Journalists and so-called 'corporate culture'

One of my favorite journalists was Hunter S. Thompson. I remember my ex-boyfriend Benoît telling me that he'd loaned my copy of "Fear and Loathing" to his brother, and that they both said my comments in the margins seemed more like something a guy would have written. I took that as a compliment.

In college, I took a five-unit Hemingway course (three units was the average) and loved reading his old journalistic writings. I liked being a "chick" in a man's game. It reminded me of my high school newspaper, where I was one of the only females on the team of reporters. I am still in touch with these guys, and cherish those memories from Livermore, California.

So looking back, I realize I was molded long ago to be a tomboy type of journalist, one who could spar with fellows on the one hand, while still looking lovely in lace that evening. I wore the same long man's blue and white striped work shirt with jeans in college, every day, cigarette dangling from my mouth as I hung out in the quad and thought Deep Thoughts.

Now I am beyond middle-aged. In some parts of the country I'm even considered a "senior", a term I revile of course, because I'm nowhere near retirement age (and how can I be when my hair is still a beautiful chestnut brown, ahem?) So by now, one would think, I'd know myself well enough to know where I do and don't fit in. And yes, I do know that, and I also know that despite evidence to the contrary, I will always try to fit in where I do not.

I remember being a counselor at a summer camp outside Yosemite. I was 20, and my charges were 12-year-olds with too many curling irons and giggles to fully control. They would, however, end up looking after me as I became terrified of the mice that sultry summer. As more and more care packages arrived, more and more mice would scamper across the boards below the ceiling, sending me scampering right out the door. I remember fleeing to the advisors' air-conditioned van to sleep one night, knowing my co-counselor Karen could control the girls back at the cabin.

I wrote a song called "Mommy I Can't Stand the Mice" and had the drama chug (group, in Yiddish) act out the parts - mice and sleeping campers. It was a huge hit with everyone at the camp that year except one person: the camp director. I will never forget - and we are going back over 30 years - looking over at her, as everyone's cracking up, and she's just glaring at me like I broke some sort of ancient code.

This was my first experience with breeching corporate culture. I had broken the rule of being a camp counselor--never leave your cabin, not for mice, not for spiders, not for some cute male counselors down by the river. Sure, I was barely an adult, but no matter. I was not behaving as the culture was advising me to do.

For journalists looking to take jobs in corporate America (or anywhere) I would advise them to really do some soul searching. I cannot imagine Hunter S. Thompson or Hemingway inside a corporate environment, any more than I could imagine a freelancer friend of mine (we'll call him Tom), who worked out of his apartment in New York, taking a 9-5 job.

Me? I'm still trying to find my place in this world I guess, still wanting to fit in and be brave enough to go back to the cabin. I will always be proud of that mouse song, by the way, and more than that - that I made a dozen 12-year-olds my friends that summer.

PHOTO: The author, a bit dirty and exhausted, Camp Tawonga, 1981