Being an intern is a curious thing. You work long hard hours for no pay, get little to no respect—and if you're really lucky, you actually learn something. I was one of the lucky ones. As an intern at a newspaper, you do the grunt work—opening mail, filing press releases, checking email, entering data. Then eventually you get to start writing short articles, doing research for the "real" writers and having the occasional paying freelance gig thrown your way.
I was hired as an editorial intern at the Valley Advocate in the fall of 2002 by then-listings editor Shireen Deen. The Advocate office at that point was located on the third floor of Eastworks, a renovated factory building that had morphed into a commercial and business center. I was intimidated the moment I walked into the office for my interview with Deen; during the short tour she gave me, I heard editor-in-chief Tom Vannah alternately pecking at his keyboard and shouting expletives. Out of nowhere, then-staff writer James Heflin jumped up and joined Vannah's rant and the two bitched about everything from George Bush and Karl Rove to John Kerry and conspiracy theories, within a matter of minutes traversing the topical spectrum.
I was petrified. It took a few months in the office to set me even slightly at ease. It didn't help matters when I realized that my first impression of the editorial staff at the Advocate was an accurate one. Besides Vannah's and Heflin's constant dialogue, Maureen Turner often strode purposefully through the office searching file cabinets for pictures of and information on Springfield's players—Tim Ryan (Charlie's son), Mike Albano—often stopping to talk to Stephanie Kraft about the dirt she'd uncovered that day. Listening to these opinionated writers and editors banter back and forth, hashing out story ideas and trading witty barbs, taught me more than the 20 hours a week I spent learning how to file photos, use Associated Press style and avoid dangling modifiers.
In short, these people frightened me. They knew so much! I was a 22-year-old intern, barely out of school. My thoughts were occupied with my boyfriend, cocktails and what to wear on my date that night. Would I ever be like these people? Would I ever care about renewable energy, politics, Springfield or Rush Limbaugh?
Almost seven years later, I finally have an answer, albeit not a black-and-white one. After spending my 20s in the Advocate newsroom, I can honestly say I do care about renewable energy, politics and Springfield. However, I never did quite manage to give a shit about Limbaugh.
My tenure as an unpaid intern at the Advocate came to a close in a rather unexpected way. Back then, interns were only allowed to stay for two calendar-year semesters. At the end of the spring, 2003 semester, Vannah expressed a desire to keep me around in some capacity, perhaps as a freelance writer. I went out for lunch and did cartwheels behind the Northampton Brewery.
A few days later, Deen gave her notice. She was leaving for New York City to pursue a graduate degree. I made a beeline to Vannah's office. Still intensely intimidated by the vocal, boisterous editor, I knocked apprehensively on his door.
"Tom?" I squeaked. "Can I come in?"
He motioned me to one of the office's many broken chairs.
We spent the next few hours sequestered behind closed doors. (Most conversations at the Advocate take place within audio range of everyone—only serious stuff gets discussed when the doors are closed.) I asked the requisite question—"What can I do to be in the running for this job?" "Apply," he said—plus a lot more. Not for nothing, but the man will talk your ear off if you let him.
Weeks went by. I waited on pins and needles. Over the years, dozens of people have landed jobs with other media outlets after interning at the Advocate, some at other papers in the Advocate chain, some at dailies or publishing houses. Yet to my knowledge no intern had (or has since) been hired as staff at the Valley Advocate. I knew I had come a long way from my first days in the office, but I wasn't sure it was far enough. So I decided to hedge my bets.
I put my plan into action the night of the Advocate's annual Best of the Valley party at the Log Cabin in Holyoke. After sucking down four vodka tonics, I cornered Vannah.
"Okay," I said forcefully. "I need to talk to you. Now."
"Okay, Kendra, sure. If you'll excuse me&," Vannah said to a man he was chatting with.
"Here's the deal," I said. "I really want this job. Like, you have to hire me, Tom. I'll work so hard for you. I'll do anything you say. Really. You just absolutely have to hire me."
I noticed the wry smile that was beginning to show at the corners of his mouth. Vannah was laughing at me!
"Okay, Kendra," he said. "I get it. You really want the job. Thanks for telling me."
On vacation a week later, I got the call. Vannah wanted to let me know I had the job as soon as he had made his decision. (He told me years later that I had the job the moment I demanded it at the Log Cabin.)
I spent the next three years as the listings editor. Often it felt like a thankless job. That's not just because it's the entry-level editorial position at the Advocate. I spent three years explaining to people why they didn't make the listings—it's the deadline, people, the deadline!—and making more enemies than friends. I heard myself referred to as a deadline Nazi so many times I began to self-identify as that. Each day as I was slaving away with entering the listings data, my colleagues (read writers) were jetting off to this museum or that interview, then writing their stories.
When, three long years, a few staff changes and dozens of interns later, I heard that arts writer Daniel Oppenheimer was moving to Texas, I beelined for Vannah's office again. This time around, I was able to approach him without having cocktails first.
"Yo, boss man," I yelled as I pounded on his office door. "Don't you think it's high time you promoted me? I hear Oppenheimer's leaving. You will give me his job."
I became a staff writer. Tom Sturm joined the team as listings editor, James got promoted to arts editor and Kraft and Vannah continued to run the show.
Two years and a lot of Karl Rove jokes later, our positions remain the same, if nothing else does. New Mass Media, which is owned by the Hartford Courant, which is owned by the Tribune Corporation, which was bought by Sam Zell, sold the Advocate to Newspapers of New England, the parent company of the Daily Hampshire Gazette. In January of 2008, we packed up and moved the whole outfit to Conz Street in Northampton. We currently reside in the Gazette's former lunchroom.
I have high hopes for the Advocate's future, even in the face of a dwindling print media business. What other publication is going to call out shady politicos in such cheeky style while providing in-depth local arts coverage at the same time? And who knows? Next time I'm up for a promotion, maybe I won't have to beg or demand it. Maybe it'll just happen.
