Chapter Text
It was all anyone was talking about. At least this August. At least in my circles. At least with my friends, online, and in the office where I work, at The Cut.
The DNC was to be held next week, here, in New York.
Of course, every four years we hear that this is the most important election in our lifetimes. But this year, my Dad called me from our hometown of Randolph, Massachusetts, imploring me to vote. I wouldn’t have dreamed of abstaining from voting in any election, especially having been raised by two lifelong democrat parents, my mother a high school teacher and my father an assistant in a law firm. Dad’s reminder was unnecessary, but felt like a warning. This one is different.
The Republican Richard Voss, The Democrat Courtney Moreno.
The Moreno-Watson campaign had not been straightforward. But neither had the Voss-Thomas campaign. Both sides had accused the other of playing dirty.
So maybe there was no “most important election of our lifetimes”, because how can we compare the present with the past, before we knew what we knew, and with the future, which we know nothing of. But this election was, undoubtedly, important.
And so this is where we begin.
A week ahead of the DNC in New York.
And I’m in my office at New York Magazine on a sweltering August day, Wednesday to be exact, scrolling through TikTok. I’m looking for someone to interview about the rise of young people complaining about sex scenes in TV shows. I leaned back in my chair, phone in one hand, afternoon iced matcha in the other from the Blank Street down the block, slurping too much and accidentally giving myself brainfreeze from the ice.
“Madeline.”
I spun around in my office chair, brain still temporarily frozen, recognizing the familiar silhouette of my boss, Flavio, editor-in-chief of The Cut, standing behind me, hands on the hips of his acid wash Levi’s, running a hand through his short Afro.
The TikTok was still playing from my iPhone - a teenage boy with a British accent, complaining animatedly about his discomfort watching the last season of Euphoria.
“It was so gross! I don’t want to watch a show to see some guy’s dic-“
I hit pause.
“Research.” I took another slurp of my matcha, locking my phone as Flavio stared curiously at the now blank screen. “Sex scene epidemic.”
“Fair enough.” Flavio shrugged. His own phone buzzes in his pocket and he checks it.
“What’s up?”
“Let me pause you one second,” he said, index finger in the air, typing a reply with his other hand. “Two seconds… and I’m here.”
Flavio had been my boss for almost three years - our editor-in-chief before him was Natalie, an incredibly accomplished scholar, and somewhat a personal mentor to me, who claimed she was on a mission to make New York the smartest city in the world. Unfortunately she took that so seriously, that she left us during COVID to teach at Columbia. Flavio DeTorre was a somewhat controversial hire - a classic cliché Brooklyn hipster, he’d bounced from startup to startup, then to a few grassroots online organisations, and eventually publishing his own essay collection. But digital had been up hugely under his leadership. While he wasn’t my mentor, he was great to work for, and I trusted him.
“Cool. What’s up?”
“I’m reassigning the Gen Z are prudes story.”
“Hey, I’m Gen Z - wait, to who?”
“Dan.”
“Why? This is a fun one.”
“I’m putting you on something else.” He said with a sly grin. “It’s a real fun one, trust me. And a lot more up your alley than the sex scene internet police.”
“Can I… maybe…know what it is…?” I said in a monotone, but I was eager. It’s not often I have a piece taken away from me before I’ve so much as built a research document (my current research document was a Google doc filled with screenshots of tweets and some JSTOR links), so I knew he must have something good.
“Send everything you have so far to Dan. Then come to my office and I’ll tell you.”
My mind was racing as he walked away and I started typing an email. Flavio wouldn’t usually have an issue telling us anything in the main office. We were hybrid so there was never usually more than 15 of us on our floor at any one time.
I wondered what it could be - another college admissions scandal? Music industry exposé? A true crime case profile? This could be huge. And I’d be the one breaking the story. Quickly, I copy-pasted the links to all the TikToks I’d been watching and forwarded the whole thing to Dan. He’d have a great start on the piece, and he usually did youth culture content anyway. Not like this was my dream story - it’s interesting, sure, to get a look into young minds, the internet, and society, but also a little trivial in the scope of what’s going on in the world, or even the city.
“Close the door behind you, please.”
“You said this was fun, please don’t tell me I’m fired.”
Flavio laughed. “I wouldn’t fire you, Madeline. You’ll be sat here in this chair one day, firing me, I’m sure. But this is quite the assignment. You’re the first person I’m asking. Because I know you’ll want this, and I know you’re the best person for the job. If anyone can write this, it’s Madeline Rhodes.”
“Aaaaand?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Madeline,” he leaned forward dramatically and lowered his eyebrows. “You’re going to the DNC.”
“Shut up. No, actually?” I had dreamed of writing in politics, my major in college at Cornell. But I’d never quite had the fire my classmates had to go to Washington and report on the chaos of the White House. “What’s the angle? ‘What really goes on at the Democratic National Convention? How the DNC went NYC?’ Or do I get to pick?”
This is going to be a huge story for me.
“I haven’t got to the best part yet.”
“Go on.”
“I’d planned on sending you down there anyway, get a scope of things, I knew you’d love to write something political for a change, but then I got a call asking for a writer to assign to follow someone around for a few days.”
“Courtney?!”
“Who do you think I am, Oprah? The genie from Aladdin? If I had Courtney Moreno asking for a writer I think I’d start looking for an apartment to buy outright. I’m still chasing her to even get a few quotes.”
“Then who! Who am I tailing with a notepad?”
“Jack Schlossberg.”
It takes me a minute.
“Oh. Oh. You mean-“
“Yes.” Flavio nods. “His people called. They want someone from The Cut to do a piece on him - behind the scenes on Jack at the DNC at the Barclays Center.”
“JFK’s grandson? Oh, my Dad is gonna pass out.”
“The angle is up to you. I’d say just go with it, but I know who I’m talking to. You’re good at this, you can think on your feet. Maybe the title will be ‘I spent two days with JFK’s grandson at the DNC.’ Or maybe you’ll have a revelation and get it through a perfect lens. But don’t just cover him. Cover him. Get the human angle. And don’t forget, we’re trying to get Gen Z on board. So talk to some young people too.”
“Sure. Oh my god, thank you Flavio.”
“Don’t fuck this up, Rhodes. I know you can do it. You’re the only person for the job, you won’t fawn over a legacy like the rest of the media circus. And don’t accept a job from anyone in Moreno’s campaign. I’m not having my best writer poached by a politician.”
“Your best writer?” I grinned.
“Now you see why I wanted to talk in private?”
“Thank you so much.”
“I’m still fixing all the details. But we’ll send you up there for the first day and you’ll have a pass for the whole convention. You’ll need to be ready to report everything, day or night. All the action. All things Jack.”
“Sure.”
“His people will be in touch, too. I told them you’re perfect for the job, but they might want to chat to you to confirm.”
“Okay, amazing. Wow.”
“Take the rest of the week to prepare. I want you focused on Jack and the DNC only. Today, tomorrow, Friday. Research everything. The campaign and what Jack is bringing to it. All of it.”
“I will do.” I’m smiling now. “Who are you sending out to the RNC?”
“Very funny.” He rolled his eyes. “But it’s Noah.”
“Good luck to him.”
“Okay, okay. Call me if you need anything. I know, you won’t, but this is a big one. Don’t let me down, Rhodes.”
I almost skipped out of his office. This is such a fucking cool assignment. I get to go backstage around the DNC. Shadowing the grandson of a former President of the United States. It’s not hard to see why Flavio put me forward for this. I’ve made no secret of my political allegiances, especially on social, where I have a fair sized following and post my hot takes and fangirl over Zendaya with the rest of New York’s writer zillenials. But I’ve managed to bring the state of current affairs into almost every lifestyle or popular culture piece I’ve written in the run up to the election.
So this is an exciting one. And I’m nervous. Not too nervous. But being out in the field isn’t something I get to do a lot. It feels like real, boots on the ground, journalism.
I didn’t tell anyone else in the office about my assignment, just that I’ll be working from home doing research, and I head out of the office. The sun was blazing when I stepped onto the sidewalk below, and thankfully I’m in sage green linen shorts, white converse and a floaty embroidered Aritzia blouse. Sunglasses on, I downed what was left of my watered down matcha and walked to the nearest newsstand, buying The New York Times, The Washington Post, and whatever else I could get my hands on that had Moreno’s face or name emblazoned on the front.
And then I walked, and kept on walking until I hit Washington Square Park. It was packed today, but I don’t mind, I love New York in the summertime. I laid down on my front on the grass, pulled a green highlighter and a Muji point pen out of my tote bag, and began my research, starting with the Times.
Courtney Moreno was the Democrat’s choice. She wasn’t perfect, sure, no politician is. But she came from a small town and worked her way up through the financial system. Her knowledge of the economy was flawless. She’d wiped the floor with Voss in the economic topics of every debate. Together with her pick for VP, Senator Terence Watson, they felt like our best option. At least, in my opinion, a liberal 26 year old woman living in New York City with a job that forces her to be chronically online. I looked forward to seeing them at the DNC and to hear Courtney in particular address an arena of people.
And then for their opposition. Richard Voss, the red candidate, was a staunch Republican with a seemingly shady past, and the thought of the slimy businessman being elected in November twisted my stomach. His policy seemed based more on what would get clicks on The National Enquirer than The Wall Street Journal.
And then to get specific. Jack Schlossberg. A quick Google told me he was a few years older than me and linked me to a few speeches he’d given in the last few years. I watched them there in the park, earphones in, scribbling down notes. I came across his name halfway through The Washington Post. He’d been involved in an education initiative. Excellent. I jotted down
Ask him his thoughts on education policy.
Meeting him would be interesting, that’s for sure. The Kennedys are the closest thing we have to American Royalty. There certainly was something regal about him. Perhaps the way he spoke, the way he carried himself. I reminded myself that he was not a politician, more of a public figure, and my piece would have to reflect as such. I grinned to myself as the sun started to set and I packed up my papers and notes to head home. This would be a challenge.