The Seven Year Itch

Every 25 years, I like to have a kid. But every 6 or 7 years, I like to change careers.

I started out as an environmental activist. After graduating college - a bit late because I took time out to have Jade - I began working at FSEEE (then called AFSEEE). They hired me as a part-time administrative assistant. It was a start-up nonprofit with four employees at the time (including me). The founder, Jeff DeBonis, was a Forest Service whistleblower. He courageously called out the federal agency he worked for, charged with protecting national forests, on its complicity with the timber industry.

As a start-up organization, things were volatile in the early days of AFSEEE. When the editor of its bimonthly newspaper left the organization, Jeff asked me to step in. And thus, my career in journalism magically began. It was a terrific job right out of college. I felt like I was part of an important movement that was going to save trees in the Pacific Northwest and beyond. I gave the organization everything I had for six years. But eventually, I tired of the grind.

I returned to school for a Master's Degree and began studying journalism more formally. When I graduated, I found a job at a a glossy magazine called Mercator's World, which focused on antique map collecting. Inner Voice, AFSEEE's publication later morphed into the more professional Forest Magazine. Mercator's World eventually went belly-up. But in the process I converted my writing from advocacy-oriented screeds to more balanced magazine-style journalism. I began freelancing for magazines and other publications, learning to write in the process. My dream was to write long-form nonfiction pieces like my hero John McPhee.

After about six years or so years of this, I took a part-time job as a Communications Coordinator for the Wayne Morse Center of Law and Politics at the University of Oregon School of Law. The goal was to have a half-time job with health benefits so I could work as a freelancer the rest of the time. But my proximity to the law school sucked me into a new career. After being inspired by visiting professor Charles Ogletree, I decided I wanted to be a public defender. On a whim, I took the LSAT. My score was decent enough to get me into the UO law school. The Morse Center sponsored my education there. Again, I was lucky enough to be mentored by a supportive, one-of-a-kind boss, Margaret Hallock.

So I became a lawyer and took the seemingly insane step of leaving Oregon behind for Philadelphia. This was around the time that Jade went to college at UC-Santa Cruz. I was ready to trade beautiful scenery and nice people for grit and surly people.

At first I loved my job working in the trenches of our racist criminal justice system. With Jade in college, I could live a single life for the first time since I was a teenager. It was fun living in Center City, fighting the good fight, partying hard on the weekends.

But now I'm married and have a toddler. We moved into a quiet residential enclave, and I take the train to work. I am becoming bone weary of fighting in court every day, of waking up early and leaving Jericho at daycare, of being too tired in the evenings to really focus on him. I feel old and out-of-shape.

While I've always liked most of those I represent, the breadth of their problems has become too depressing. And I can't forget the ones I've failed. Too big a part of their lives -- their freedom -- relies on my humble skills. Besides the albatross-like weight of incarcerated former clients, I'm sick of being disrespected in court by judges, ADAs, family members, and those I represent. Services rendered for free do not have the same cache as those rendered by paid lawyers in $1,000 suits. The quality of representation is seldom noticed. Style is what matters.

And when I succeed, I may only keep my client out of jail briefly. Most of them come back, repeatedly making the same mistakes or falling into the same traps. I've had my heart broken many times by those I believed in. All the work and self-sacrifice no longer feel worth it. There are plenty of younger, fresher bodies to replace me in the trench.

So I'm ready for something new. I want a job where I can think slowly and deeply rather than quick, off-the-cuff. I want more control over my time. I want to be appreciated. I want to be able to take care of myself as well as my family. Universe, make this happen!