Winter of 2013, like all winters in Chicago, brought with it an unforgiving brutality. January and February dragged on with gray skies and nasty, snowy slush. What kept me going was the prospect of sunny South Africa’s warm embrace in late March.

College could be best described as a blend of hard work, constant insecurity, plus a side of confusion. Journalism school laid out two career paths in front of me. One, report daily news, with its bleeding and sometimes sensationalised headlines. Two, make my living as a struggling documentary filmmaker, forever at the mercy of grant money. The former’s rushed and on-the-go nature didn’t suit me, nor did the latter’s drawn-out work with lengthy film projects that could take years. For the next four years, I walked both paths, wondering what, if any, my future I would have in this industry. I craved something that combined the hard-hitting, real-world impact of journalism with the creative, artistic expression of film. Nevertheless, I worked hard, because that was what I was told: work hard, things will come to you, and it’ll all be worth it.

Late March arrived, a 36-hour series of flights from Chicago to Johannesburg, followed by a week of orientation, led to the first day of my internship. That morning, I put on a purple and white checker-patterned buttoned-down shirt, a pair of brown slacks, and a pair of Penguin sneakers. Everything felt loose, and I looked like I was wearing a large business-casual trash bag. It really defined my dreadful early-20s fashion sense. I was a kid who desperately wanted to impress but ended up looking more desperate than impressive.

My employer was eNCA, which stood for eNews Channel Africa. They broadcasted 24/7 nationally, throughout the continent, and even in the UK for the South African diaspora there. Their Johannesburg headquarters was a large campus with television, radio, sales/advertising all housed in different offices. Like most buildings in urban South Africa, eNCA’s sat behind wrought-iron fences, electric fences, and pole gates with their own security guards. You might have been delivering news and critical information to the people, but you couldn’t trust the people not to steal your stuff. An unfortunate necessity, considering the stories I’d hear about news crews getting mugged or robbed during an assignment.

Past the gates and walls was the front lobby. I took my seat by reception. I later found out it was the brightest and most aesthetically attractive part of the whole office. Its walls are adorned with white and red see-through paneling. Had it not been for the brightly varnished wooden floors, the whole place, along with the constant beeping of keycard-activated sliding doors, looked like a sci-fi film scene. If that wasn’t enough, the dread and nervousness I felt waiting for my supervisor wasn’t too different from the nausea that builds up every time I waited to get my blood drawn.

The program I joined at Northwestern University had been sending student interns to eNCA for the last decade. Because of my preference for something that combined news with documentary, my professor arranged for me to join the Special Project Division. The SPD produced 60 to 90-minute pieces on controversial topics, with project timelines long and research extensive. 

The head of SPD, a woman named Penny, eventually arrived for work. She was a short Greek woman in her late 30s or early 40s. She styled her blond hair in a bob and wore a pair of sharp-rimmed spectacles, which always made it seem like her gaze was piercing your soul. On that day when I first met her, she wore some kind of red pattered poncho and displayed quite the commanding presence. I was scared shitless at first sight. I could tell right away she had a no-nonsense approach to life. Great, better not f**k this up. 

We made our way upstairs to the main newsroom, and the front lobby’s red/white texture gave way to drab white walls and exposed ceilings. The main newsroom, open concept and filled with rows of computers, buzzed as the day started. Penny sat me down by her desk and proceeded to give me sage advice. I didn’t know it at the time, but her words would define my internship. More than that, they would lay the foundation of my professional life going forward.

“What you do here is up to you. I’m not going to baby you or hold your hand,” she said while giving me that firm, soul-piercing stare. “It’s up to you to determine what you want, whether that means coming up with story ideas or going around the newsroom to introduce yourself.”

As the child of a Confucian household and the student of strict Chinese and conformist American schools, my entire life had operated around molding myself to the whims of others, following instructions, obeying authority, and working hard. I had become so used to being told what to do, whether explicitly or implicitly, that the sudden invitation to do things my way caught me off-guard. So I did what I knew best. 

I would diligently follow the only set of concrete instructions Penny gave me. Come up with story ideas. Introduce yourself around the newsroom.

I willed myself to go up to random people and knock on office doors. The sight of a kid with a Chinese face who spoke like an American in a South African newsroom caught several people off-guard. If I didn’t get curt acknowledgement or dismissive “yeah, yeah, that’s nice” comments, I was met with the mother of all WTF stares. I told myself this was necessary, even though repeating this process exhausted me emotionally. Halfway through my first day, I switched gears. Come up with story ideas. In a corner of the newsroom sat stacks of newspapers, organised by date. By the end of the day, I had piles of them strewn across my desk. Anyone who read enough of these papers would start to see repeated words. Corruption…Poverty…Protest…Water Shortage…Power Outages.

This couldn’t be it. I thought to myself.

This couldn’t be all reporting meant. Journalism had a human side, a softer, emotive, narrative side behind the hard news. Kudos to the reporters who uncovered shady politics and social ills, but I was never going to be one of them.

Later that night, as I joined my fellow Northwestern students for dinner, the conversations carried from one success story to another of them getting published on the first day or starting exciting stories. How was I supposed to move forward? The failsafe combination of working hard and following instructions was failing me.

Day two came and went with more awkward self-introductions and plowing through newspapers. These were going to be three long months. In the dread and desperation of the moment, I began to accept my position as a misfit, and that coming to South Africa was a mistake. But I had no idea this process would be the perfect setup to force me out of my comfort zone. 

Because day three would change everything.