Last semester, like so many other Georgetown students eager to get their foot in the political door, I braved the Hill as a congressional intern. I found an office in desperate need of volunteers, and although I was reluctant to sacrifice my class-free mornings and Friday afternoons, the prospect of observing the democratic process was too exciting to pass up.
In an effort to prep for my interview, I referred to the beacon of all things factually sound, Wikipedia, to read up on the congressman. All the basics were covered—state: California; born: November; political party: Republican; alma mat—hold the phone—Republican?
It was at this moment I was caught in the first moral dilemma of my fledgling political career. I am an Obama-loving, NPR-listening, Prius-driving liberal through and through. Could I really flout all natural instincts and work at a Republican office “the belly of the beast,” as my mother put it?
Against all my better judgment I went to the interview, telling myself that experience in any congressional office would be preferable on a resume. Surely I could turn this political lemon into bipartisan lemonade. I was on the second floor of Lau when I received my call: I had been hired as an intern by taking on the guise of a moderate—socially liberal and fiscally conservative. The ultimate cop out.
I must admit I was interested to see if the stereotypes held. Were they all Limbaugh-worshipping, Bud-drinking NASCAR fans, relying on Fox News for their political education? It turned out that for the most part my conception of Republicans was misguided. I became strangely comfortable with the entire staff; my boss and I shared a love of Lil Wayne, and a fellow intern and I bonded over our Georgetown experiences. Generally, the office environment was not unlike the fictional Dunder Mifflin. There was the quintessential nosy secretary, the over-achieving intern, and the grumpy office troll. Soon I grew accustomed to the rhythm of the office, rarely finding myself in situations where I felt morally opposed to the work I was doing. In fact, the atmosphere was surprisingly apolitical.
Of course, as soon as I started feeling comfortable, Congress started debating the healthcare bill, and the pleasant, non-political discussions at the office transformed into a daily Democrat-bashing fest. I wanted to stand up on my tiny desk in the intern closet and scream.
From then on, my mornings were spent talking to (sometimes grossly ill-informed) constituents. I understood that I was there to substantiate the congressman’s viewpoint, but I was frustrated that I could not rectify some of the “facts” I had to listen to. The flagrant hypocrisy of a few of the callers killed me. These were people fully dependent on their Medicaid, Medicare, and Social Security checks, but they swore up and down that this plan would bring about widespread socialism and signaled the end of democracy. I wanted to yell at everyone in the office and everyone on the phone. My experience on the Hill devolved into an exercise in self-control, as finishing out the internship still meant more to me than a two-minute tirade that surely would get me fired.
It was not the misinformed American public that got to me. Rather, I cringed more at the people I worked with and their inability to have a reasonable discussion on these issues. While I volunteered across enemy lines, constantly sacrificing my viewpoint for the sake of office discussion and general comfort, my colleagues were adding to the rigidity of the polarizing partisan stalemate.
As an intern my goal was to observe and participate in the U.S. political machine and understand how it grinds. My hope was that well-educated, intellectually curious adults could have political discussions in which our opinions could evolve and decisions could be made on the merit of the issues at hand. Frustratingly, this was not always the case. Nevertheless, I still consider my experience positive. And even though I could never scream like I wanted, the healthcare victory spoke louder than I ever could.
