I graduated from Harvard with a Social Studies degree in 1999, in much the same way I entered as a freshman: without any concrete plans for the path ahead. Friends packed up to become investment bankers in New York and consultants in London; a few lucky grant recipients hit the road for India or Tasmania or Sweden. My senior thesis, on the Constitutional reform process in Kenya, had been based on thrilling research in Nairobi and the lawless northern parts of that country during the summer before my senior year. I spent three months immersed in the politics of marginalized communities and the battles between customary law and human rights, but I wasn't ready to continue that work at a graduate level, and I didn't know how to turn it into a career. I considered law school in that lukewarm way many social sciences and humanities concentrators do: not because I wanted to become a lawyer, but because it would get me on a "real job" track with a minimum of fuss.
An unsolicited job offer from a friend's Internet startup saved the day, but also put me into a blind cycle of employment that kept me too busy to figure out what I really wanted for two years. I stayed with that company as it grew, moving to San Francisco for the opening of an office there and then riding the wave as an independent consultant and project manager until the infamous bubble burst. I wrote content for web sites, designed marketing strategies, and edited business plans, but the actual substance of what I was doing was mind-numbingly boring. I dreaded the "So, what have you been up to since graduation?" question. I preferred hiding in the bathroom at mini-reunion dinners to performing a little song and dance about the companies I worked for. I didn't feel interesting because my work didn't represent anything I felt passionate about.
Professionalizing wasn't easy. The obstacle courses of contract negotiation, office politics, and money management smacked me into adulthood and made those years (though painful) worth it. After work, I unwound by throwing dinner parties for my friends, salsa dancing, and nesting in my first solo apartment, all of which had its own appeal and made me feel truly independent for the first time. Still, something big was missing from the overall life happiness equation, and I began to make a few changes.
First, I drove out to a local drop zone and learned how to skydive. Jumping out of airplanes on a regular basis became a substitute for the excitement I wasn't getting from my work. The adrenaline, the rush of meeting new friends, and the experience of trying something completely different jumpstarted my brain again. I made time to spend weeknights and some weekends getting certified by the state of California as a rape crisis counselor, and then volunteered as a victim advocate at the hospital and on a hotline.
It became impossible to avoid the fact that I would never be fulfilled by or serious about the career I had fallen into after graduation. San Francisco was a vortex of fun: expensive, time-consuming, and distracting. I didn't want to wake up in five or ten years and wonder whether I had missed out on a real calling because I was too busy sampling apple martinis in the Mission district and trying to make rent.
I explained the feeling of being at a crossroads to my Dad, who advised me that I should start by pretending I had just won the lottery. Setting aside money (not to mention all those unpaid parking tickets) as an obstacle, I realized I wanted to pack up and move to Africa to look for meaningful work. I missed thinking about and examining the ways in which marginalized communities were coping with globalization and how gender relations were evolving in changing political and legal landscapes. I missed the opportunities to hear voices that the American media had a tendency to overlook. I missed my international perspective. Maybe graduate school in anthropology or a related field would follow, but that wasn't important now. I began working on ways to forge my own transformation from San Francisco yuppie to what my college roommate still quite seriously calls "international woman of mystery". (Given the events that followed, my Dad now probably wishes that he had just advised me to settle down and ride out the anxiety.)
Figuring out what to do next was a major process that involved a lot of pacing around on the roof of my apartment on Telegraph Hill in the wee hours of the morning. I wasn't interested in solving basic development problems or going on a photogenic volunteer tour. I ruled out the Peace Corps because I didn't want to build latrines (or "dig trenches for peace" as another helpful friend put it), teach in a rural school, or work on public health issues, which was what I would likely end up doing with my degree. I had some element of experience with all of these things, and I knew they wouldn't be sustainable for me. Most importantly, I didn't want to be on a tightly controlled program with a predictable and planned end. What I did want was the opportunity to tackle issues of violence, governance, and democracy in an environment where I could use my education to participate in social change.
After weeks of agonizing, I finally chose a destination: Johannesburg , South Africa. Despite its (not undeserved) reputation as the Crime Capital of the Known Universe, it has a thriving civil society and first-world infrastructure. I wouldn't have to live in a mud hut or herd goats for food unless I really wanted to, and as a new democracy it offered an even more liberal set of laws than the United States. I was ready to stay for as long as it took to explore a new career through internships or volunteer work. It was a big, dramatic goal, and everyone who cared thought I was completely mad. With no job lined up before leaving, and no long-term savings to live off, I fundraised by offering subscriptions to a monthly newsletter that would offer insight into my new surroundings.
The first three months of my "new life" in a decaying part of this epic city were action-packed. I had my house broken into and everything stolen, saw my neighbor die of a gunshot wound because the ambulance didn't come to the part of town I was living in, and survived an attempted mugging on my way to the public taxi rank. Learning how to navigate the minibus taxi routes, which have no numbers, no marked stops, and no published timetables, landed me frequently in places where I questioned whether this had been such a good idea after all. The biggest shock was the racial division. White people didn't take public transport, didn't go to the townships, and for the most part didn't really see or acknowledge living conditions outside of the suburbs. I found it difficult to negotiate my identity in this new context. Nonetheless, I finally had the sensation that I was on the right road, and I was determined to stick it out.
Friends of friends gave me a contact in Pretoria (about an hour's drive north of Johannesburg ) that led to an interview, which in turn led to an unpaid research internship at an institute studying and advising on local government development. I was excited despite the long commute, until a new manager decided that my project proposal was too "soft" because of its focus on gender. I quit out of frustration, and spent the next week terrified that I had just blown my chances at a career in research. I updated my CV, knocked on a few doors, surfed the web, asked strangers in cafes for ideas, and cold-called some people. Eventually, I landed an interview and talked my way into a paying internship at a policy think tank that was both well-funded and interested in the work I wanted to do. I used my new "salary" to move to a safer neighborhood and, with the help of a generous contribution from a friend with a "real job", bought a car. My Toyota-driving family had mixed feelings when they heard about my 1994 Opel Kadett (10 years of South African democracy, 10 years of my Opel!). I enjoyed changing my first tire. The busted exhaust and the blown head gasket were a bit tedious, but I've learned a lot about car maintenance.
Over two years after my big move, I still live in South Africa. I now work as a research consultant at the institute where I used to be an intern, with a focus on violence against women and children and the impact of the illegal small arms trade on communities in East and Southern Africa. I have been paid to do things like interview peace workers on the Kenya-Somali border and train police in Southern Africa on the finer points of taking statements from rape victims. Not for everyone, maybe, but definitely the kind of day-to-day activity that blows my hair back.
I continue to write a regular e-mail newsletter that allows me a more personal space and tone to share and process my experiences. I've also been spotted teaching the self-defense techniques that saved me from that first mugging to groups around Johannesburg. If and when I eventually go to graduate school, it will be a focused undertaking building on the work I am already engaged in.
The most important thing is that I no longer run and hide when someone asks me, "So. what are you doing these days?" I would probably even go to my fifth Harvard reunion if I hadn't already made plans to go dune-surfing in Namibia. I have come to accept that I am incredibly bad at separating my work from the things I care about, so I have to find ways to combine the two. It's important to add, though, that I have no regrets about my time spent in California, which still feels like my United States "home." After all, I use my project management skills every day, and I still skydive.