Writing For The New York Times Was Amazing, But It Didn’t Change My Life
Last year I wrote an essay for The New York Time’s parenting section. My essay was about my three nephews and my neighbor’s son, all of whom I helped take care of from a young age. I was a designated babysitter since I lived nearby and because I was dependable.
It taught me that my community (at least before gentrification and seeing so many of my neighbors displaced for profits) was part of my extended family. It was very cathartic to write since I got to take a real look at the pros and cons of being a young caretaker for several people around me. It was edited, it was posted on the internet, and it was shared around on social media.
I had finally reached a somewhat life-long goal. And I felt the same.
It did not change my life.
I used to dream about how having a byline in the New York Times would change everything about me. But here I am living with three other roommates in the neighborhood I grew up in while seeing it being destroyed by gentrification. Here I am still insecure about my career, worrying about how the journalism industry is HEMORRHAGING jobs. And here I am still sometimes crying whenever an article pitch is rejected.
