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.

