For a period of less than two years — 2007 through a slice of 2008 — I dreamed (figuratively, really) of being what Michael Lewis categorized as a big swinging dick. My ride through Wall Street, in the grand scheme of a “career,” was brief. I never had a full-time position at an investment bank, but interned for two long, memorably painful summers in New York City with hopes that one day a job would be mine.
That’s right, I was just an intern. It feels so funny to say this now, because I always felt above the deprecating title. I suppose this was how they wanted you to feel, even as an intern: delusionally elevated.
Hubris is what makes Wall Street everything it is and isn’t: a mechanism of the functioning world markets while contributing to the dysfunctional perils of political and economic evil. And, the over-achieving, mostly Ivy League interns are all competing for the same end-of-summer “prize”: a high paying banking or trading position to continue the roles of the men (and all two, maybe three women) who came before them.
I beat myself up mentally during the time I was trying to break into Wall Street. So much that I when I look back, my actions do not feel like me and my words do not sound like me. Eventually, a few smart people and pieces of literature snapped me out of it, but the crowded memories still linger.
The following cringe-worthy recollections seemed appropriate, serious and even prideful at the time they occurred during my short stint on Wall Street. Now, they are telling, reflective and even funny.
–
1. During an interview, an interviewer told me I was “intense,” and proceeded to recommend that I “relax.” I grinned, thinking honestly to myself “Yes. I fucking nailed this.”
2. I opened an interview proclaiming, before giving the two colleagues interviewing me a chance to speak, that I had just walked around the block listening to Rage Against The Machine’s “Killing In The Name of.” I then gave them permission to “begin the interview.”
3. I attempted to convince a group of high-frequency traders to use Google Reader for their media intake because it was “faster” than the tools they were already using in their terminals. This clearly wasn’t the case, but I thought it was because I was “internet savvy” and, oh yeah, they were writing advanced algorithms to trade 300 shares-per-second.
4. Barely a few months into my nascent Wall Street career, I wrote a how-to piece for college students eager to compete in finance. Upon publication, I immediately emailed the editor begging to take it down because the comments shit on me worse than I had already shit myself.
5. I signed all thank-you emails “Appreciatively” or what should have read “I hope you appreciate me sounding like a douche in the attempt of writing something different than ‘thanks.’”
6. I would openly tell my managers I was a masochist in hopes that they would assign me more work, while ironically complaining to myself all day how uncomfortable my shoes were.
7. I’d strategically place one “fuck” or “shit” in my enthusiastic “why I want to work here” pitch to the senior male managers. If I was pitching a women or minority, I’d always mention the “great diversity” the organization offered.
8. I used to wake up to so early for the train that the last-shift of b-squad prostitutes were still lounging on my street. I would shake my head in disgust, only realizing now that I should have said: ”You and I — maybe-a-lady possibly-a-dude in the five-inch heels and smeared lipstick — our jobs are not that different!”
9. An actual email written back to me once said “try to use ‘please’ and ‘thanks’ in your emails, otherwise they seem a bit arrogant. I don’t care really, but lots of ppl on the street dont like that.” Thanks, asshole.
10. I wrote Michael Lewis a long, self-aggrandizing email and closed with quite possibly the worst question ever. While I won’t reprint my question, Michael’s single-line classic response was “Alex: There’s no good or even useful answer to this question. Best, ML.”
11. This was one of my favorite movie scenes. Okay, it still is.
–
I started writing, mostly as therapy, in notebooks during my summers on Wall Street. The reason being wasn’t clear at the time, but it is now: a pen and paper was the only time I could be myself.
As much as I can laugh, mock and narrate my previous, often ridiculous behavior, what bothers me is that it really wasn’t me, not even at the time. It was me being someone else attempting to meet the expectations of a culture where there is no such thing as enough.
Sure, there are plenty of intelligent, rational people that work on Wall Street who enjoy their jobs, make a good living and manage perfectly stable lives outside of work. But for the most part, I found it a difficult culture and career to keep up with where the monetary rewards aren’t in line with the personal job satisfaction, and the only measure of success is a P&L statement.
My jump post-Wall Street to entrepreneurship-land was a selfish decision: I wanted to take the wheel. No bullshit, no acting and no playing dress up. I wanted to be in control, good or bad, of my own fate and monetary outcome.