COLUMN: A summer in the salt mines under the devil's whip

From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '99 From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '99The commute to hell isn't nearly as bad as people imagine. Forget what you may have heard about masses of hot and sweaty people being periodically prodded with freshly sharpened tridents by little men dressed in red, while an entirely too-happy Richard Simmons screams, "Come on, girls! FEEL the burn!" in the background. I was an intern. And every day, as I entered my office, a whisper of hope would echo through my mind: "Maybe today they'll actually let me do something!" I began to fantasize about the awesome responsibility of sharpening pencils for my department. Or maybe, if they truly trusted me, shredding blank sheets of paper for hours. But on a typical day, as I opened the door to the office, I was greeted by my 23-year-old supervisor saying, "Like, could you do me a HUGE favor? Throw these flowers out, would you?" Putting my bag down, I would pick up her flowers, walk the two inches to her garbage can and dump them in the trash. I had satisfied the masses. My job here was done. It would be another four hours before I was assigned another "task," hopefully less demanding than this burdensome "flower dumping" responsibility. I was left to pray. Or check my e-mail every six seconds. Or wait desperately at my cubicle for friends to appear on my Buddy List ("Are you there? ARE YOU THERE? PLEASE TALK TO ME!"). Or watch the second hand of the clock go round. Or see if I could stay completely still for five minutes. Much like an inmate in solitary at Alcatraz, I grew accustomed to playing little games with myself so I would not go insane. And this is the way thousands of college students spend their summers. Viva la resume. One would think that an internship -- especially a highly competitive one at a well-known corporation -- would provide worthwhile educational benefits. After all, most internship programs operate on the premise that the skills learned there cannot be learned elsewhere. Instead, this past summer provided me and many other interns with whom I've spoken with a newfound bitterness and cynicism toward the working world. Well, color me cynical and make me fax something. I'm an intern. After the first week of my internship -- during which I faxed three memos, alphabetized one file and distributed five packets -- I chalked up the lack of work to being new and told myself that even good internships involve "grunt work." The second week, with less to do than the first, I spoke to my supervisor and voiced my concerns about not receiving enough work. Nothing changed the third week. But believe it or not, this is not just about banana compensation. Students across the nation have to make choices about the next summer the moment they return to college and sometimes even before. Will they work to pay for college? Intern to build up a resume? Travel to see the world and "find themselves" in Europe? Volunteer at a local organization? Be careful. Many interns grow so enamored with the idea of working for a company that encapsulates what they want to do with their lives that their common sense is blinded. Not all internships are solitary confinement sentences with wardens called "internship coordinators" but to find out whether you might be working in a jail cell, talk to previous interns. Ask for more, do more. Accept the menial tasks but don't settle for them. If you wanted to "learn" how to use a fax machine, you could read the instructions rather than commuting. Don't let yourself become just another Ivy-educated monkey.

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