I am in the process of merging my current blog with this site. I am therefore posting this here instead of there. Here is my letter to The New York Times' Nicholas Kristof and Charles M. Blow, on why I hope they will consider me as they look to hire a new editorial assistant.
Mr. Kristof and Mr. Blow,
I've been thinking today about what makes me different from the thousands of other 20-somethings applying to be your assistant.
The New York Times is the Harvard of the journalism industry. Everyone applying has the same resume. College internships at major news outlets, a stint at a local paper, maybe some shiny awards or a few notable bylines.
None of the lines on my resume make me much different from anyone. I happen to be a stringer for the Times, and a New York Times Student Journalism Institute alumna, but I'm sure that not even that is enough to make me the obvious choice. There is no obvious choice.
But I do have one thing that I can't write on my resume, and I'd like for you to know about it as you combat candidates vying for your attention.
When I was a junior in college, I decided that I wanted to intern for CBS News. I went to Marcy McGinnis, then-associate dean of the Stony Brook University School of Journalism, and asked her how to do that. She directed me to Katie Curcio, who was scheduled to appear at an upcoming job fair.
On the day of the job fair, I found Katie's table with no one behind it. I asked the organizers if Katie was still coming. They told me they hadn't heard from her; it looked like she wasn't going to show.
I waited next to the table that had been reserved for CBS. Maybe Katie was on her way.
I stood next to the table until I got tired, and then I took a seat on top of it. I sat on that table for two hours, something in my gut telling me that it wasn't time to leave yet.
Other students came and went. Seven students shook my hand, introducing themselves because they thought I was the CBS representative. When I informed them that I was waiting for her, too, they left.
I stayed.
At the two-hour point, I decided that there was a fine line between dedicated and crazy. I went to the organizers one last time to ask if they'd heard from her. They told me she'd just arrived, and her table had been changed.
I ran to the new table and was first in line. Katie and I had a brief conversation, I filled out an application. A line formed behind me. A few months later, she offered me the internship.
I cannot tell you that I am smarter than everyone else who wants to be your assistant. I cannot say that I have more technical skills than everyone else, because I'm sure that they are just as technically qualified.
But I can tell you that I will stay. I will sit on that table for as long as it takes, when everyone tells me that Katie isn't going to show. Because journalism is about work. It is about putting in time, knocking on doors, knowing when to stay and when to leave. It is about knowing when there's still a chance she'll show up, and when it's time to try another way.
If there's a technical skill I don't have, I can learn it (I will learn it). But you cannot teach someone to have the instinct to keep trying. You cannot teach someone to want something badly enough to never give up. You cannot teach someone to stay.
I would treat any research I did for you the same way I treated my first meeting with Katie Curcio. I do not give up. I do not take "no" and go home. I take "no" and keep trying.
I've heard it said that journalists are the crazy people who run toward fires and floods instead of away from them. Journalists are the people who hear "no" but don't leave. They're the people who have the instinct to stay.
Journalism has never felt like a choice to me; it is a part of me. To work for and learn from you would be an incredible privilege. Give me a chance to show you what I can do.
-- Arielle Dollinger
Mr. Kristof and Mr. Blow,
I've been thinking today about what makes me different from the thousands of other 20-somethings applying to be your assistant.
The New York Times is the Harvard of the journalism industry. Everyone applying has the same resume. College internships at major news outlets, a stint at a local paper, maybe some shiny awards or a few notable bylines.
None of the lines on my resume make me much different from anyone. I happen to be a stringer for the Times, and a New York Times Student Journalism Institute alumna, but I'm sure that not even that is enough to make me the obvious choice. There is no obvious choice.
But I do have one thing that I can't write on my resume, and I'd like for you to know about it as you combat candidates vying for your attention.
When I was a junior in college, I decided that I wanted to intern for CBS News. I went to Marcy McGinnis, then-associate dean of the Stony Brook University School of Journalism, and asked her how to do that. She directed me to Katie Curcio, who was scheduled to appear at an upcoming job fair.
On the day of the job fair, I found Katie's table with no one behind it. I asked the organizers if Katie was still coming. They told me they hadn't heard from her; it looked like she wasn't going to show.
I waited next to the table that had been reserved for CBS. Maybe Katie was on her way.
I stood next to the table until I got tired, and then I took a seat on top of it. I sat on that table for two hours, something in my gut telling me that it wasn't time to leave yet.
Other students came and went. Seven students shook my hand, introducing themselves because they thought I was the CBS representative. When I informed them that I was waiting for her, too, they left.
I stayed.
At the two-hour point, I decided that there was a fine line between dedicated and crazy. I went to the organizers one last time to ask if they'd heard from her. They told me she'd just arrived, and her table had been changed.
I ran to the new table and was first in line. Katie and I had a brief conversation, I filled out an application. A line formed behind me. A few months later, she offered me the internship.
I cannot tell you that I am smarter than everyone else who wants to be your assistant. I cannot say that I have more technical skills than everyone else, because I'm sure that they are just as technically qualified.
But I can tell you that I will stay. I will sit on that table for as long as it takes, when everyone tells me that Katie isn't going to show. Because journalism is about work. It is about putting in time, knocking on doors, knowing when to stay and when to leave. It is about knowing when there's still a chance she'll show up, and when it's time to try another way.
If there's a technical skill I don't have, I can learn it (I will learn it). But you cannot teach someone to have the instinct to keep trying. You cannot teach someone to want something badly enough to never give up. You cannot teach someone to stay.
I would treat any research I did for you the same way I treated my first meeting with Katie Curcio. I do not give up. I do not take "no" and go home. I take "no" and keep trying.
I've heard it said that journalists are the crazy people who run toward fires and floods instead of away from them. Journalists are the people who hear "no" but don't leave. They're the people who have the instinct to stay.
Journalism has never felt like a choice to me; it is a part of me. To work for and learn from you would be an incredible privilege. Give me a chance to show you what I can do.
-- Arielle Dollinger
