Memoirs of a 2020 College Graduate: Part 2
Even before the pandemic, the idea that life wasn’t just about work became a seed in my brain. The idea grew under my nose while I desperately sought for a spot in Hollywood.
“I’m sorry. If it weren’t for the current situation, we’d love to help you get a position to one of our partner companies,” my intern supervisor said, face neutral under the “Zoom Meeting” banner.
It was the last week of my remote internship with a boutique film production company. I had just completed my last quarter of college, all 21 units, and an unpaid internship — completely virtual. It seemed that the pandemic prevailed once again. I was left with a contact list of producers, agents, and assistants that I had slotted for an “informational interview,” with the hope that someone, anyone, would give me a shot.
During my sophomore year of college, I changed my focus from pursuing pharmaceuticals to the elusive entertainment industry. I’ve always loved movies — from their conception to on-set production to that final viewing with family and friends. My father took me to Universal Studios Hollywood numerous times as a kid, and I knew that backlot like the back of my hand. As a writer living in Los Angeles, it only made sense to pursue “the Industry.” I remember being so excited when I took up a Film and Media Studies minor, I even bought a hat touting the film school. It was like a breath of relief when I thought I found my path.
I followed the advice that many entry-level occupants bestowed upon me: unpaid internships would eventually pave the way to an assistant role. After that, the world was my oyster. It was all exciting, to be part of something so consumable (and title-driven), my ego couldn’t help itself.
But was it a love for storytelling, or the idea that my family could brag that I successfully reformatted my creativity into a digestible, lucrative pathway?
I would think the answer was both, but with my ego in the driver's seat.
So after my list of informative interviews wore out without a promise of a next step, I felt an immense sense of failure. This is what I told everyone I was aiming toward, pre-accepting a life of long hours and “paying my dues” so I could eventually sit pretty with “executive” on my office desk. With nothing to show for it, at the ripe age of 22, I felt doomed.
However, behind these anxieties, I also felt relief. Prior to the pandemic, I had traveled to Europe for a study abroad trip. And to the slight chagrin of my family and friends who have heard me say this way too many times to count:
“Study abroad changed me.”
The sun yearned to peek behind the clouds to survey the scene beneath its feet. Parisians with baguettes in their hands, clothed in baby blue coats just thick enough for the slight wind coming from the east. It was early afternoon on a weekday. The streets of Montmartre remained calm as I sat under the red-hot lamps that lined a nondescript bistro. The cafe au lait and croque madame warmed my cheeks. I devoured my lunch, filling me up for my last day around the City of Love.
Across the street, another bistro herded its customers along its pavement. Groups of friends — young and old — laughed at each other’s jokes and anecdotes. They sipped their espressos, nibbling at the sandwiches and salads put in front of them. I checked my watch again.
Didn’t they….have work?
I recalled in French class the notion of the lunch break. Generally, Parisians preferred food and friends over computers and their employers. Breaks, especially lunch, were sacred. I saw this practice before my very eyes, and it occurred to me: when did I ever attempt to live in the moment? When was I never in a rush or filling up my time?
I was always busy, piling my calendar with tasks that were intended to accentuate my future. My university and peers operated the same way. I even have a tattoo on my left wrist that functions as a to-do list (three arrows going down, spaced enough to write one-worded reminders). Yet here, on a Tuesday afternoon, life felt lived. Leisure co-existed with adulthood—with daytime, with normalcy.
After that moment, I began to embrace “slowing down.” I felt the joy in seven-hour train rides, where time and movement were completely out of my control so I had no choice but “to be.” Be present and embrace life’s given time for me to read, to write, or to simply look out the window. It was nothing like the world I lived in the US, and definitely nothing like the Industry.
When I returned to Los Angeles, I had to rethink my career path.
Were the hustles and bustles what I wanted in life? Was it effective to work sixty-hours a week (or more) for the pursuit of a project that would be perceived by many, yet only impact a few? Plus, what about the things I now wanted to be adjunct to my life: of travel, of precious time with loved ones, of creative pursuits? Because on those seven-hour train rides, I found excitement in the travel; I found love for my writing; I found how much I missed my family and friends.
Upon my return, these thoughts sat at the back of my mind through senior year and the pandemic. They remained under the surface, all the way to that secret sigh of relief hidden behind my desperation.
In that relief, the Universe had enforced the fact that life was meant to be actively embraced, not passively observed on-screen.
These thoughts, which felt almost sacrilegious to our capitalistic society, felt reaffirmed during the pandemic because everyone slowed down, too.