When I was 12, I wrote National Geographic and asked them what it would take to be a National Geographic photographer. They actually responded with a fairly thick packet of information. The cover letter was written expressly to me, or so it seemed, and in a nutshell, it basically said, ‘Don’t count on it but in case you still want to be one, here’s what you need to know…’ The rest of the materials were articles about different staff photographers, how they got there, advice, and some of the difficulties of doing their job.
I was unfazed. I knew I wanted to do it.
In the meantime, for years after that I kept what I called a “rejection file.” Everything I ever tried and didn’t achieve, I kept memorabilia of. It was not a negative thing. I cherished it. I always tried all kinds of things like submitting articles to magazines, drawing designs for logo competitions, writing essays to hair-dye companies to win prizes (got 3rd – still have the brush from the basket of prizes), etc. If I could dream up an opportunity, I would try it. I always stayed up fairly late every night in middle school and high school, and while my parents watched the news until time for Johnny Carson, I spent my evenings dreaming, creating, writing, art-making, and opportunity-trying.
Many years later in college at UCSB, though I had not chosen to attend a photography school, I heard about an internship program called UCDC that paired students with organizations in Washington, DC, so they could get experience in their areas of interest. In other words, if you got accepted to intern at your organization of choice in DC, you’d get to go there for a quarter and work in place of going to classes. I heard that National Geographic was one of the options, so I filled out the lengthy application and got recommendations from various professors and employers.
A week before the final interviews that would determine whether we applicants were accepted, we were called in for an informal meeting. The meeting was immediately after an aerobics class that I was taking as part of my PE credit, and I absolutely loved it. I never wanted to miss it, and we were told that our interviews would take place the following week at the same time as the meeting we were currently in.
We all know that interviews involve looking as professional as possible. How you present yourself in appearance, speech, and the written word has to be near-perfect. I also thought that perhaps the interviewers would respect that I valued my class before it and didn’t want to miss it before my interview. I decided to stick my neck out and ask the secretary at the meeting if the panel of judges would mind if I came directly from my aerobics class, which would mean that I would not be dressed in a suit and have perfectly coiffed hair.
Immediately, the secretary responded that that would be just fine. I was a little surprised. I thought she would think my question was insane and laugh it off. But life has taught me to err on the side of asking questions rather than making assumptions.
I had a very uncomfortable feeling about what she said, but I didn’t follow my instincts.
That next week, after sweating my brains out in aerobics, I gathered all of my papers and thoughts, got my ducks in a row, and biked over to the meeting place with my backpack. With wet pony-tailed hair, salty skin, and moist spandex, I walked into the room and felt immediate dread. It was all over and I hadn’t even gotten to say a word. The secretary was wrong. The panel, themselves all dressed and coiffed beautifully and crisply, looked at me as though I was a total nutcase who didn’t belong in the room. Apparently, no one had informed them that I would be coming after a beloved PE class. They wouldn’t have cared. Their brief interview of me felt cursory and obligatory, and I knew that this would not be my excited “in” with the magazine I loved. I even tried to state the reason I looked the way I did, but I left the room wishing I had done it with confident dignity rather than beaten-down remorse.
For a long time, I wondered glumly what I had missed out on.
About a year later, a journalist came to UCSB. When I found out she had worked for all kinds of media companies, including National Geographic, I quickly bought a ticket.
Though I hadn’t heard her name, hundreds of other people apparently had. The huge lecture hall was packed. Her tone was serious and she talked solemnly that night about the things she had seen in her life. She showed photos of emaciated African children. She talked about war she had watched first-hand in the Middle East. She recalled memories she’d never erase from her mind. And finally, she said a sentence that forever changed my dreams. “If you ever want a family, if you ever want a husband or a wife, if you ever want a life filled with love every day, don’t become a journalist.” Coming and going and never getting to be stable for more than a few weeks meant she had never gotten to enjoy love for long.
I had always wanted love. Long-standing love. Suddenly I was freed of my previous mistakes earlier on in that interview room.
I never stop trying at things, though. Later on after college, I backpacked through Chile and ended up in the silver-mining town of Potosi, Bolivia. Upon seeing poor children laughing and sliding in the perpetual mud above the mine, then watching men walking out of the mine at dusk and waiting for the bus, all their mucous membranes permanently grayed and all their days made night from underground life, only to go home in the evening and spend their only time off in darkness again, roused me to query National Geographic about an article on life in a Bolivian mine.
My rejection file again grew, but I was happy to insert the handwritten letter I received into the ever-growing stack of blocked paths, pointing me instead in other ways I was ultimately destined to go.
Perhaps like Walter Mitty, I still imagine having what it takes. Only time will tell…
