Wednesday, November 21, 2018// The Statement
3B
L
ike many University of Michigan
students, I am from the deep
Midwest, in a district likely
dubbed
“Trump
Country,
USA”
by
coastal reporters. My father has worked
in manufacturing his entire life. Unlike
many of my peers, my parents didn’t go to
college, nor are they in an income bracket
to finance any of my college experience.
Because of this, I wasn’t able to acquire
a Capitol Hill internship by riding the
coattails of my parents’ wealth or social
capital, but my family’s working-class
background drew me to public service.
During the summer after high school
graduation, I worked at a factory
assembling chairs and other odd bits of
furniture. The next summer I worked
in the same factory as my dad, where I
assisted in the production of countertops.
While these summers didn’t give me as
many resume bullet points as my D.C.
internship did, they enabled me to save
money for the school year — somewhat of
a necessity for low-income students.
I remember feeling so frustrated
my second summer at home. Many
of my new college friends spent their
summers working impressive internships,
honing
their
professional
interests
and networking in large cities. It was
disappointing to spend the summer in my
small Ohio town.
This feeling of failure stuck with
me during my sophomore year. I spent
countless hours applying to internships,
curating my resume and using the few
connections I had to try and find an
opening.
While
several
unpaid
internship
opportunities did come up, they didn’t
seem feasible for me. The logistics of
a summer internship create a large
psychological barrier when you don’t even
know how you’re going to pay for it. How
was I going to find housing? How will I
pay for a plane ticket? I’ll probably need to
purchase more professional clothing, but
how much will that be? These questions
persuaded me to skip out on any internship
experience entirely, and I worked in a
University Housing position that summer.
The free room and board allowed me to
skip another summer at home in a factory
and I found work as a research assistant.
The following summer, I made the
finances work, but just barely. With the
help of the Public Service Internship
Program
and
additional
resume
experience from my research position,
I landed an internship in the United
States Congress. Like most internships
on Capitol Hill, mine was unpaid.
Even after a generous stipend from the
LSA Opportunity Hub (they gave me
MORE than I asked for), the expense of
accommodation covered by the Office
of Financial Aid and several birthday
gifts in the form of money from friends
and family, I still walked away from the
experience with debt. I ultimately was on
my own financially, just like each summer
before. This time, though, I had no source
of income.
I
arrived in D.C. with less than
$50 to my name, as the stipend
arrived the week after settling
into D.C. While it was helpful to have
something, the stipend I received from
the Opportunity Hub barely paid for
my sunk rent back in Ann Arbor. Each
month I paid $640 for a house I wasn’t
living in — its location far from campus
didn’t make it a desirable spot for those
interested in subletting. The flights to
and from D.C., daily Metro fares and
grocery shopping all further abused
my wallet — oftentimes I charged my
credit to pay for groceries. While I could
splurge on a few dinners or happy hours,
I meal prepped most weeks — consuming
plenty of peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches and other cheap meals and
sometimes skipped events with friends
to save money.
The 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. days and their
accompanying commute left little time
to pick up a side job. Despite this reality,
halfway through the summer I was filled
with self-doubt that I wasn’t trying
harder to find a way to make money. That
said, I’m glad to have gained such an
experience––my resume appreciates the
facelift––and I truly enjoyed the work.
It was worth it, but it was a financial
nightmare.
During the second week of sorting
mail-sorting and running errands, I
received a phone call from my father. My
mother, who has had Type 1 diabetes for
almost 14 years, was in the hospital. She
was in a diabetic ketoacidosis coma for
9 days. What led to her hospitalization
is a story familiar across the country:
Financial burdens and the high cost
of medication had been restricting my
parents from purchasing the insulin she
needed to survive. She opted to ration
her supplies rather than buying the
necessary amounts our family couldn’t
afford. Chronic lack of supplies led her
to the emergency room that morning.
The intensive care unit doctor receiving
her said her body’s readings were
“incompatible with human life.” She
nearly died.
During the weeks following her
initial trip to the hospital, I tried to
contextualize the implications of her
near-death experience. First, it was hard
not to politicize her hospitalization.
A genuine financial constraint and
inadequate American health care system
put her in the hospital. Again, I was
angry. Not at myself, but at the context of
the entire situation.
Few
working-class
students
are
entangled in the web of well-connected,
affluent students working in the Capitol
Building. Hill intern affluence was
physically evident: 18 to 22-year-olds
purchasing $13 lunches daily, sporting
Louis Vuitton tote bags, Cartier bracelets
or Tory Burch sandals. At the same time,
their more intangible characteristics
shed wealth as well — children of
lawyers, dentists, professors — many
of whom were educated at Ivy League
schools. It was evident I was an odd one
out, and my mother’s hospitalization
made this even more clear.
Most of us aren’t the children of
doctors and lawyers. Most of us can’t
afford expensive clothing. (Many days
during my internship I felt like Nathan
Fielder, in a not-so-perfectly fitting
suit with a broken button.) While these
students are well-intentioned in their
commitments to public service, they are
also likely well-insured. When I pleaded
with my upper-middle-class, liberal
friends the necessity of “Medicare
for All,” they still find excuses not to
address the health care issue, unable
to relate to my family’s struggle. When
you’re not directly affected by the policy
you’re interested in changing, it’s just an
abstraction you’re allowed to disconnect
from at the end of the day.
My mother is still bouncing back, but
doing much better. It had been scary,
especially while I was halfway across
the country. After grappling with this
frustration, I look back and wonder if the
internship was worth the financial stress
I put myself through. Before I purchased
my plane tickets to D.C., I remember
hearing, “It will be worth it, it pays in
experience!” over and over again.
While I do think it was worth the
experience gained, the context of my
situation makes me we wonder who we
are inviting into the realm of political
jobs. I went into debt for my internship
even with the financial support I
received from the University, and it took
two years of internship hunting to feel
comfortable enough to take the plunge
into an unpaid position.
We
need
to
have
an
honest
conversation about who is invited to
participate in policymaking. For too
many policymakers and staff, their
wealth safeguards them from their own
legislation. This needs to change. A first
step is ensuring all people irrespective
of class background have the ability to
afford access to these internships.
Debt and resume bullet points
BY ZACH TINGLEY, CONTRIBUTOR
ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL
Most of us aren’t the children of
doctors and lawyers. Most of us
can’t afford expensive clothing.