Strip back the world of work to its naked core; and you’ll find the inner realms of unpaid internships. I’m 22, I have studied and worked simultaneously for the last 5 years of my life, managing to cancel out each impulse purchase for the hope of a few extra shifts on the weekend. Financially, I have always been OK. My racked-up skills of often fake but always attentive customer service and the impressive speed at which I can clean a canteen have allowed for me to retain any part-time job for at least a couple of months. My many bank accounts have always been on the right side of the colour wheel (I presume green is a good thing) and my parents have provided me with the cushy life that every naïve pre-teen deserves. To quickly review, I have always been able to afford whichever stupid trend comes next (I’m still waiting for my sequinned Jane Norman handbag to come back into fashion, FYI) and I have never seen my money in the minus figures. My financial state may be calmly afloat right now, but give me 4 months and that happy shade of green will fade into an alarming red quicker than you can say ‘I’m being exploited’ as my student loans become student debts.
It’s a sad truth that many like-minded 22-year-old students are feeling the same angst towards their futures, questioning whether they are really about to apply for an unpaid role in the centre of London for half a year. I have heard horror stories about the reality of internships that even Stephen King would be proud of. The ethical dilemma is one that is at the heart of the issue – big corporate companies politely demanding things to be checked off the to-do list whilst revelling in all of the money that they have saved. The terrifying portrayal of a Devil Wears Prada’s Miranda Priestly (by the dream that is Meryl Streep) attempts to reveal the grim reality of a graduate living under a magazine editor.
Take away the rose-tinted Hollywood charm of the blockbuster film and graduate Andy ignites the fears in all of us. I have spent nearly 15 years moulding myself into the creative that I am today. Every questionable Play-Doh animal and the evolution of my once only tracksuit and football shirt filled wardrobe. It all helped to define the approaches I now have to my innovative thinking and unique personality. I do often wonder why I should be the one to skimp and scrape my way through my future without at least my tube journey covered by the white men in Dior suits that are more than likely the ones making things harder. I am more than capable in making a cup of black coffee, but why should that define me?
I don’t want my creativity to be sold to some corporate company. I don’t want to have to save for months to be able to afford a shoebox room in central London where my bed doubles as my dining room table. Feeling angst and bitterness towards the prospects of my future career before it’s even started isn’t my idea of a dream. It might be closer to that Stephen King nightmare that I previously mentioned.
I am speaking very broadly of course. I always tend to latch onto the negatives, but for some, their experiences of the anticipated internship have often turned into the real-life sequel of a Devil Wears Prada, but instead of the empowering ending scene of self-discovery that Andy rightly deserves, the sequel ends with a begrudged train journey back to the family home in an out-of-touch town with as many businesses closed as the ones open. Like anyone that’s invested in any kind of education, the faith we have in ourselves comes few and far between and in waves that resemble the choppiest of waters – I’m sure it’s not the most unreasonable to ask that when the waters are seemingly tropical and full of optimism and self-appreciation, that they aren’t then polluted with pessimism and capitalist ignorance.
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