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“Everything we do in life matters,” said the tech billionaire to the famous portrait photographer. The photographer chose an angle to make the man’s head and hands look disproportionately gigantic. A leader. A genius. He was already a very large man. He stared off into the distance, making a pensive expression. The photographer asked him to elaborate. “How we communicate and interact with society matters,” the billionaire continued. “How we travel on this very planet Earth matters. We have to realize that no matter how small or large our actions, everything we do matters. The moment you forget that, the moment you put that aside, your life becomes erratic, chaotic.”
Weeks later, the photographer gave a short talk about his experience working with the titans of tech, in which he drew attention to this particular man as the one who rose above the rest. Exceptional, the photographer said with a quiver in his voice. The most authentic and soulful person he had ever met.
lmao fuck you
I start talking to other writers about how much Kevin got paid versus how much I got paid versus hey do you want to tell me what you get paid? Some of them happily do and some do not. One woman tells me she thinks contractors tend to have higher salaries than full-time employees to make up for the lack of benefits. When I tell her that Kevin was FTE and I am a contractor, all she says is, Oh, I see. Are you FTE? I ask. She avoids eye contact. She fusses with her hair. I can tell she is deeply uncomfortable with my questions. I don’t care. I feel like I’ve shed a layer of tact and social sensitivity, and underneath is all rough, abrasive matter. I ask again. She says things like, she doesn’t know who makes these rules. It doesn’t make sense. She’s sorry. Was there anything she could do to help? Could she take me out to lunch?
oof
“I love the sentiment,” says a copyeditor. “But I’m grateful to even have a job here. I applied for years before I got in.”
“Now just seems really unstable. People are being fired, and I don’t feel comfortable asking for more,” says a video editor. “Maybe after things settle?”
“Have you talked to contractors at other publications who’ve tried to do the same?” says a fact-checker. “Could you gather more information before we decide what’s next?”
“I’m totally on board if others are on board,” says a home page editor.
“If you’re so unhappy, why not leave? Wait, are you doing this because you’re leaving soon?” says a Business reporter. “Some of us actually want to stay on, you know. We aren’t in the same position as you. Don’t drag me into this.”
amused by this
(her plan is to write an open letter from all the contractors demanding to be converted)
“So. I know you’re moving. The good news is that the new managing editor really likes the idea of having somebody in Ithaca. Who knows why. Guess he’s attached to the place. You can work remotely with the East Coast team. You’ll be a one-person Ithaca bureau,” he says, and laughs like I’ve won a prize.
I say I still want a raise. I try to be firm, like my dad said. I tell Corey about my other job offers, but my voice comes out splintered. I am not convincing.
“You’re incredibly valuable to us as a reporter,” he says, as though some supportive words are equivalent to concrete change, money, and power.
I tell him that if I don’t get a raise, I may consider going freelance or just leaving, period.
“You know we don’t have piles of money lying around,” he says. “This is journalism we’re talking about. This isn’t the kind of job where you make piles of money. It’s about loving the work, putting your heart into it.”
What about the piles going into the remodel of the office? What about the piles used to hire all these new people from other places, assuming they all got pay bumps to come over here? What about the piles used for his raise? What about the piles . . .
She tells me that Asians have it really bad—the worst—in her opinion. I can’t tell if she is saying this to pander to me for the suffering she thinks I may have experienced in high school as her friend, unbeknownst to her, and that I may still experience today, or if she really believes what she’s saying. Whatever it is, I tell her she is wrong. Or, it’s more complicated than that. First of all, there are differences between the experiences of East Asians and Southeast Asians and South Asians. As for me, East Asians have it pretty good. Being light-skinned. The model minority myth. Though used as a tool against other races, it just goes to show how East Asians have privileges. Etc., etc.
But, she says, her family in Ohio really, really dislike Asian people. Like the time she took her cousins to San Francisco’s Chinatown, they wouldn’t shut up about how disgusted they were by it all—the people, the food, the smells, the cheap trinkets—isn’t that really terrible?
I say yeah, that’s racist. Your cousins sound racist.
She nods enthusiastically. She hates her cousins. She says they’re terrible people.
But, I say, the Chinese in America don’t typically face police brutality. And we have high rates of college attendance, low rates of incarceration, no history of enslavement.
But, she says, she’s never really seen firsthand as bad of racism as how her cousins behaved toward Asians in Chinatown.
It feels like we are doing a sort of dance, the steps for which I cannot and do not want to master, so I end it by retreating to the conversations I know how to have, and am left with a nagging sense of having failed at something.
yikes
One of my junior high teachers once said in class, Davis is full of the kind of liberals who claim they want to make the world a better place, but who will fight to the death to prevent a homeless shelter from being built in their neighborhood.
damn, sf too
Atop the scratchy floral bedspread and happy, I turn on the TV, flip through the channels until landing on a familiar episode of Law & Order. A woman has been stabbed and murdered. The detectives hunt for a man. J asks if I want to explore. I decline. He goes out into the night. If we were in San Francisco, I’d have to go to sleep by now, and then I’d have to get up early to go to the office. I’d have to write two to four stories about new gadgets. I’d have to avoid thinking about whether the work mattered. I’d have to listen to Jasmine or whoever complain about work. I would have to listen to myself complain about work. Other reporters would cover the important stuff: the Google bus protests, the privacy breaches, the tech tax breaks ruining the city.
Do I enjoy it? It is easy and mindless work. I’ll have a source of income as soon as we get to Ithaca. All of this gives me a sense of peace and direction. So sure! I really enjoy it. Sign me up.
At the Fall Semester Welcome Barbecue, the most Asians and Asian Americans I’ve seen since arriving in Ithaca. But to each one I introduce myself as just the girlfriend, no relation to the cell biology or any other science or university department. Just the trailing girlfriend. I don’t intend or want to, but I can hear it, that grating self-pity. It’s either that or what I’ve said, but many afterward appear to avoid me.
Another tech reporter with whom I’m acquainted, but whom I never liked—he was the type to push his way to the front at a product announcement, as if being a few minutes ahead got him the scoop—sends me an email asking if I can talk about the aggregation work I’m doing. He wants to understand why the company has decided to use humans, instead of algorithms, and how this affects what shows up on the feeds. He says he’s heard from some that it’s a biased process, that certain topics and sources are off-limits. Is it true? He’s working on a feature. Can I talk? Can I answer some questions? Provide some insight?
I read the email a couple more times, but do not reply. I don’t want to be his source and it bothers me that he has found me doing something I’m not especially proud to be doing.
oh interesting