Pennsylvania Humanities Council

I’m not quite sure what has changed within the last couple days or weeks, but suddenly I am feeling like a fish that is attempting to walk on concrete as I go through what has become a pretty consistent routine for me.  The early-morning sun is not quite as inviting as it once was, the subway has lost its previous luster, and even picking out a work-appropriate outfit is not quite the same.

Before the start of the summer, I was so looking forward to what an adventure it would be to take public transportation and be able to navigate the city without access to a car, a personal loss I have always deeply felt since leaving my vehicle-dependant hometown.  I knew from the minute that I stepped onto the El, with its strange smell and horror-movie lighting, that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, but at the time that was okay.  I was so excited to follow the yellow-brick road down to my own personal Emerald City–a job! real people! autonomy!–but suddenly Kansas is looking pretty darn good.

I love to people-watch, which is part of what made riding the subway so fun.  It is a veritable explosion of hugely different kinds of people, a characteristic, I have come to find, that is generally associated with the Market-Frankford line.  Spending my commute observing has now become a pastime that I dread but cannot seem to drop.  If there is something to stare at, I tend to stare.  I just can’t help it.  Before, all these funny little things that I saw people doing on the subway made me want to be an anthropologist and my fingers itched for a pen.  My senior thesis would go by so quickly if this were my subject!  Now I am so disgusted, so totally grossed out by all the things that occur on the train.  It pains me when my bare skin brushes against the scratchy blue fabric that covers the metal seats.  The sound of people blowing their noses, coughing, or any other type of bodily function makes me cringe.  I walk the 3 dirtied blocks between my office and the train stop, and I practically jump out of my skin every time someone manages to sneak up on me (and given how busy Olde City Philly is, I’m surprised I haven’t needed a pacemaker).

Like I said, I’m not quite sure what has changed.  I suppose I miss the protection that comes from sitting in your car and being able to lock the doors…the way I can turn on the radio and not have to worry about how I look if I want to sing along to some Alicia Keys.  I won’t listen to my iPod on the subway because I’m too afraid to spare such an important sense; I won’t move my arm from over the opening of my bag because I’ve heard of so many people whose belongings were taken by someone who randomly reached in to snag something.  I basically look at everyone now as a potential ninja who may steal the $5 in my wallet and my TrailPass that I use to take the train.  It’s no wonder that people walk around urban streets with that world-weary look on their face.

When I’m walking around Philadelphia, I know now that I look like I (somewhat) belong.  Men advertising tours on busses have stopped asking if I would like a ticket for one, and I get frustrated with tourists who are clogging the busy sidewalks.  I’m proud that I can get around comfortably.  One thing I’m not quite as proud of is how I have started to interact with other people…or rather, how I have stopped interacting.  I look straight ahead when a homeless man asks me for spare change, not even acknowledging his existence; even in general, I tend to not look at people as they pass by the way I did before.  This morning, I rushed to catch the elevator, putting in my hand to stop the closing doors, to no avail.  “It just isn’t worth it” a woman next to me said.  I heaved a sigh and said in what was probably a rather cold voice, “Apparently not,”  and I turned away to wait for the next elevator.

When I was first looking at colleges, I ventured into NYC with my cousin to stop by a few schools.  It was another world to me.  The streets were dirty and packed, and people would brush by, touch, without even acknowledging it.  Out of habit, I smiled at everyone I saw because that’s how it is where I’m from.  I’ve now learned that that kind of friendliness is a lot easier (and less strange) in a place where there are not so many people.

Now I’m one of those impassive and hurrying people, and it kind of makes me sad.  While I still offer the occasional “bless you” to someone who sneezes and say “excuse me” as I brush past someone, there are times when I just can’t be bothered.  It makes me feel a little jaded.  I’ve always been an idealist, but this summer has made me wonder if a part of that has died in me.

These changes feel especially stark when I go back home.  A couple weeks ago I went back home, and my Dad and I went out for ice cream.  A family next to us began talking about what kinds they might get, and threw a couple comments our way.  With my arms crossed over my chest, I smiled and turned away.  This made me pause.  “Ever since going to Philly,” I remarked to my Dad, “I am just not very nice anymore.”  “The big city will do that to ya” my Dad replied.

While this has been my latest summer struggle, my walk home from work today reminded me that I don’t have to be a completely transformed from a suburban girl to an urbanite, but rather that my summer will more than likely result in some kind of synthesis of the two.  Yeah, I might go back to Ohio and drive like a real jerk, but I’m also still that girl who will smile at people I don’t know.

Every afternoon as I walk down Chestnut Street, there is a man with long curly gray hair playing the guitar and the harmonica at the same time, while also singing.  Even on the hottest of days he is always there.  Grappling with doing what you need to do to get by in an urban environment doesn’t mean that I have to act like I am impervious to an unfortunate truth like homelessness or poverty.  So while everyone walks by without looking twice at the homeless man who can play two instruments at once and also sing (that seriously takes some skill), I stop and drop a dollar into his guitar case.  ”God bless!” he calls.  It’s my third time giving him money, and every single time he sounds so surprised that someone stopped, noticed him, and bothered to give him a dollar.  I turn my head and smile and keep walking.  He may go use it for drugs, an umbrella, a cup of coffee…who really knows.  It just makes me happy to consciously embrace my natural naiveté, that unblemished belief that maybe you’re helping him to feed his kid, or just get by.  It’s what keeps me hopeful that we are capable of a more thoughtful, empathetic and united world.

P.S. Despite my philosophical romanticizing, I am still afraid of homeless people.

Working 9 am – 5 pm five days a week really makes me think about my schedule and what a stark contrast my current one is to my schedule during the school year.  I have transformed from a typical college kid—staying up pretty late, whether its doing homework or other “extracurriculars,” and dreading waking up in the morning—to a veritable old woman, feeling semi comatose as 10:30 pm rolls around.  But luckily some things never change, because I still dread waking up early; I wasn’t meant to function at 7 am.  During the school year, we stop and start all day and most of the night too, listening in class for a couple hours or completing a problem set, and then we break for awhile, maybe take a nap, eat some typical college kid food, or go talk with suitemates (or ideally, all of the above) before going back to another hour or two of work.  Though we don’t always like it, this kind of lifestyle affords us something that I am beginning to really value: making my own schedule.

I am a very routine-oriented person, but this 9-5 thing and me are not jiving.  I may not like the initial shock of waking up at 7 am every morning, but once I’m up, I’m ready to get things accomplished, so I like going into work early in the morning.  However, there are certain days where my attention span just isn’t there, and I know it.  If it were the school year, I’d shut my book with a sigh and head to the gym to regroup.  I can’t do that in an office.  I am forced to stay at my desk and try my hardest to pay attention, though this usually turns into me shopping online (hey, at least I’m honest!).  And every day by 3 pm, I have already mentally checked out.

Me by 3 pm...minus the hairy hands and married man part

It is just that time of day for me where I stop functioning at a high level, and I need to take a break.  I’m sure after reading this, it sounds like I am barely ever productive, but I promise I am.  When I’m on, I’m on.  But when I’m not, I’m really not.  If I could make my own hours, or rather, operate on a schedule that adheres more to productivity than it does to a fixed work day, I would get to work early, potentially go home for lunch (impossible with a one hour commute, unfortunately), perhaps work for another hour or two then head to the gym.  I tend to be much more productive in the evening, so I would ideally pick back up around this time, and after a couple hours I would then finish out my evening with a chocolate turtle and good magazine.

But as I lay out my ideal schedule in my head, watching myself really maximize my time during the day without feeling guilty about wasting company time (like I am right now…), the sharp needle of reality pricks my little dream bubble: I am an intern, and this just isn’t how it works.  And yet I don’t feel guilty, because I’ve seen others around the office do the same.  I pass by cubicles on my way to the water cooler or to grab a handful of pretzels, and someone is looking at facebook, or shopping online.  At first, this filled me with a sense of belonging.  I’m not alone!  But my second thought was, this is such a waste of time!  If I’m not being productive, I would rather go be unproductive at home.

Companies like Google allow this kind of mentality.  You are given a set of tasks that you are expected to complete by a certain time, and you do them, and you better do them well.  The rest is yours to decide.  You could bring your dog to the office, you could take a break at some point in the day to go to the gym; there is even in-house day care.  While these may sound like hugely expensive perks, I would imagine that they really help maintain a high level of productivity.  This general business model where employees utilize time as they see fit is called ROWE (Results Only Work Environment).

According to several studies, the average worker “wastes” anywhere from 16 hours to multiple days in a week.  And because of that, we are forced to work longer hours.  I am going to go ahead and say I wasn’t meant for that!  I’m not sure anybody really is.  Granted, I do know a few people who have said they enjoy an office job and working 9 – 5 (should I just assume they’re robots?), but the bulk of people who I talk to really hate it, even if they love their job.

This makes me want to do one of four things: become a writer and work at home, marry rich, find a place to work that uses the ROWE method or start my own business so that I can go to the gym at 3 pm simply because I want to.

Read the New York Times article that talks about this stuff too.  It makes me wonder if perhaps the American working world is transitioning into a new era.  Given that I just spent a good chunk of company time writing this, I certainly hope so!!

Time Wasted? Perhaps It’s Well Spent (NYT)

Just a few notes today.  I am not feeling particularly “loquacious” as my favorite Hermione Granger puts it (I am such a nerd).  Today I got to write a blog post for the next taping of our show Humanities on the Road, which basically will tell people what the presentation will be about and is intended to “hook” them in.  (By the way, this was offered with the enticement that now when people google my name, my post will come up…woo? Unless I manage to become the next Miley Cyrus (and that ship has sailed) I don’t see that happening)  It is an interesting type of writing because my supervisors at PHC want it to be purely informational, but it makes me wonder what the point of a blog is…when I think of a blog, I assume it will be editorial in nature, hopefully even with a little bit of funny sprinkled in there somewhere.  Not a requirement, but definitely a plus.  Over the years, I have found it more and more difficult to write in a way that eliminates my personal voice.  I find writing research papers interesting but stifling, and in the end I’m always left feeling that this type of writing is a bit…dry.  I understand that I am supposed to write diplomatically about Thaddeus Stevens (the subject of my work for today at PHC) and his hugely radical work as an abolitionist, but I have a hard time saying in more flowery terms that he could also be a bit of a prick.  Saying he had a “sharp tongue” only takes you so far.  It makes me wonder what this kind of writing achieves.  I understand that it isn’t particularly “well-bred” to say that this great historical figure was a prick, but it can be really frustrating to hide his “prickishness” behind lots of words and subtle meanings.  I think this outspokenness is an important part of his character, and quite frankly, I respect it.

The irony of this just struck me because Thaddeus Stevens was notorious for essentially calling out President Abraham Lincoln (and anybody else who angered/displeased him) for what Stevens perceived to be his sluggish and cowardly reluctance to abolish slavery.  I figure if you will lay it down on Lincoln, you’ll probably lay it down on just about anybody…and look how much Stevens accomplished.  Through sheer will power and brutal honesty, he made things happen that nobody else could have in that time.  I think we could really take a lesson from Stevens.

I’m not much of a history buff (I actually really hate history, unless it entails what Julia Roberts wore to each of the past Oscars ceremonies for the last ten years), but today I just have to say:

THADDEUS STEVENS, YOU MAY HAVE BEEN A JERK AT TIMES, BUT I RESPECT THAT.

Let me just say that working 9-5 every day is rough.  Given my rather busy/grueling schedule (that still leaves time for me to procrastinate in endless ways) during the school year, I somehow expected that working 9-5 might be…easier.  False.  False false false.  I like to take my time when I wake up in the morning, so I get up at 7 am to get dressed and eat my cereal while I catch up on my celebrity gossip.  By 8 am I’m out the door and walking to the train station, where I catch the R100 and ride to 69th street.  Then I get on the subway til 5th street, and by about 9:05 I am rolling into work, by which time my day may already be: a) going just fine, b) going down the toilet, or c) just a fog.  At this time during the school year, I consider it productive to be awake!

There are so many little things I find exciting (every single one of which makes me that much nerdier) about feeling like a “real person.”  I love having a commute and working in Philly.  Interacting with people outside of the Haverford community somehow makes my experience more tangible.  It reminds me that I can be a functioning individual outside of a college campus!  I love that I have to take an elevator to my floor, although admittedly, I could take the stairs, but 7 flights feels like it would burn just enough to make going to the gym after work even more unappealing.  I love that I have an ID to get into the building, even though nobody checks it and I just waltz right in, ID or no ID.  I have keys to get into my office, and to use the bathroom on our floor, which also feels pretty fun.  These little details of the working world make my experience that much more colorful.

One time, on a flight home for the weekend, the man I was sitting next to repeatedly offered me a drink because he had a coupon for an in-flight cocktail.  This wasn’t at all in a creepy way, he was just friendly, so after we got to talking for awhile about our respective destinations, he asked me where I worked.  I was so excited that somebody thought of me as something other than a college kid.  I didn’t want to tell him that I was a student, so I replied that I was in my first year working for a publishing house.  I am a notoriously bad liar, so much so that I never even try.  But for some reason in this moment it felt really easy to talk about a life that was the result of my dreams and ambitions rather than reality.  These details were not altogether made up, they simply hadn’t happened yet.

I thought about this interaction for weeks afterwards.  What had inspired me to essentially pretend I was someone else?  I realized that I wasn’t pretending to be someone else, but rather I was trying on who I thought I wanted to be and what I’ve always wanted to do.  It also dawned on me that this summer isn’t much different.  My keys to the office and the (unused) building ID feel like accessories to this facade that I get to live out for three months.  And while I’ve romanticized many parts of being a working woman, it is also really hard.  I’ve always been a night owl, but suddenly 10:30 pm rolls around and my eyelids are drooping.  My friends have been commenting that they never see me…and every time I attempt to justify my geriatric behavior, I think to myself saucily, “I am a workin woman!”

I have a newfound and deep respect for people in the working world, and especially women, though I can’t figure out where the distinction came from.  Perhaps it’s because I babysit sometimes, and that combined with my work schedule makes me wonder how anybody does this every day.  One thing I’m glad for is that at the end of my work day, I can come back home to Haverford and drop my assumed role as a “professional” and simply feel like a college kid again, because in my fantasies, no working woman eats cereal for dinner most nights the way I do.  I’m a hybrid of the two, rather than one or the other; I’m really enjoying getting to try on this other version of myself, because one day soon (much sooner than I’d care to think about) my practice will pay off… and hopefully it will be just as fun.

Despite all the dreaming I did growing up about all the things I might do—become a lawyer, write a book, own a book shop—working for a non-profit never really crossed my mind.  I always knew what the phrase meant, but I never really understood the connotations behind it.  I have friends working for both non-profit and regular firms, and when the ones working somewhere “for profit” talk about it, they usually respond, “yeah… I’m one of the jerks.”  But I don’t think that’s it at all!  Having worked in both environments, I’m coming to understand that really the two just come with very different concerns.

At PHC, fundraising is at the forefront of the collective thought process; quite simply, it’s where everything here starts.  Naturally, as a non-profit, we don’t have as much money to work with as other organizations might.  This creates a rather unique tension between spending what is necessary to create a professional and fulfilling program while also accounting for every dollar in a responsible manner.  There’s never enough time, and there’s never enough money.

Another lesson I’m learning in the non-profit world is that you have to be more polite.  I like to think that, as a nice mid-western girl, I am well-mannered and respectful in my interactions with people.  At the same time however, I think it can become necessary to raise certain concerns in a professional manner.  There doesn’t seem to be as much room for this in non-profit, and I am trying to understand why.  If certain board members do not do what we ask of them, we simply do it ourselves and don’t say anything.  Or: last week, I attended a taping for PHC’s television program Humanities on the Road, and there was no air conditioning…this may not sound like much of a problem, but it was a very large and stuffy building (and very well-funded, I might add).  It was almost 90 degrees outside, and even hotter inside, so naturally we had to constantly pause taping to wipe sweat off of our main speaker.  If there was ever a time I desired a few personal minions to wave palm fronds at me while I lounged, it was in that moment.  Though people at PHC were annoyed that nobody from the building staff alerted them that there would be no AC (especially when there would be several bright spotlights for the speakers, and cameras everywhere), nobody said much other than they were glad it was over.  Maybe this is because it isn’t worth the effort?  That there are so many better things we could spend our time on, given that our efforts are limited and the work is limitless?  I’m not quite sure, but I suppose I shall figure it out eventually.  Maybe this isn’t special to the non-profit world, but rather to the working world in general.  I guess these are my Haverfordian confrontation values at work!

I’m eager to better understand this rather fragile balance that seems to characterize the non-profit world.  In the meantime, I promise that I will never be upset with my mom again for having the AC on when it’s hot out.

My view from the office

Considering that this blog is comprised of my thoughts and reflections on working for the Pennsylvania Humanities Council, it is hard to start an entry when I feel entirely speechless. Sleeping last night was a joke–I kept waking up to assure myself that I hadn’t missed my alarm, and I was riddled with jitters that I just couldn’t shake.

Navigating the public transportation system was an adventure in itself, but luckily I had two good friends to show me the ropes. When I emerged from the underground subway stop, I was assaulted by the sounds (and smells, I might add) of the city, and I wasn’t quite sure which way I was supposed to go. I mustered up as much bravado as I could manage and I simply went in a certain direction, which luckily ended up being right! That’s definitely a first.

My first day at PHC was calm yet still nerve-wracking.  I don’t have much in the way of actual work yet, but I am becoming acquainted with how the office runs, and meeting all the PHC employees.  When I first interviewed for the internship, I was so full of hope and ambition.  I could just feel that my world was going to get a little bigger.  The jitters were (and are) so persistent because I simply am not quite sure what this bigger world is going to look like to me, or how I’m going to fit into it.  Like any other college kid, I wonder if I am actually prepared for this job.  Am I qualified to do any of this?  Perhaps not.  But Haverford has taught me that if I ask questions, do my research, and hand it in with a smile, I could at least seem qualified.  I’m starting to realize that the qualities that make someone “qualified” aren’t always how many proofs they’ve done, whether or not they know how to write a press release, or whether or not they can use Photoshop, but rather it is a willingness to learn, and learn quickly, dedicating oneself to a project whole-heartedly.

So while my new view is a little mind-boggling–how did I get here when 10 years ago my two biggest idols were Posh Spice and Evie from “The Mummy”??–I hope it stays that way for awhile.

I am so excited to work with these wonderful people at the Pennsylvania Humanities Council.

Mandy Ball ’11 has a Humanities Center internship with the Pennsylvania Humanities Council. She will be helping with communications, government relations, fund-raising, and the production of a new television series.