Evan Gershkovich at 100 Days: Press Club welcomes sister Danielle, former Iranian Captee Rezaian

Not everyone has a journalist brother detained in Russia, but as Danielle Gershkovich said today, many of us have brothers.

Watching her speak at the National Press Club briefing (remotely) was even more moving than I had imagined it would be, in no small part for her composure and smile, her sweetness and calm in the face of unspeakable fear.

Joining her were longtime Iranian captee, Washington Post's Jason Rezaian, Paul Beckett, Washington Bureau Chief of the WSJ and Jason Conti, general counsel with Dow Jones and a lawyer on the detainee's case. NPC President Eileen O'Reilly moderated the panel, which included both emailed and live questions from assembled press and Club members.

Beckett began by sharing the power of the recent milestone, 100 days, memorialized on its front page. "Acknowledging the impact and reality" was punctuated by the milestone, Gershkovich's imprisonment following his March 29 apprehension on so-called espionage charges.

Rezaian said that authoritarian regimes--namely Russia, China and Iran-- "weaponize their legal system against people like me, like Evan." He said he's "convincing people that we have to be smarter about how we frame these stories."

The lawyer on the panel, Conti, brought in a surprisingly moving account of how he works to free Gershkovich. He said their firm makes it a priority to comfort the family as they maneuver the Russian system, which he says almost guarantees 100 percent in the Russians' favor. He and his firm are involved in a tedious process of appeals.

Danielle Gershkovich talked about the weekly letters she receives from her brother. Asked how she receives them, she simply said they are photographed and sent to her, though it is unclear if she meant on or offline. "I got a letter yesterday and it changed my mood."

Throughout the hour she showed a type of composure one could only describe as heroic. Her parents' full-time job is seeing their son released, but she has to go to work every day. She finds solace there, and showed us a bit of her relatable personality when she quipped, "I was the classic bossy older sister, but we've become friends."

To watch today's recording, click here.

Today, news outlets are reporting that President Biden is serious about a prisoner swap to secure Gershkovich's release. Photo: National Press Club rooftop, 1905. Library of Congress/ Harris & Ewing, photographer, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Top 10 Pet Peeves, Grammar Edition

Many niggling grammar mistakes, slang, acronyms and jargon rattle my cage. Here is a short summary:

1. Every day is two words when one means "every" as a determiner and "day" as a noun. Everyday is an adjective, as in "everyday occurrence". I just read a post from the World Health Organization, no less, in which everyday was used incorrectly! "Get 8 hours of sleep everyday!" (Cue nails on 20th century chalkboard.)

2. I am tired everyone "pivoting". When a boss first told me to pivot, I thought she meant do a little ballerina turn. Say "change your tack" or "try another way" etc.

3. A hundred percent. A joke of this is made beautifully in the opening scene between John Mayer's shallow character on the make and B.J. Novak's. Every question they pose over cocktails has one answer, "hundred percent." Please only use this if you are telling an eighth grader how well he did on his math test.

4. Acronyms. Unless it is IBM or USA, I probably do not have a clue. The most annoying use happens when a company spokesperson or CEO knows very well it's confusing the listener, but wants them to feel less than. Oh, we are such a smart company! That's why we have the AWDIT Club? Say what? "All we do is think!"

5. Awesome or amazing. Need I say more? Use istead: resplendent, colorful, shocking, delightful, tantalizing, illuminating, bewildering or memorable, depending on the context of course. Amazing or awesome is what NASA finds on MARS, not your Croque Monsieur.

6. Your instead of you're. Your is a possessive pronoun used when one says "your bike" or "your cheeks". When one is miserable, write "you are miserable". You (personal pronoun) plus are (linking verb).

7. Bragging about your doctorate. In the UK, we called our tutors (professors here) by their first names. If James, who has a PhD from Oxford, is so humble why are you bragging about your PhD in economics from Fresno State? You should be proud, of course, but we don't need to see "DrJones123" as your Twitter handle.

8. "Wherever you get your podcasts." Why do I have to get podcasts? No one says, "Wherever you buy or borrow your books."

9. Laughing at references from long ago. It is not funny that I'm telling you about a major story I broke 20 years ago, even if you were three at the time. Read a book, Gen Z: there were people who came before you.

10. Finally, their/they're. This is the same rule as your/you're. Their Persian ran after my Rottweiler. They're going to be in big trouble when I sick my Chihuahua on them."

Photo: the author's maternal grandmother Susie, a school teacher, who would be "mighty proud" (as she would have said) of her granddaughter for writing this.

Quit with the excuses: I’m older, not dense

Today, yet another rejection came into my e-mailbox. "We have found other candidates whose exoerience more closely ..." Blah blah blah, said the editor to a woman, 61, who has been published in far more news outlets than whatever 30-year-old she just hired.

When I returned to university for my master's at 56, I really had no clue the job market would challenge me. I thought doors would fly open. Instead of flying open, they are stuck shut, only opening with elbow grease.

Why do Americans have such a hard time with the ageing woman? The clue might lay in the revolutionary Sports Illustrated cover girl, Martha Stewart, 81. I do not expect to look that good ever, let alone in 20 years, but why is this even a thing? Are we asking Robert Kraft or Senator Sanders, her peers, to show us their taut muscles in less-than wear? Gosh, I get a little embarrassed iust thinking about it. Yea, I am old enough to remember when Mom bought the Burt Reynolds Cosmo issue in the 70s, too. The joke was a man doing this at all, wink wink, which Reynolds excelled at.

Someone advised me to just give up journalism. Same someone had suggested being a Walmart greeter. Nothing against Walmart greeters, but do you really want a bitter, unemployed journalist snarling at you as you show your receipt for a 24-pack of jello? I have wracked my noggin wondering if, in To Kill a Mockingbird fashion, I can not only understand but accept their prejudice: the verdict is in and I do NOT.

Today's excuse was one of hundreds received since I graduated from King's College London. Admittedly, I have held two jobs since then, and been offered at least five I did not accept. But the ratio of offers-to-rejections is far worse than it was pre-master's, an equation I hadn't even entertained when getting my biometrics done in 2017!

If women are humans, and I believe we are, wouldn't it stand to reason that age = wisdom? I am a much sharper Jeopardy player now. I can name all of Captain Cook's voyages and Jane Austen's novels without blinking. You might get me on the latter, but I can indeed explain how she introduced slavery in the West Indies in "Mansfield Park" in such a nuanced fashion as to be almost undetectable.

Quit with the excuses. Quit with the patronizing "ma'ams" and inane questions about my tech knowledge. Google me, you stupid f%$k.

I hope Martha Stewart's SI splash does more than raise the blood pressure of octogenarians everywhere: I hope it is a wake-up wail to all those Gen Zers who have put us out to pasture, long before our time.

Stop ‘Pivoting’ Please!

I don't know why this bothers me but if I read or hear one more journalist or talking head say "Let's pivot", I will scream. Just say "Let's change course" or "Let's scrap our plans to investigate Hunter Biden" or "Let's stop using tired jargon and show a little intellectual spark."

I never heard anyone say pivot outside the ballet world before 2017. Then it was everywhere. I went to grad school in London and, mercifully, the dreaded "pivot" stayed back in America. Yah! But wait, I had to move back to the U.S. when my student visa expired ... and guess what awaited me. Probably someone at Customs was dusting it off as I - newly educated by real English speakers, poor in purse but rich in thought - arrived at Newark.

I also cannot stand when anchors tell viewers they will talk to us "on the other side". They mean the commercial break, but for the past couple years, "pivoted" to saying other side. This makes me wonder what other jargon awaits: the virtual watercooler? The blinking red light? The self-important incurious journalist?

I realize that journalism isn't fine art, but it is affecting millions of Americans each day. Children pass TV screens and mimic what they hear. Later that day, little Laurie will say to Little Bobby, "Let's pivot at recess and play tetherball instead!"

Words matter. I urge all journalists to eschew jargon and clichés in favor of succinct prose. Yes, it takes more time to use your brain rather than lean on a tired phrase ... that is the point.

Image: By Ruizo at French Wikipedia - Transferred from fr.wikipedia to Commons by Korrigan

In the lobby with Fox News

In late November 2009, more than 1,000 e-mails between scientists at the Climate Research Unit of the U.K.’s University of East Anglia were stolen and made public by an anonymous hacker. Climate skeptics claimed the e-mails proved global warming was not real, completely made up by scientists.

At the time, I had been freelancing for a very prestigious scientific magazine, Engineering & Technology in Stevenage, UK, formerly IEE Review. I had written a number of environmental stories, including on electronic waste recycling and auto emissions and standards. I was not, however, a household name. I was living in a one-bedroom apartment in West Haven, Connecticut with my cat, just going about my business, making probably $16,000 a year. So when I received an e-mail from a new editor at Fox News, I was flattered. Flattered and horrified. What had I done to attract such attention? The person told me they had read some of my articles and were impressed. Would I be interested in coming down to Fox to discuss possibly writing articles on climate change and other topics? Just a discussion.

Pre-Covid, I leapt at any chance to race into the City. So of course, I did not hesitate to say yes. And on that fateful day, I dressed to the nines, psyched myself up, 'It's just a chat. You don't have to sell out. You don't have to be anyone you are not. You don't have to buy into the Fox News-speak and think.'

A very nice person met me in their super shiny lobby. I remember nervously standing there, looking at all the money walk by. I say money because as I said, I made about $16,000 and they probably had shoes that cost that much. The young man came down, and shook my hand (again, pre-Covid style), and we spoke a bit. I cannot remember what we said, but within minutes, I knew what I was there to say: "Thank you, I am flattered. I really am flattered you would seek me out and call me in here, but I don't think this is for me."

To be clear, he was not offering me a job. It was a discussion, but one I soon ended, realizing I was in the wrong place. Sort of like the time I went out for a drink with a married creative director named Buddy, and when he told me in his car that his wife wasn't home, I gasped and said what was he expecting! He had said, "So why are you here?" I raced out of that car and scampered back home as fast as you can say free Buffalo wings. This was the same. I knew it wasn't for me; I knew I was better off with my measly income and Payless shoes than selling out.

A journalist friend told me at the time that I should write about it. I was scared. I didn't know what to say. So this is it. Nothing happened. It was just a sorta "date".

PHOTO: By Jim.henderson - Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8899774

Why I'm excited to be an engineer with 12 years' experience; thanks, ATS!

For the past two weeks I've stewed over the discomfiting feeling that my CV is not ATS-worthy. If you don't know this acronym, then bless your little heart. I didn't either until about five months ago, but now that I do know, I hate every last initial.

Applicant tracking systems are designed to chuck out job applicants so HR managers don't actually have to read 257 resumes. The problem is, apparently the code or whatever it is you call it is not sophisticated enough to read a CV as it really exists. I, for example, was deemed an engineer by an ATS. Why? Because the word pops up a few times under names of publications I have written for, e.g. Engineering & Technology. Further, my alma mater is listed as my last employer. Really.

None of this is amusing to me. A very skilled career counselor had approved my CV prior to this ATS debacle, and as I write this I still don't know how to fix it. I did some research and think if I re-save it as a plain text document I "might" be ok.

After over 200 CVs sent out into the ether, I am confident that common sense has now been overrun by computers. I am a member of the National Press Club. I have reported for over 300 publications, many with great prestige such as MIT Technology Review and Scientific American. I hold a recent M.A. with Merit from King's College London. And yet, I am at the mercy of an ATS and probably an overworked millennial with a bad attitude about grammar.

Can you lift that box and if not, what are you doing here?

Today has not been a red letter day. First, seeing that I was in need of a job I decided to apply to waitress locally. Yet I soon got a call and they asked if I could do office work. Then when I showed up to do office work, the rotund proprietor asked behind his messy desk: "How much can you lift?" Earlier, he had asked what I had been doing in England ("studying") and then asked if I had made any money writing or if it was (then he laughed) just, you know, a hobby.

I left that interview thankful that at least I had a real job interview on Thursday, for a reporting position in New York. I had walked by the Nissan dealership and spoken to the young salesperson. "I won't buy a car til I get a job. This is my third interview so I feel I will probably get it."

Then I got on to the computer just now and had received an e-mail from HR: "Sorry, Laurie, but Hector (not his real name) has decided to hire internally. We will retain your resume. Keep checking the website."

Pardon me if I want to take a minute to check my pulse and make sure I am still breathing.

I graduated with merit from King's College London in January. I did this just months after losing my beloved mother unexpectedly in August. It was a crushing departure from my trajectory, yet I somehow managed to get back to my dissertation, finish it and excel. I had wanted to work in London (desperately) but spent most of my time wandering Hyde Park or Embankment remembering all the adorable things my Southern mama had shared with me while I was away studying. I ran out of time, frankly, and the visa was set to expire. So there I went, back to America January 28th, cat in tow.

Despite an older friend's warning that the job market would not be welcoming to me (not-so-subtle-hint, because I'm a bit older), I scoffed. I don't think of myself as anything but young. I haven't married; don't have a mortgage; never had a baby. The only thing old about me is my physical being, but apparently that's what matters. I do fully believe I am being passed over because of my age. Maybe not this particular job (how would I know?), but probably the other one - why else would the jolly old proprietor try to push me out of site from the dining room, into some dismal position lifting bags of salt or whatever the hell he was thinking about?

I know what you are saying: you are as young as you feel! Yes, I wish that were true! I do feel pretty young, despite a few health issues. I walk all over the place, watch Family Guy, drink Wendy's frosties, eat PB&Js and make funny faces at my doctor when she tells me I need some scary test. She: "You're not a child anymore!" My internal monologue: 'That's news to me.'

It is ironic that just this morning I read that 'Reality Bites' is the seminal film of a generation, the one just after mine. The movie is about all these young people floundering in sad little retail jobs with puffed up degrees. The difference between they and moi is obvious: I have a 57-year-old chin. Even a little bit of a Mitch McConnell turkey neck. Granted, some of it is full of thyroid nodules, this I know. But I am not skinny anymore. I don't really want to be skinny, frankly. I am just telling you that muscle tone changes as one ages.

I didn't really want either of these jobs, especially the first one. And as they say, interviews are practice. I just hope that the world with its judgmental eyes and all the men with their misogynistic need to hire young women they can gawk at won't overpower the world I desire: the world that values how hard I worked to persevere and earn a Master of Arts degree from the 37th best university in the world.