An Ode to the Office

D uring the school year, I occasionally wrote articles for National Review, usually addressing some aspect of campus culture and free speech; it proved the most effective way to get my classmates to dislike me. This summer, I interned remotely with NR. But this past Monday, I took the train from Princeton to New York City for an in-person editorial meeting — my first visit to the office.

I had not visited New York since the pandemic started in 2020. I was immediately reminded why I avoid the city: A breakfast sandwich and small coffee cost me $14.64! As I navigated my way from Penn Station to the office on 44th Street, I felt an inordinate sadness when passing the empty storefronts, even though I don’t know what businesses were previously there. I saw a line of skinny girls with slick ballerina buns standing outside a building, presumably waiting for an audition. Only a few years ago, I would have joined that line. Now, I was in New York for what people call a “real job.”

The NR office is a sleek space with big windows. Awards, plaques, and other emblems of NR history are displayed in glass cases. Large posters of magazine covers decorate the walls. There are books everywhere. I put my backpack at one of the many empty desks. The office is ripe for an archaeological expedition, as the space is enriched with ancient remains from past inhabitants: scattered sheets with interview notes, expired protein bars, and forgotten ChapSticks, all from B.C. — before Covid.

I attended the editorial meeting, during which editors and writers discussed topics for the Week section of the upcoming edition of the magazine. To my surprise, Ramesh Ponnuru knew me by name. As the meeting progressed, I started to appreciate what I’ve been sorely missing these last few weeks. While the overarching content and structure of the meeting were not so different from the Zoom version, I noticed that the in-person setting allowed for casual asides and humorous puns without the complication of pressing “unmute.” The discourse was liberated, camaraderie cultivated.

I was assigned to write a brief obituary (such items are often included in the Week). It felt like a serious responsibility to summarize a stranger’s life in 200 words and do his memory justice. I also had some editing assignments, so I settled in at a desk with my laptop.

As I worked, I was distressed by the incessant sound of keyboard clicking; I’m accustomed to working in my quiet apartment. Normally, the final step in my editing process is to read articles aloud — if you stumble on a word, it doesn’t belong! — but I thought it would be rude to do so in the office.

I worked beside news writer Caroline Downey, and we discussed how the conservative movement needed more vocal women — especially young women. Near us, two reporters were investigating the topic of Drag Queen Story Hour, which reminded me to work on my own draft about drag. I overheard a conversation about woolly mammoths — presumably not research for a news story, since that animal is extinct. I wondered, is this how co-workers interact when they are not confined to screens?

This is why people used to go to work.

When toiling remotely, I would never randomly send an email to a female co-worker to inquire about her thoughts on feminism — or any other topic. I wouldn’t know about the news investigations until the pieces are published for all to see. I wouldn’t gather inspiration from my co-workers because we wouldn’t interact. And I certainly wouldn’t be entertained by distractions about extinct creatures; I never enjoy such refreshing interruptions when staring at my computer in my apartment.

Jay Nordlinger, one of NR’s senior editors, ate lunch with the interns and shared “ancient conservative wisdom.” I learned more in a casual discussion with him than I have across hours of lectures at university; I wish I had carried a tape recorder to later transcribe all his helpful advice. He asked each of us about our world views, then unsettled our beliefs by challenging us with questions and countering our claims. I mentioned that I did ballet, and Nordlinger said that he had interviewed two famous American Ballet Theatre principals. I had (erroneously) assumed that, by nature of working at a political magazine, NR employees exclusively discussed politics.

On my train back to Princeton, it occurred to me that not only was this my first day at the National Review office, but it was my first day ever in any office. I have worked several internships over the past few years, yet all were entirely virtual. Surely I’m not alone in this experience. I began to worry: Would it be several more years until I returned?

My impression is that the shift to remote work for older, more established employees did not significantly alter their career trajectory, insofar as they had already assimilated to the office culture, formed meaningful relationships, and demonstrated their competence. Yet young people are disadvantaged by virtual employment because they are deprived of routine access to their superiors, who are rich intellectual resources and can serve as influential mentors with respect to both career and personal development. The social isolation is knowledge isolation.

Remote work is a depressing simulation of office culture, but the emotional dissatisfaction is not the only consequence. Virtual work is the steady persecution of excellence. Journalism is a skill acquired through apprenticeship; young journalists need to learn how to write — and how not to write. When I submitted my first news article this summer, I got a 30-minute crash course over the phone, and I learned about the “inverted pyramid.” (Thanks, Judson.) I know I still have a lot to learn — but if the journalism industry continues to operate remotely, it may prove increasingly difficult to find someone to teach me.

I hope to return to the office. And I hope that the other desks are occupied, too.