At first I thought someone was just kicking the desk. The interns are in a tiny office, we’re used to things like that. Then, things began to slide. The shaking grew stronger. The three of us looked at each other, in a “It’s not just me, right?” moment. Quiet. Papers float lazily to the floor.
The Congressman appears in the doorway. “Guys, we gotta go.”
The staff is already in the hallway. They’ve had emergency training, and that training says to either hide or run. When you’re on the 7th floor like us, you run.
It’s not until I see the faces surrounding me as people flood down the stairs that everything goes cold and all I think about is my hand grasping the rail and my feet tapping the marble stairs. Once outside, everyone whips out their cell phones and find out that it wasn’t an attack--it was an earthquake.
I don’t whip out my cellphone, because all my phone does is call people, and it was also with all of my belongings still in the office. It was almost amusing watching the masses of congressional staffers exclaim, “Oh no! MY BLACKBERRIES!” practically in unison.
A half-hour later, we were still outside and the wait wasn’t looking promising. The initially terrifying situation turned into an excuse to party. Staffers passed us carrying boxes of Coronas and Bud Light from the nearby liquor store. We started brainstorming possible headlines and the inevitable puns that would be used throughout the news for days to come. Their favorite possibility was “Congressman Returns to Save Interns!”
Waiting outside was getting, well, hot. Luckily, this is DC and everyone has connections. And this is how I ended up in former Congressman Moore’s townhouse, taking refuge from the sun. The Congressman and his wife were just about the sweetest people I have ever met, and they took an entire office of people they hadn’t met before, gave the older ones beers and the younger ones, like myself, colas.
Once we were notified that the offices wouldn’t be opening until late that night, I decided I had to strike out on my own to find my father. I borrowed a phone to call Dad, who gave me simple directions which unfortunately involved roads that were closed (Independence) and roads that didn’t actually connect to Independence at all. These understandable mishaps, combined with my horrible-terrible sense of direction, resulted in my wandering southwest DC for quite some time--moneyless, phoneless, slightly panicky, and in extremely uncomfortable shoes. Finally, the good folks at the Department of Education were able to give me good directions, and I shuffled up to my Dad’s office, cranky and tired. He did his fatherly duty and sent me on my way with a metro card, a phone, and an old copy of “Sports Illustrated.”
The metro, which typically experiences delays if someone sneezes in Virginia, was shockingly still running. It was going at an extremely reduced speed. This is understandable, because there was like, um, an earthquake or whatever. But it still took me so long to get home that my dad, who left far after I did, beat me home on his bike. I immediately collapsed on the couch. That is how most of my stories end.
Thus ends my own personal Odyssey, alternatively titled: “How I survived an earthquake and got evacuated and went to a congressman’s house and then got lost in uncomfortable shoes.”
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
It's Recess, Nothing's Really Happening In Congress, right? RIGHT??!?
Some of the hallways in the Longworth House Office Building are so quiet it's eerie. Your footsteps sound like thunder because everything around you seems to be made from marble. In the depths of the Capitol, the atmosphere changes. All the buildings and the Capitol itself are connected by underground tunnels, and once you reach the basement or subbasement, it definitely feels a little Chamber-of-Secrets-y.
The past two weeks of my life have been more hectic than I could have even imagined. It's a blur of metro tracks and computer screens, long hallways and a million phone calls. The sounds are echoing footsteps, the bustle of tourists, and millions upon millions of people screaming in my ear.
Working in Congress has at once restored some of my faith in democracy but also has destroyed large portions of my faith in humanity. See, we take every single call. We listen to what you say. Those phone calls are logged and are actually considered by your representatives. Really. Calling your Congressman is NOT an act of futility. What is an act of futility is being mean. My first goddamn day was the day of the budget vote. I understood the frustration and the anger people were feeling, but seriously, I have never heard such disgusting language and I am in COLLEGE.
I spend hours a day hearing vile and untrue things be said about my President and my Congressman. But I also spend hours a day getting calls with advice. With insight. With ideas. There are many callers who respectfully disagree with the government's actions, and their counterpoints often change my perspective. For every barrage of hatred there is a caller whose frustration empowers her to create instead of destroy. And, seriously, those calls keep me sane.
I recently completed my other internship for the summer, and I will be eternally grateful for that experience. My two, well, I guess they were my bosses, took me all over. They taught me a new language, introduced me to a whole political community, and showed me how day to day politics worked. I love a world where your pulse can rise and fall with the tempo of events, how your convictions and ideals can become your life's work, and how sometimes, you win. It's a marathon instead of a sprint, and you often get headaches, but sometimes you win. And that's good enough.
This summer isn't over just yet, but it has brought my hope for the future sharply into focus. It helped me prioritize what I want and what I need. It pretty much robbed me of any relaxation or social life, sure, but you find your happiness in the moments of rest. My hours on the metro's plastic seats have been spent with Fitzgerald, Plath, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Larsson, Franzen, Kerouac, Enger, and others I'm totally too embarrassed to admit or can't even remember.
And I did get to reconnect with many of my friends. I went to high school with them, sure, but I can't totally label them that way. These ones are in it for the long haul, no matter how crazy our schedules get and how differently our paths twist and turn, and regardless of the country we happen to be in. Last week, as we got together to say goodbye to Claire for the semester, the only time our free time overlapped was 9:30pm on a Tuesday.
Welcome to adulthood.
The past two weeks of my life have been more hectic than I could have even imagined. It's a blur of metro tracks and computer screens, long hallways and a million phone calls. The sounds are echoing footsteps, the bustle of tourists, and millions upon millions of people screaming in my ear.
Working in Congress has at once restored some of my faith in democracy but also has destroyed large portions of my faith in humanity. See, we take every single call. We listen to what you say. Those phone calls are logged and are actually considered by your representatives. Really. Calling your Congressman is NOT an act of futility. What is an act of futility is being mean. My first goddamn day was the day of the budget vote. I understood the frustration and the anger people were feeling, but seriously, I have never heard such disgusting language and I am in COLLEGE.
I spend hours a day hearing vile and untrue things be said about my President and my Congressman. But I also spend hours a day getting calls with advice. With insight. With ideas. There are many callers who respectfully disagree with the government's actions, and their counterpoints often change my perspective. For every barrage of hatred there is a caller whose frustration empowers her to create instead of destroy. And, seriously, those calls keep me sane.
I recently completed my other internship for the summer, and I will be eternally grateful for that experience. My two, well, I guess they were my bosses, took me all over. They taught me a new language, introduced me to a whole political community, and showed me how day to day politics worked. I love a world where your pulse can rise and fall with the tempo of events, how your convictions and ideals can become your life's work, and how sometimes, you win. It's a marathon instead of a sprint, and you often get headaches, but sometimes you win. And that's good enough.
This summer isn't over just yet, but it has brought my hope for the future sharply into focus. It helped me prioritize what I want and what I need. It pretty much robbed me of any relaxation or social life, sure, but you find your happiness in the moments of rest. My hours on the metro's plastic seats have been spent with Fitzgerald, Plath, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Larsson, Franzen, Kerouac, Enger, and others I'm totally too embarrassed to admit or can't even remember.
And I did get to reconnect with many of my friends. I went to high school with them, sure, but I can't totally label them that way. These ones are in it for the long haul, no matter how crazy our schedules get and how differently our paths twist and turn, and regardless of the country we happen to be in. Last week, as we got together to say goodbye to Claire for the semester, the only time our free time overlapped was 9:30pm on a Tuesday.
Welcome to adulthood.
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