It’s Tuesday, and the entire U.S. team at my company was fired. We’ve been working together at a “start up” company for just about a year. We worked 70 hours a week, night and day, on weekends, and even Christmas. We relocated three times; twice domestically, and once internationally. We received no benefits, no salary increase, no vacation, no health insurance, and no notice of our impending exit.
The world of start up companies is foreign to many. They’re a somewhat illusive beast, that has been inaccurately described since Silicon Valley became a thing in the 90’s. Start up companies get the exact opposite reputation they should. They’re mistaken as ultra hip and liberal, with snacks and trips, and little actual work to do. A real start up company is populated by a shark tank full of thieves, corrupt business people, unscrupulous investors, and fickle employees. It’s not a place for the faint of heart, those with mental illness, or people with souls.
I graduated from Ohio University with a degree in theater, and a minor in journalism in 2015. My father lost his job when I was a sophomore in high school, so I worked and student loaned my way to a diploma. 40,000 dollars in debt later, I entered a hostile market with no jobs, and no hope.
“We were the only foreigners in the small neighborhood of Sindaebang, a section of Seoul that had never seen a blonde haired, green eyed person before. I was frequently called a prostitute.”
I feared getting stuck in my parent’s house, so I applied for every internship under the sun. I was stuck on living in New York City, and when I got an email response from a trendy South Korean start-up company whose mission was to break into the U.S. market, starting with NYC, I was ecstatic. No, I was saved.
We set up an interview on Skype, and out of thousands of applicants, I was chosen, and hired to be a content writer for the company, whose business, was building a new social media platform. The company paid me three installments of 1,500 dollars, totaling 5,000 dollars for three months of work. I was assured that I’d retain the rights to my words, and just like that, I took the job. I was too young and desperate to turn it down. To be honest, I was thankful to have a job.
In June of 2014, I got on a plane with 200 dollars in my pocket, and a shit eating grin on my face, for I had beaten the odds, and gotten a job at a trendy, exciting company. We didn’t get the address for the office until the week before the internship, which was pretty unsettling, but the excuse, every time something was done last minute was, “Well we’re a start up!”
I moved into a basement apartment with two young hipsters in crown heights Brooklyn. They were lovely roommates. Couldn’t ask for nicer people. The internship lasted three months, and provided 20 of us (all under 30) with the illusion of freedom, creative support, and management that really listened. The CEO even flew in from South Korea, and gave us the news of our hiring in person. She was kind and warm, despite the language barrier. We drank in the Flatiron office, and went on day trips to Governor’s Island. I was happy.
The company decided to fly six of us to Seoul, South Korea for a three month intensive training. I endured a 17 hour flight without sleep, because I was nervous. Any 22 year old kid would be. We weren’t told where we’d be living until a week before we left. The company was scrambling to find us housing. As always, they said, “it’s a start up!” I started to think being a start up was an excuse to fuck up.
I flew to Seoul by myself, and got off the plane to meet my coworkers. We were the only foreigners in the small neighborhood of Sindaebang, a section of Seoul¹ that had never seen a blonde haired, green eyed person before. I was frequently called a prostitute.
We were segregated by gender, and shoved into a tiny room with a landlord who didn’t speak a lick of English. We were lectured on taking our shoes off, and drying our clothes on a line. It was absolutely surreal.
The apartments were the size of a dorm room. The beds were box springs. No mattress. We were provided with a thin cotton blanket, and a single pillow. I was terrified. I had the feeling I had made a huge mistake, and I was going to be sold into slavery or something. And, I basically was.
Unlike in New York, the headquarters in Seoul were lavish. They had glass tables, conference rooms, and two floors in a Gangnam high rise that must have cost thousands. There were nearly 100 employees buzzing and smiling, snacks and breakfast provided. Everything in New York was so sketchy and unorganized. Why did this office seem so…major?
Up to this point, everything seemed fine. A promising start up company with lots of funding, with teams in Seoul, Vietnam, China, Japan, and now the good old US of A. I thought I was on my way to being the next Zuckerberg. Everyone at these fucking companies thinks that. They have to to be able to sleep at night.
Seoul was a whirlwind, and yet another probationary period. Our contracts were signed, and we were expected to report from: 8:30am to 6:30pm every single day. The Internet never sleeps of course, so we worked weekends and nights. The company existed in our phones, and under our eyelids while we slept.
Every day was a fight to prove ourselves to older members who were our age, and felt the sting of new blood taking their place. We had to answer to 10 different people when we wanted to try something new. There were tense meetings where my boss would say things like, “you don’t trust anyone, and you’re not working alone anymore.” Our ideas were shot down immediately. Everyone asked questions, and started email threads for solutions, but none were ever settled upon. The structure of the company started to crumble.
Despite the long hours and constant stress, we quadrupled the numbers, and made everyone pay attention. Yet we weren’t told we made an impact. I wrote 7 to 10 articles per day, pumping out columns about travel, beauty tips, fashion trend reports, political and celebrity news. I was a one woman newswire. I barely slept; the impending doom of failure looming over comment numbers, and views on articles.
We were paid 35,000 a year. I made 13,000 total from June to November. Right at the lowest income bracket possible. It was a beautiful nightmare, where I met some unforgettable people, saw gorgeous land marks, and took cheesy wanderlust pictures in front of things my parents would never get to see. One day I woke up, and we were getting ready to leave. It was November, and nearly 6 months since college graduation.
I hadn’t slept in three days, and was running on weak Korean coffee and soju, a liquor that costs less than a bottle of water. I confessed to my boss that I was depressed, and couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t function. I was having panic attacks three and four times per week. I always performed under pressure, and I never let people see me react. I kept up appearances until our last meeting, where I broke down and cried. My boss told me I made it through probation. It’s a good thing he didn’t tell me what was ahead..
¹ Corrected from earlier error.
Tess F. Stevens is a young writer and musician based in the Bay Area. She operates on gin and tonics, indie rock and Gonzo Journalism ideals. Her writing has stunned millions on different platforms including online publications and print. She also loves baseball, makes rock music, paints and practices her craft on her 1960’s era Royal typewriter.
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