advantage of it. If I just did nothing and got mediocre grades and sat around, I would officially be the worst person ever. (I would also be broke in a few years, because I didnât get that much money.)
I ended up working at Popsense for a month and a half before I left to have another surgery on my arm. By the time the fall rolled around, I was fully recovered and landed a part-time gig at a more legitimate website, Flavorwire . This time I was actually paid ten dollars a post, sometimes twenty if it got a lot of traffic. I was in heaven getting paid to write! I felt so much pride cashing those checks for ten dollarsânever mind that each post took me two to three hours to write and format, making the payment less than minimum wage. It felt like I was on the path to success.
In December of 2009, I graduated from college and quit Flavorwire to look for a full-time paid writing position, but of course, that didnât work out. New York was still deep-throating the recession and squeezing its balls. There were no jobs for anyone. I was secretly relieved to be unemployed for a little while, though. The prospect of finding work left me paralyzed with fear because I wasnât sure I could even physically survive in the workplace. Wherever I ended up I would have to start from the bottom and do lots of administrative tasksâand with my bum hand and brain, accomplishing something as simple as opening an envelope could take me ten minutes. Trust me, babe. You donât want me to open your mail. Bad things will happen.
To mask my disability to employers, I applied for internships that gave you the option to work remotely. I never once stepped into an office. (Though, to be fair, I think Popsense was operated out of someoneâs dorm room.) I knew I couldnât do this forever, though. If I ever wanted to work in print, or at a legitimate blog, I would need to go into an office and sit side by side with someone. I would have to do simple tasks, tasks that could take an able-bodied person five seconds but possibly hours for me.
I would have to find an internship at a prestigious print magazine.
A few months after I graduated, I was sitting at home watching YouTube videos of Mary-Kate Olsen trying to speak when I saw that one of my favorite magazines, Interview , was looking for summer interns. âThis is your moment, Ryan!â I thought. âPick up your confidence that you keep locked in that storage unit in Queens and apply, dammit!â So I did itâI drove to Queens, got my confidence out of storage (it had grown considerably since Iâd seen it last, thank God), and applied for the internship. A few days after submitting my résumé, I got a response back asking me to come in for an interview at their intimidating office in SoHo.
Vibrating with excitement, I picked out my best âI am not disabled; I am NEW YORK MEDIA!â outfit and hightailed it downtown to meet with Grace, one of the editors, for a sit-down chat. Grace seemed nice enough, but she did look a bit worn down. It seemed like this job had stolen her spirit and was keeping it hostage in the cat food aisle at Rite Aid. The way she carried herself and the cadence in her voice gave me the impression that the world was perpetually taking a giant dump on her faceâa glamorous, couture dump, but a dump nonetheless. Despite her sad vibes, the two of us got along nicely and I felt confident that I had aced the interview.
When Grace called me a few days later and said that I had gotten the internship, I was overjoyed and then immediately terrified. This wasnât a touchy-feely âWe understand your brain damage!â magazine. It was an avant-garde New York FASHUN publication that represented physical perfection, and here I was, ready to limp all over it.
It only took thirty minutes into my first day at work to realize that, disabled or not, it was going to be nearly impossible to get a real job at the magazine.
I ended up working at Popsense for a month and a half before I left to have another surgery on my arm. By the time the fall rolled around, I was fully recovered and landed a part-time gig at a more legitimate website, Flavorwire . This time I was actually paid ten dollars a post, sometimes twenty if it got a lot of traffic. I was in heaven getting paid to write! I felt so much pride cashing those checks for ten dollarsânever mind that each post took me two to three hours to write and format, making the payment less than minimum wage. It felt like I was on the path to success.
In December of 2009, I graduated from college and quit Flavorwire to look for a full-time paid writing position, but of course, that didnât work out. New York was still deep-throating the recession and squeezing its balls. There were no jobs for anyone. I was secretly relieved to be unemployed for a little while, though. The prospect of finding work left me paralyzed with fear because I wasnât sure I could even physically survive in the workplace. Wherever I ended up I would have to start from the bottom and do lots of administrative tasksâand with my bum hand and brain, accomplishing something as simple as opening an envelope could take me ten minutes. Trust me, babe. You donât want me to open your mail. Bad things will happen.
To mask my disability to employers, I applied for internships that gave you the option to work remotely. I never once stepped into an office. (Though, to be fair, I think Popsense was operated out of someoneâs dorm room.) I knew I couldnât do this forever, though. If I ever wanted to work in print, or at a legitimate blog, I would need to go into an office and sit side by side with someone. I would have to do simple tasks, tasks that could take an able-bodied person five seconds but possibly hours for me.
I would have to find an internship at a prestigious print magazine.
A few months after I graduated, I was sitting at home watching YouTube videos of Mary-Kate Olsen trying to speak when I saw that one of my favorite magazines, Interview , was looking for summer interns. âThis is your moment, Ryan!â I thought. âPick up your confidence that you keep locked in that storage unit in Queens and apply, dammit!â So I did itâI drove to Queens, got my confidence out of storage (it had grown considerably since Iâd seen it last, thank God), and applied for the internship. A few days after submitting my résumé, I got a response back asking me to come in for an interview at their intimidating office in SoHo.
Vibrating with excitement, I picked out my best âI am not disabled; I am NEW YORK MEDIA!â outfit and hightailed it downtown to meet with Grace, one of the editors, for a sit-down chat. Grace seemed nice enough, but she did look a bit worn down. It seemed like this job had stolen her spirit and was keeping it hostage in the cat food aisle at Rite Aid. The way she carried herself and the cadence in her voice gave me the impression that the world was perpetually taking a giant dump on her faceâa glamorous, couture dump, but a dump nonetheless. Despite her sad vibes, the two of us got along nicely and I felt confident that I had aced the interview.
When Grace called me a few days later and said that I had gotten the internship, I was overjoyed and then immediately terrified. This wasnât a touchy-feely âWe understand your brain damage!â magazine. It was an avant-garde New York FASHUN publication that represented physical perfection, and here I was, ready to limp all over it.
It only took thirty minutes into my first day at work to realize that, disabled or not, it was going to be nearly impossible to get a real job at the magazine.
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