Right now, I know something that virtually no college student in America knows. It's not in any of Baker's 2.1 million volumes and no professor is teaching it. Did you read the World and Nation page of this paper? My mailed subscription won't put this issue in my mailbox for another week, but I can already tell you what's on page two. And tomorrow's page two. I am completely current on all the news of the outside world.
For nine hours each day, I watch images from Vladivostok to Zanzibar stream onto a monitor in rainy London. The Pope sneezes in Havana, and my job is to catch it on tape. TV news interns are close to the bottom of the food chain, but by pushing play and record at the same time, I can elegantly whisper "I work in television news."
It sounds impressive, but it's not all that glamorous. After recording dozens of daily video feeds, my department watches them and slices out video clips to be used on the air.
Some are interesting and some downright awful. I watch the bloody aftermath of fill-in-the-blank terrorist acts and choose the kinder, gentler gore for your viewing pleasure. I watch the Israeli cabinet meetings so often that I know Benjamin Netanyahu's entire wardrobe.
From bone-chilling atrocities to mind-chilling sameness, I'm not easily fazed by The Associated Press video buffet. But on Saturday I saw something truly horrible.
My knuckles went white gripping the wooden console. I gasped for air, finally sputtering out an alarmed "What the hell is that!?" It looked just like my eighth grade dance. I shook with fear as teenage girls stuck half way between puberty and the orthodontist's office shouted, "The class of '87 is so so cool!" Taffeta, hair spray and memories of that dreaded "awkward phase" struck me to the core.
If anyone put pictures of me at age 14 on the AP wire, I'd have Hitmen-R-Us on the phone so quick you wouldn't have time to say "training bra." What poor creature was so important that her eighth grade dance was being sent to journalists the world over?
That's when I first heard about a woman named Monica Lewinsky. My British insulation bubble burst and I realized how serious President Clinton's troubles were. Glued ever since to one evasive live press conference after another, Monday afternoon was when the bomb went off. We finally got what we were waiting for.
"I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky." Boom. Welcome to newsroom hell.
Making a digital sound byte from tape is not that difficult, but as I learned, it doesn't go any faster with a hysterical French journalist yelling in your ear. Tapes went flying to the chorus of "live" and "now." I took a deep breath and said "Go go gadget brain." I made Clinton cuts in English, Spanish, French and Italian in the course of about two minutes. By the time I was finished, I could have kicked a hole in a brick wall from the adrenaline rush. Now I know how the Power Rangers feel at the end of every episode. Oddly enough, while I was energized and ready to take on the evil empire, my colleagues sank tiredly into their desk chairs. The stress that had so invigorated me so exhausted them. While they would call that a bad day, there was part of me that wanted to do it again.
Two metaphorical creatures climbed onto my shoulders.To the right was the off-term angel. "Relax, Julie. This is your off term. You're legal to drink, and there are men with accents everywhere. Go have fun!"
On the left is the stress demon. "Hard work will pay off! Faster! You have to write a thesis proposal by May!"
Who to listen to? It seems that Monica Lewinsky may have listened to the wrong voice. But even as I relax in London, I confess that it felt refreshing to be frazzled again. After two years at Dartmouth and four months in a foreign country, my tolerance has skyrocketed -- not for alcohol, but for stress!
And not only does Dartmouth teach us to live with stress, but literally to incorporate it into normal life. One moment I was entertaining co-workers with a running commentary on Clinton's speech and the next throwing tapes into a video encoder.
As the Clinton drama unfolds in my newsroom across the Atlantic, I realize two important things. One, know when to keep your pants on. And two, no matter how much stress you're under, Bill Clinton's under more. But if you stop and think, dealing with problems like that is what you're training for. Your midterms are not only teaching you what's on the test, but also how to negotiate and get past overwhelming problems -- problems which may one day be as big as Bill and Monica's.
And to be on the safe side, make sure any pictures of you with big hair, zits and giant blue glasses are well out of reach of The Associated Press. Trust me.
