Rookie Errors

(12 minute read)

I learned my first hard-won lesson about the world of journalism when I was eighteen, an enthusiastic UCLA freshman hell-bent on a writing career.

I had barged into the little office that housed the staff of the Jewish student paper on campus, Ha’Am (“the nation”) and offered to write a short feature for them. I was thrilled when the editor gave me the go-ahead. I turned in my story, feeling triumphant.

When the paper was published, I raced through its pages looking for my story. There it was: my first byline! I was almost dizzy with delight. But the published story (whose topic I cannot remember whatsoever) barely resembled what I had turned in. In fact, the editor had totally rewritten it. I still felt dizzy, but now it was out of indignation, not delight. Why, she had taken a hatchet to my little piece of journalistic excellence!

Without stopping to consider that I had zero experience writing for newspapers and had only been in college for a few weeks, I barged right back into the office where I had cheerfully offered my intrepid reporting services, and lashed out at the editor. I was embarrassed to have my name on that article, I told her. If it had been so bad, why didn’t she give me a chance to make it right, or at least remove my name from a story that was no longer mine? Smoke may well have plumed from my ears for all my self-righteous pique.

The editor sat there absorbing my verbal abuse for a few minutes, no doubt wondering what she had done to deserve this. When I harrumphed that I would never write for her again, it must have taken all her self-restraint not to jump out of her seat and shout, “Thank you!”

This was my first lesson—the first of many more to come—in the many ways that the world of journalism would try to keep me humble.

It’s embarrassing to look back at this wildly inflated sense of confidence when I was still technically a teenager. Although I grew up long before self-esteem had risen to the apex of educational and child-rearing necessities, I had been generously praised by my parents, grandparents, and teachers for my work in English classes. Believing my own good press, I became conceited. This was my first lesson—the first of many more to come—in the many ways that the world of journalism would try to keep me humble.

I had always been most at home with books and stories, and I performed as strongly in my English classes as I flailed haplessly in all math and science classes. I couldn’t even get through third-grade math without a tutor! With these lopsided abilities, I banked on my language skills to propel me forward into a career as a writer. As a senior in high school I aced the Advanced Placement exam in English with the highest score, which further padded my already overblown confidence in my skills.

I could hardly believe my good fortune: I was the chosen journalist for the Chosen People’s student press service.

Despite my little trial by fire with the UCLA campus paper, in the spring of my sophomore year I won a summer journalism internship in New York. I was thrilled beyond measure at the prospect of going to the Big Apple for the first time and learning to be a “real” journalist. I would get on-the-job training and have my work critiqued by an editor, while exploring the fabled City that Never Sleeps. The Jewish Student Press Service, now long defunct, only chose one intern per summer, and I could hardly believe my good fortune: I was the chosen journalist for the Chosen People’s student press service. With hard work and a little mazal, my stories would get picked up by subscribing Jewish newspapers across the country.

I had a fabulous education that summer, but journalism skills were only part of it. Instead of being the urban sophisticate I fashioned myself to be, in New York I felt like a hick. I had heard that New York could be “humid” in the summer, a barometric condition that, coming from Los Angeles, I’d only read about in books. I learned the meaning of “humid” in July and August, walking the steamy streets and descending into the steamier, smelly “spa” of the subway platforms below. On the sweltering F train from Brooklyn to Manhattan, whose air conditioning only seemed to work on alternate Tuesdays, I grasped the metal ring that hung from the ceiling and tried not to fall directly into the malodorous armpit of the hygienically challenged man holding on to the ring next to me. After my first few weeks in the city I went shopping in the Indian boutiques in lower Manhattan close to my office, desperately in need of lightweight cotton shirts. New York’s summer was ruining all of mine.

In addition to learning about divergent hygiene patterns among passengers on public transportation, I also learned the peril of accepting offers to instantly double my money, especially when these finance whizzes were not set up at Goldman Sachs but instead, held court on overturned boxes in mid-Manhattan. Still the sucker from Van Nuys, I stopped to watch the “magic” of one “customer’s” twenty-dollar bill becoming two twenties when he guessed the right playing card. He made it look so easy, and I sure could use another twenty bucks! With no native New Yorker to turn me away from the scam known as three-card Monty, I handed over one twenty, then two, both of which disappeared into a jeans pocket of one of the young sharks after I guessed the wrong card. How could the city allow such things on Fifth Avenue, I wondered? And so close to Saks Fifth Avenue?

As the daughter of struggling middle class parents, and unrelated to anyone with deep pockets, the loss of forty dollars cut deeply. I could have eaten for the better part of a week on that money! I became angry at myself that I had fallen for the con. But I was still angrier at the duplicitous duo, heartlessly ripping off rubes like me. I brazenly sidled next to one of the young tough-looking guys at his “table” and murmured that I would not leave until he gave me my money back. He ignored me. I didn’t move. I thought I’d be clever and let him pocket another hundred bucks or so, lost by other rubes, before I hit him up again. He’d be glad to get rid of me for the bargain price of forty dollars.

After he shoved many more twenty-dollar bills into his pocket, I repeated my demand.

“I’m not leaving till you give me my forty dollars back, and if you don’t, I’m going to call the police,” I said quietly.

A few other customers started paying attention, their alarmed expressions cueing me that I was out of my mind to be testing the guy like this. The conman raised his voice and said, “Lady, you call the police and we both go to jail, because you just gambled and gambling’s illegal in New Yawk!”

Well, who knew?

I should have hightailed it away from these guys and fast, but my sense of reckless endangerment coupled with my student poverty made me stay.

I knew I had just gone too far. Was I actually risking my life for forty bucks? Apparently I was!

“I’m not leaving till I get my money,” I said. No sooner had the words left my mouth than panic flooded my body. I knew I had just gone too far. Was I actually risking my life for forty bucks? Apparently I was! Suddenly, he reached into his pocket and slammed two crumbled twenty-dollar bills into my hand. “Get outta heah,” he growled. It was not a friendly growl.

I bolted, race-walking up the avenue. My heart pounded so hard I put my hand over my new Indian blouse to try to keep it from leaping out. I began hiding out in various stores, unable to calm down. I would steal glances all around to see if anyone was coming after me. A half-hour later I was still panicky, but found a new refuge in a basement level bookstore. A bookstore is a safe place, I thought. Maybe they’d let me stay the night, just cozying along the carpet next to their selection of 19th century British fiction. Just as I felt my heartrate settle down to a healthy aerobic level, a very tall, muscular man approached me and said, “Hey, that was you playing three-card-Monty down the street, wasn’t it?”

Just when I thought I could rest easy, in the Historical Fiction aisle, he appeared like a spectre out of a Hitchcock movie.

I thought I would collapse in fear on the spot. Who was this man? Was he with them? Had he been following me? I had been in and out of several stores already, and now, just when I thought I could rest easy, in the Historical Fiction aisle, he appeared like a spectre out of a Hitchcock movie.

“Yyy . . . esss,” I managed to whisper.

“You oughta be careful out there,” he cautioned me, shaking his head in disapproval. “Those guys were watching you. Don’t ever do that again.”

I promised him that I would never, ever, ever again play three-card Monty in New York or anywhere in the known universe. Long after he left, I remained burrowed in that bookstore until closing time. It was dusk when I emerged, looking around me furtively. On the way to the subway I found a pay phone to call my housemates, native New Yorkers from whom I was renting a room in Brooklyn. They expressed shock at my antics and told me watch my back as I made my way underground to the train.

Not content with this reckless adventure, a few weeks later I found myself lost in the Bowery, also at dusk. I had made plans to have dinner with Ben, a good friend from UCLA and fellow English major, at his loft apartment in lower Manhattan. He gave me directions involving a train, a bus, and then a brief walk. The bus trundled through neighborhoods that were getting sketchier and more filled with drunks by the block, and getting nervous, I got off the bus, thinking I’d ask for directions from anyone who was still standing up and sober. But with no upright or sentient people around, I moseyed into a tiny bodega to ask directions.

Five young, tough-looking guys faced me from behind and in front of the small counter. Heavily musculature was on display through their white, tight t-shirts. I was young, female, and alone. My sense of vulnerability to attack, honed by millennia of persecution against Jews, was fully engaged. During that summer of 1980, New York still had a very high crime rate, and I often saw screaming headlines on the tabloid covers showing pictures of the latest victims of crime, many of them young women.

I began to understand why New York was called the city that never sleeps. With danger and crime all around, who could sleep?

I stood stock still, staring at these guys, paralyzed with fear. They stared back at me. My fear after the three-card monty game was bush league compared to this. My mind went blank and I could not utter a single syllable. I couldn’t remember my friend’s name. (It was Ben.) I couldn’t remember the name of his street. (It was Houston.) I couldn’t even remember my own name. (It was Judy.) I thought of my parents, who loved me so much and who might never see me again.

The impasse was becoming ridiculous, and very few of my brain synapses were firing, and mostly misfiring. However, my brain did register the fact that none of these scary looking young men had made any move to violate any part of my person. This was excellent progress.

Finally, one of the guys asked, “What do you want?”

I stammered and stuttered, but finally I remembered the name of the street where I needed to go. My entire body was shaking in fear. I believe I saw pity in their eyes.

One of them walked me outside and in his heavily accented English directed me on where to turn left, then right, to find my friend’s apartment.

They weren’t going to kill me! I was so happy! I would see my parents again. I still had a future writing headlines and would not become a headline. I hadn’t learned much journalism yet, but I still felt my summer was a success already. I was alive.

“Thank you! Thank you!” I said.

I realized that I had an uncanny knack for making people very happy by just agreeing to go away.

As I walked and prayed to find Ben’s apartment, I realized that I had an uncanny knack for making people very happy by just agreeing to go away: the editor of the UCLA Jewish student paper. The three-card Monty dealer. The guys in the bodega. Perhaps this was something I needed to work on.

Of course I got lost again, even though I repeated the guy’s instructions out loud over and over again, but my guardian angel led me to Ben’s place, nearly an hour late. After riding up the old, creaky elevator in the converted warehouse where he lived in a loft, I cried with relief when Ben opened the door. He listened patiently as I blabbered my dramatic story of getting lost in the Bowery. Ben was probably glad to get rid of me, too.

These were two of the stories I never told my parents about my summer in New York. There are others.

I began to get the hang of surviving in New York. Rule 1: No card games on the street, especially when the playing field is an upside-down cardboard box. Rule 2: Make sure you have very explicit directions when seeking an unfamiliar address. I maintain this is good advice even in the era of Google Maps and GPS.

New York was still a fabulous place to spend my summer. I indulged in a lot of comfort foods, including the biggest, chewiest bagels I had ever eaten in my life and the likes of which had not yet traveled to Los Angeles. I experienced the gustatory pleasures of Entenmann’s cakes and donuts, similarly foreign and tantalizing.

If I hadn’t exerted so much energy running away from dangerous situations, I probably would not have needed so much comfort food.

As I became a semi-seasoned city girl, I was also earning my chops as a reporter. My editor, Eli, sent me all over the city to interview Jews who were innovators in the world of arts, culture, and religion. I loved asking people questions that would otherwise have been rude to ask. I was genuinely interested to learn about everyone and the stories they told. I was thrilled to watch as my stories were picked up in subscribing newspapers in many states. Admittedly, I loved seeing my byline.

But I was chastened by the realities of how much I had to learn about the writing craft. When Eli said he wanted to go over his edits on the first story I turned in, we sat down at his desk and I saw my typed work, hemorrhaging red ink. My face must have registered shock, and I didn’t have to say a word for Eli to realize I had an exaggerated sense of my skills—something that appeared to be a pattern.

“Look, Judy,” he said, “if you want to be a professional writer, you can never be jealous of your own words.”

“Look, Judy,” he said, “if you want to be a professional writer, you can never be jealous of your own words.”
I got the message. I may have written the words, but that didn’t make them sacred in any way. It might not have even made them appropriate, specific, or good. I did want to be a professional writer, more than I wanted anything else in the world. Eli was an accomplished, smart editor, and I appreciated that he had chosen to work in a job that almost certainly paid a small salary, all in the cause of promoting quality journalism in Jewish media. I was going to listen and listen well to whatever Eli told me.

He patiently showed me my mistakes. Passive voice. Mixed tenses. Places where I should have asked a follow up question but didn’t. Places where I had written too much. Or too little. I saw and understood his comments, and I was determined to staunch the flow of red ink on my next assignments. I would show him that I could write.