August 28, 2015
Boston, Massachusetts
I was 21 years old
I’m verified on Twitter. I woke up to find the little blue check. Thank you, Boston.com. (I don’t say that often.) Have obviously been going to the office all summer but I’ve been writing articles from home these last two weeks, because of RA training. Alison would send one or two things for me to write-up and I’ve been able to get like 8 to 12 hours of pay in the process, which has been nice. I read a New York Times article this morning saying that 9 out of 10 workers are completely checked out at work, that they’re totally disengaged. That made me feel a little bit better about myself.
Twelve reporters were laid off last week. There was a big editorial staff meeting the next day, going over the new direction of the site: “Boston-focused.” Hmm. Dan was working from home and he called me afterwards, giving me a sense of what the future might entail. How BDCWire will likely be swallowed into Boston.com while the Alible staff will be writing “Voices of Boston” type stuff. Dan apparently played a big role in the analysis of all this stuff this summer and was in on the decisions. Who knows. I suppose it’s good to have him be so candid with me. And I’ve basically been told I’ll be full time as soon as I’m done with school. But I might have something else in mind.
Already frustrated with Monday through Friday employment, I’ve been giving thought to traveling next summer. For the sake of my mental wellbeing. Out of nowhere, I considered something Hilary had been telling me to do for months: apply for a Fulbright scholarship. Hoping it wasn’t too late, I reached out to Professor Laurie Johnston and she said it was due the following Friday, and was much more supportive than I thought she’d be. I’m applying to go to India. It’d be a lie if I said the decision to go there isn’t rooted in some Alanis Morissette “Thank U”-spirituality quest. But I don’t think that takes away from my desire to go. I’ve always been interested in the country and feel like that’s one of the few places where culture shock is guaranteed. I wrote my application essay about growing up Catholic, my life-long pursuit of faith, and how, in the exact moment that I stop looking for something to believe in, I might see it in the eyes of my students. LJ told me it made her cry.
May 3, 2023
Brooklyn, New York
I am 29 years old
In such an event the suspense is killing you, and thank you for that, I’ll clear some things up right away. Come graduation, no, I was not brought on full-time at Boston.com. I wasn’t so much as employed by Boston.com. Though my contrarian streak can rest assured that I didn’t “Quiet Quit” so much as get “Quiet Fired,” with a vague enough termination that, to this day, I never returned the Macbook I was issued. Oops. As far as teaching in India on a Fulbright, that was also a non-starter. A truly random endeavor that, rightfully, went up in flames about as soon as the panel of Emmanuel professors started asking me variations on the same general question, “Okay, but: why?” And most recently, I’m no longer verified on Twitter. But woe is not me. One man’s “washed up” is another’s “hero journey.” Something I’m unembarrassed to admit. At least for now. Because despite these failures, these downfalls, despite all my losses—I’ve won. I know that to be true. Okay? Don’t mistake this celebration of my viral ability to mutate and move forward as some retroactive justification of poor work ethic and avoidant tendencies, all right?! I’m a survivor, God damn it! I swear! Are you listening to me?!
Anyway. Gay comedian wunderkind Julio Torres has this joke about interning for a literary non-profit after graduating from college, saying, “I would go there, and I would sit, and then I would leave. I was there for two years.” Exactly. A summation not at all dissimilar from my time spent writing for Boston.com. A scrappy website whose offices may have been housed in The Boston Globe’s headquarters but was very much so not The Boston Globe. Despite what my mother said to every person who’d listen. “My son—the writer!” As much as I hated the job, aggregating all the most clickable “news” stories of Obama’s second term America, à la Buzzfeed’s shining gold standard, I too liked how that sounded. Brian—the writer. Not even a degree in hand yet and already I was rubbing elbows with the finest B-student graduates of Northwestern and Northeastern. Getting paid. To write. It was the dream. And if it seemed too good to be true, I made sure of that. Routinely showing up anywhere from 30 to 75 minutes late, only to, indeed, sit down and leave. I was there almost two years when my editors told me I’d be transitioning into more of a “freelance role.” Leaving the building that day, very much so without a job despite being weeks away from graduating, the ink still wet on an apartment lease no less, I was euphoric. I was free.
Because who could value a paycheck over freedom? Not me. Not this seeker, who missed fulfillment in one place and searched for it in another. Again: in India. When I journaled that it was a decision informed by Alanis Morrissette, unfortunately, I wasn’t kidding. Deciding at nearly the very last minute to apply for something most students spend their entire college careers working toward. Less than satisfied with writing about David O. Russell shooting Joy on location in Massachusetts, I applied for a Fulbright. Figuring that teaching English to Mumbai schoolchildren was a realistic means to an end of having a spiritual awakening on par with a Canadian singer who sought sanctuary in Mysore after selling 30 million copies of Jagged Little Pill. I try not to have regrets but I’m too Catholic to avoid shame. (As I deserve.) Because I’m embarrassed I even applied. That aforementioned panel of professors, I can only imagine what they thought of me. What my professor thought of me. LJ who cried reading my essay only to witness me in person, falling short. Not remotely measuring up to the precedent I’d written for myself. For this seeker, his deepest fear.
But when all else failed, failure never felt more subjective than during the too-common moments when Twitter was brought up in conversation and someone who knows me would tell someone who doesn’t, “Brian’s verified on Twitter, you know.” It bears repeating that never once did I bring it up myself. Thank God. Because even on that August morning, waking up in my dorm room in St. Joseph’s Hall, an RA who’d been living on campus all summer (just to further humiliate myself here) so he could take the T out to Dorchester for a job suddenly warranting a little blue check beside his name—even then, I swear it felt more hysterical than impressive. And hysterical in the ridiculous sense of the term. “Camp,” as the kids say today, incorrectly. Something that felt all the sillier as soon as this English major went on to walk dogs instead of write content. Jobs may come and jobs may go but I was always @briantburns_, verifiably. Until I wasn’t. Like most DOA initiatives put forward by Twitter’s endlessly embarrassing new owner, it took a couple false starts before it finally happened. Several rounds of announcements that all amounted to nothing, urging users to pay however much money a month if they wanted to keep their status. But at last, on 4/20—a purposeful and, again, embarrassing date—it was gone. I was verified no longer. My little blue check, flown the coop.
Claiming “I’m glad it’s gone” sounds a lot like one of my coworkers I recently overheard saying, “Oh, I hate Paris.” Sure. But, truly, I mean it. Last month, I was at a get-together for my friend Al’s birthday where someone asked me, “So, are you paying to stay verified at this point?” I nearly crawled under the table. Maybe she only asked to confirm her own presumption, that I’m far too cool to do such a thing, to pay for a stamp of cyber approval that, effectively, means less than ever. That’s the hope. Because the moment I opened Twitter to find that my blue check had indeed disappeared, it wasn’t sadness I felt, or defeat, or a centrist Democrat’s idea of satisfaction. What I felt was nothing. And I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Not when I nearly made a career out of denying its significance when, instead, I could have made a career from its implications. That I really was somebody. A notable person. In 2015, at least. The jobs I’ve gone on to have, with dogs, with the public, out on the street and inside the tenements, I have truly found so much of the fulfillment and the joy I almost went to India to pursue. Doing work that may not have warranted verification but certainly filled me up. And all the while, if somebody stumbled upon @briantburns_ and figured there must be something impressive enough about him to deserve a blue check, and if they followed me because of it, and if that made me feel special, well, I’m only human. So, now what? I’m still using Twitter, for now. It can depress me, and piss me off, but it makes me laugh, so I don’t take it too seriously. And with no proof that I am what I claim to be, you’ll just have to take my word for it.