember. That's a lot of time spent training the newest batch of kids to do office tasks, and I'm sure that grates the nerves.

However.

My name is Meghan. It is not 'hey kid.' No, I did not forget to take the phones off call forward in the morning. My name is not 'remember that terrible intern we had last year?' No, I did not file the magazines in the constituent mail file. My name is also not 'whoever transfered that call incorrectly.' It is Meghan, it has always been Meghan, and I am fairly certain it always will be. My name is Meghan, and I do not suck at this job. There are other interns in the office. Some of them suck. Some of them I like. I am not perfect, and I do make mistakes, but they are few and far between and I work very hard to keep it that way. There is no point in trying to rise above 'passable' if no one can tell the difference between me and the other interns, because I cannot control their behavior.

My roommates and I have discussed this many times. It is interesting to go from the top of your game to the bottom so quickly. Among our peers we're pretty bright, or so we like to think. Among Hill staffers we are one thing and one thing only - young. It's very hard to convince anyone that your powers of analysis go beyond which Real World cast member to back in the latest house scandal (by the way, I've got groundbreaking ideas in this area, should anyone be interested). Part of my personal despair stems from the fact that my roommates tend to get more substantive work to do than me. It is difficult to explain. On the one hand, I am proud of my office for being sooooo collectively brilliant, and committed to perfection. On the other hand, it is this very drive that robs me of the chance to do real work, which my coworkers care about so much they do not dare trust it to interns.

I understand the skepticism. I understand the leap of faith it must take to give a college kid the chance to represent a member of congress in a letter to a constituent. But I am not just an intern. My name is Meghan, I am a whole individual, posessed of great talent and also the ability to screw it up. Yes, I am an intern. But I do not suck.

How much do I love having visitors? I get to pretend like I know what I’m doing when we ride the Metro or go sightseeing.

Plus, they all wanted to see and do things I wouldn’t have thought of on my own, expert though I am. When my boyfriend came I got to see a crazy Capitol tour guide feed a squirrel peanuts by having them climb up her clothes to get them. When my parents came I saw a sweet Ben Franklin exhibit. When my friend came I took lots of amazing pictures of people who didn’t know they were about to make an appearance in my photo library.

If that wasn’t enough, I got to see the various memorials about 18 times and eat at restaurants enough to crave no more than water and applesauce for the next week.

Thanks all.