by Annie Scott
January 16, 2008

It was easy to get excited about my decision to enter the world referred to simply as “The Hill.” Coming from the government contractor arena, Capitol Hill seemed like the epicenter of all the action I was dying to experience.

There was just one minor problem — how in the world did one go about getting a job on a congressional staff?

Everyone always said it was all about “who you know” — but that seemed a challenge for someone who had not yet met anyone who worked there.

After some head-scratching, I realized I did “know” two family friends who had worked on and around The Hill for a number of years. Both had impressive contacts and were kind enough to want to help me find an “in.” A brief conversation with each provided enough information to enable me to pass along my new resume to someone else who would be “good to chat with.” Thus began a period of networking frenzy in which each subsequent meeting and contact led to another recommendation, meeting and contact until I had finally completed a Six Phase Networking Chat.

What was most impressive about these “chats” was the fact that it all seemed so routine for each of the people I met. The set-up process was always the same: resume would be sent along by recommending party ahead of my e-mail contact, then follow-up contact would be made by new party, with a tacit understanding between everyone regarding all necessary subtext, and a date and time were established. Since my contacts all worked on the House side, the location was always the same — the Rayburn House Office Building cafeteria.

Everyone apparently knew this drill all too well, and whether I was meeting with a junior staffer or a senior aide, the questions never varied much.

“So what do you want to do?” Uh, work here? Do something that matters?

“Where do you want to work — House or Senate side?” Answer with whichever side the interviewer works on, since most staffers have poor regard for how things work on the “other” side.

“Are you looking to find a position in a committee or personal office?” After learning that salaries were often higher for committee staff and that junior committee staff didn’t have to give tours to constituents, I always answered with a resounding, COMMITTEE.

“Would you be willing to intern [read: work for free] for a few months until something opens up?” Careful here. Don’t want to look like you’re a sucker who is willing to work for free and be trampled all over just to have something to add to the resume. BUT, also don’t want to look unwilling to pitch in and do the unglamorous work that nearly every young staffer has to do before getting to climb the ranks. “[sensing my hesitation…] That’s just how it works a lot of the time, unless you’re lucky.” Right, well then, yes, I’d be willing to intern for a couple of months if absolutely necessary, but I wouldn’t be able to afford it for long.

And finally, the dreaded inevitable question: “Who else do you know up here?” Ugh. No one — why do you think I’m talking with you?

The young staffers of the Michigan delegation were the key to landing a choice spot. We spoke the same language, shared the same political reference points, had grown up with largely similar backgrounds and — most importantly – communicated via the same sarcastic sense of humor. Once it was clear that I was one of them they would readily provide insider advice on which offices were good or okay to work in, and which were a nightmare. Which bosses were humane and which were monsters. Which parts of my resume would get me somewhere and which parts could get it laughed at or thrown straight into the recycle pile. Amusing and/or horrifying anecdotes often accompanied such tips.

It was all so fascinating, new and exciting. At the same time, it seemed utterly banal and routine to every person I spoke with. It quickly became apparent that this was all just part of the job. Once someone gets you in, responsibility falls on you to help others get in. “That’s just how it works….” It was quite a system.

Finally, my chats culminated in an informal interview, which turned out to be not much of an interview at all, just a more productive cafeteria chat. The Chief Clerk for a primo House Committee was giving me the time of day because one of her junior staff had recommended me for a paid internship spot. She asked nearly the same questions. “What have you done?” “Why do you want to work here?” “Are you willing to put in some time doing some unglamorous work, just like all the interns before who’d been ‘lucky’ enough to be offered this opportunity?” “Can you handle answering a busy phone, filing and making lots of copies?” The answers seemed to satisfy her expectations, and before long she was providing a brief oral history of the Committee, the Rayburn building and our boss. A good sign. “And,” she added, “we have a budget for you.” A what? “We’ll be able to pay you.” An even better sign!

Several minutes later, I was agreeing to start the following week and gushing about how excited I was to make this life goal come true. But wait – that was it? After all of the crazy networking and stealth cafeteria meetings and e-mails and resume revisions?

“Yes,” the Clerk said, “that’s it. We’ll look forward to seeing you Monday.” Wow. All those awkward conversations had actually made this happen! It really did work the way everyone had told me. What a bizarre system — but for some reason, despite its thoroughly unofficial nature, it was a highly efficient and effective means of identifying and channeling potential new hires into the right starting spots.

Leaving the Rayburn building for the fifth time in two weeks, it hit me. It wasn’t a lie; I really was thrilled to finally be realizing the career aspiration I’d held since high school. I was actually going to be a staffer (okay, an intern, but whatever) on CAPITOL HILL. It didn’t seem real. Trying to take it all in – the combination of power suits, self-important speed strutters, security guards, impressive-looking people, excited tourists, impatient members of the press, an exorbitant amount of marble everywhere one looked — a flutter of giddiness ran through me and signaled that this was the right move.

It was going to be intense but also incredible. It was time to invest in a nicer work wardrobe, start thickening my skin and prepare to inhabit and succeed in a completely foreign and intimidating world. But I wasn’t intimidated. Only excited.

Annie Scott lives and works in San Diego, where she tries to make a difference every day.