Busy not living
I could have written sooner but I’ve been busy not living.
I could have written about what happened to my first job here and why I had to quit two weeks short of six months. One word: abuse. I made many friends, though, so that’s all water under the bridge. But I’d still like to get paid for the extra 18 hours a week I had to put in and never got paid for. Fat chance.
I could have written about the work ethics in this country, or lack thereof. The lack of discipline, method, expertise, professionalism, fairness and justice. The lack of even basic respect in some respects. But NVM; they’re enervating. Besides, perhaps they’re better saved for a long overdue PDI Global Nation piece.
I could have written how I then ended up where I swore I’d never go, where they pass off rewritten copy copied wholesale from Wikipedia entries as journalism, where they make you hastily write front-page stories with a decade-old source, where no fact-checking is done, where days-old events still get written about like they happened yesterday, where most everything is third-rate, including some of the staff they call “editors.”
The last infuriates me the most. These days all I do is clean up after first-rate poseurs, who can’t tell a kicker from a byline, much less know basic grammar and punctuation. And I bet they earn more than I do! Why? Because I happen to come from a certain country whose workers are publicly praised but not properly placed on the pay scale and, second, I happen to be a woman—a perfect recipe for abuse.
If there’s any justification for jumping at all, it’s wanting to find out for myself if things are really as bad as that scathing New Yorker piece from 2003 made them out to be. Well, four months later, I think I’ve seen everything firsthand, enough to be able to tell Lawrence Wright (author of that piece) that he got most everything right.
See, I don’t even know how to write anymore.