Hope is nature's veil for hiding truth's nakedness. --Alfred Bernhard Nobel

My limbs have been spread over a heap of clothes for the past half hour and yet the only thing I’ve managed to put on is a pair of Hello Kitty briefs. Usually I love creating outfits; I find it therapeutic. But on days that fall on my broadcast news internship, deciding what to wear is an exasperating task: I could wear something pretty and feminine (the good), or I could begrudgingly put on a frumpy outfit (the bad). Something sexless and horribly plain (oh how very, very ugly). For a moment I wish that we lived in the time of Adam and Eve, when a mere palm-leaf was the extent of your wardrobe. But a world without Miu Miu? I could never. Now you might be wondering why I would even relinquish my love for fashion and consider wearing something drab. The nuda veritas is this: Although broadcast journalists are afforded a glamorous perch on top of society, there is very little glamour afforded to their wardrobes. To make matters worse, an invisible memo must have been passed about the newsroom ages ago, declaring that earnestness for the profession leaves scant room to exercise a creative fashion sense. The job of a news journalist is no-nonsense, calling for ruthless aggression, a healthy set of lungs for yelling, and a dependable pair of trainers to chase after story leads. But as a fashionista with only ten minutes left to decide on an outfit, I shrug off the bad and the ugly and decide to wear a chiffon blouse and flute skirt to work. And I cannot resist strapping on chic straw wedges crowned with oversized poppies. Satisfied with my outfit, I convince myself that these misinformed journalists will see that a woman can be intelligent, talented, and run with the best of them even in three-inch heels. Perhaps I’m still too green, too naive in this profession, but the eternal optimist in me is hoping.

My experience at both local and national news stations has made me a subsequent Nancy Drew—trench coat and oversized sunglasses obligatory. I’ve done some sleuthing and noticed that when the cameras are rolling, the studio flows with composition, gracefulness, and magnificence. But behind the backdrop of bright-eyed anchors lies a disheveled newsroom with an oftentimes unfocussed, hurried structure. It is a place where gray is the New Black. Where journalists’ mouths are in need of some thorough soap washing as profane one-liners zip through the air like fireflies. Each second can vary wildly from the next and the peculiarities of each employee range from strange to unacceptable, fashion sense notwithstanding. Is this how it is in the real world? I don’t know, but I’ve discovered that this is a profession where careful balance is a necessity—and I’m not talking about the balance a pair of Gucci’s on the runway may call for. Broadcast journalism is where artifice and authenticity are carefully balanced; the faster you develop a “tough cookie” façade, the less you’ll fall flat on your face. A strong-minded fashionista working towards a high position in news journalism (or any male dominated workplace for that matter) should be commended of her bravado. Hopefully, my experience will help—or at the least, entertain—so go get ‘em, tigress.

You will inevitably come across people with tendencies to take their bad days out on anyone standing within the twenty feet radar. Once, a reporter returning from an assignment with nowhere to sit snarkily informed me that as an intern, I should be the first to give up my seat. I had to bite my lip from singing back, “Okay Mister—and might I inform you that your comb-over is failing miserably?” I think people have a tendency to write-off interns as less capable and more dispensable, but that does not call for rudeness. It has been difficult to prove my worth while fetching tea for Prima Donna anchorwomen, but I’ve learned to remain confident in my abilities and save the vexation for someone worthwhile. A writer, notorious for her bouts of rage, once fired a blatantly spiteful comment towards me that came out of nowhere. I decided not to be miffed by her words, because her sourpuss attitude should not be wasted on me-- she needs to save that energy and direct it towards her God-awful wardrobe. (A frequenter of exercise pants and baggy shirts, on this particular day she was running around the newsroom barefoot.) As a coy retort, I chose to deliver her request using excessive politesse. A lady should always use diplomacy and grace to come out on top; after all, defeat is never in style.

The first time I talked to a female boss on the phone, her terse words and baritone voice led me to wonder, “Is this a man?” Femininity is not celebrated in the male-dominated world of journalism. End of story. The byline? If a woman desires a high rank, she needs a persona androgynous in both dress and demeanor. Androgyny is fine when it comes in the form of Lagerfeld’s newsboy caps and layered cardigans. But the group of women I work with have grown so eager to prove their abilities to hang amongst the authoritative male gum-chompers that they have stamped out gender specificities with baseball caps and frumpy garments. The few that try to execute style have a tendency to ooze tackiness instead, wearing garish cheetah-print blouses and unflattering minis. It would be nice if our comely, Emmy-award winning anchorwoman would lose the orange pleather motorcycle jacket and put on a Chanel tweed piece instead. Clearly, an injection of uptown refinement needs to be had; these women that may have their careers pulled-together, but a little fashion pulled-togetherness would be the sine qua non of total success. What would be more office-appropriate than a baseball cap? A timeless Herm è s silk scarf, of course: authoritativeness is not sacrificed, yet elegance is added.

The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple. –Oscar Wilde

I entered the world of broadcast journalism not knowing what to expect. At times it is exhilarating and rewarding; giving Madeline Albright’s makeup tips before her a national cable television appearance and sitting among the press at the Scott Peterson murder trial are experiences the average person are rarely afforded. Yet at other times, the packaged world of broadcast journalism is ruthlessly cold. The Pope’s death was written four days before his actual passing, his legacy turned into a one-dimensional stack of paper ominously lying by the printer. Just today, I heard a writer say, “We call the station ‘Dante’s Inferno’ because there are so many layers of Hell.” Does Hell ever change into Heaven? Experience has been the clarifying factor to help peel away at the layers that lie between me and a rewarding career; as a senior on the cusp of graduation, dreams I can defer no longer. Although I’m still not clear of my direction, experience with news journalism has made me realize that I am not a person who will abdicate fashion, elegance, and the desire to be adorable because others have done so. I will always be the girl who plans her Paris schedule around a special event at Au Printemps and seriously considers donating bone marrow just to purchase a Chanel jacket. One of the best pieces of advice I’ve received comes from a high-school English teacher. He wrote in my yearbook, “Your quiet strength is alluring. Use your sweetness to charm and then astound them with your unlimited capability and intelligence.” Will this be enough to succeed in a cutthroat profession? I’m not sure, and I’m not sure I even want to find out. What I do know is this: Yes, a feminine woman will continue to be called “sweetheart” by the men and cast off to the side until she proves her strength. But when she does, success will overflow in the palm of her hand. She will be unstoppable, and you can bet the only time anyone will be calling out “sugar” to her is when he is taking a coffee order.