Alexa's Prologue

I always knew my roots would never grow deep in New York. It was like a boyfriend you dated for one swift summer, always aware that it wouldn’t be permanent because it was too dangerous and had no intentions of treating you the way you deserved to be treated. I liked the way people’s eyes burst when I said the words “New York.” It was the thing to do in your early 20s, the big, bad city. Everything up until my first day there told me so, and they never gave any bad advice on Sex and the City, right?

Like so many other fevered, underdeveloped dreams-turned-realities of life in New York City, mine began with a waitressing stint and a full-time internship. The internship, at a weekly newspaper in Queens, eventually transformed into a reporting job, devolving quickly into the polar plunge that was my welcome into the working world. Every task went unthanked, and nights and weekends were abandoned to attend an advertiser’s event at the sacrifice of true journalism. Stories that had the potential to bother an advertiser (i.e. anything revealing the seedy underbelly of major redevelopment projects, including those forcing businesses and long-term residents to relocate). Under the thumb of a ruthless mother and son publishing team, the tenured Editor-in-Chief bowed to their every whim. The phrase “what can I do?” will probably be engraved on this woman’s tombstone.

A string of bad luck throughout my formative years taught me to believe one, everlasting truth -- everything, even the worst experience/job/relationship imaginable, is worth it if you make it through having learned something. It means it wasn’t a waste.

While I survived with a newly formed sense of professional reality, I resigned in a mild-worded email. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hallucinate about the ultimate resignation letter.

“Dear Mrs. and Junior Employer,

I thank you greatly for the opportunity to work here over the past year and some odd months. It truly has been a lesson in humility, degradation and above all else, a blaring introduction into the professional world. Without your mistreatment, I truly wouldn’t know what it is to be an adult in 21st century America, and for that, I am forever indebted.

As a bright-eyed, albeit naive, 22-year-old, I didn’t know that the vast majority of those in power achieved their status because of greed. You didn’t battle your way to the top in a string of morally sound ventures. You crushed every tiny soul under your bloated vision of wealth and glory.

To quote a former co-worker who shall remain anonymous at the behest of retaining his position, “If you showed your employees a tenth of an iota of an ounce of the compassion you think you do, then you might have a chance at being the great humanitarian you think you are.” While many of your employees struggled to pay hospital bills, student loans and college tuitions, you dressed your infant son in a fur-lined sweater and purchased a million dollar penthouse overlooking the Manhattan skyline. You took advantage of people’s desperate situations during a desperate time. A French monarch did the same thing in the 18th century, and it didn’t turn out so well.

It doesn’t matter how many galas you throw, dressed in multicolored fur like the Cruella de Vil that you are, or how many times you use the word “fabulous” to describe everything from the underpaid staff who organize your events to the luxury automobile(s) you so generously slip under company expenses. You once “accidentally” referred to readers as “customers,” adjusting your mistake only after it had been pointed out to you. You would rather sell people the stories you and your advertisers want them to read than give people the real news. If a meaningful story makes its way past four layers of scrutiny, only then is it shoved to the back of the book. Poor people and minorities can’t pay for prime space, I guess.

Remember when you made the editor change the cover because there was someone of an ethnic minority on it?

Remember when you sent me to an event that wasn’t even happening, twice in one week?

I’d insert the Youtube link for Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way,” but figured it wasn’t worth inconveniencing one of your five assistants to help you open it. Basically, loving you is definitely not the right thing to do.

Hugs and Kisses,
Alexa

P.S. I know exactly how long it takes the art department to airbrush your neck.

I became a writer because I wanted to tell people’s untold stories, those of people who otherwise might not have a voice. Instead, my passion was tooled to help the wealthy become even wealthier.

So I left, choosing to preserve my principals over my paycheck. I owed the world more than well-written advertisements for expensive Catholic schools and home furnishings. Thankfully, with Alex expressing similar disinterest towards continuing a life in New York, the idea for the American Weirdness project came together seamlessly. We packed our earthly goods, said goodbye to some of the greatest co-workers/friends we had ever met and let our wanderlust take hold. We were born to run.

This post, and subsequently most of this blog, is dedicated to anyone who refuses to settle and anyone who grants themselves the experience of discovery.