No, You Shut Up

by Symone D. Sanders

  Individuals from many different classes, ethnicities, races, genders, and background experiences have all concluded that they no longer want to hear empty promises. They want to see their fellow Americans speaking, and the leaders of the Democratic Party listening: they want to see Parkland students giving speeches on gun control, and congressmen and -women taking action. The wants of the people need to lead in this new age. If the Democratic Party makes this its aim, the factions on the ground will not work against the apparatus in Washington, DC. If the apparatus stops telling and asks the people to construct what the party should be saying, the party will see a brighter future.

  Now, there is a belief among progressive people, and definitely among some young people, particularly those under the age of forty, that you have to be 110 percent on board to sign up for something. If it doesn’t meet all twenty things on your checklist, then you don’t do it? I think that’s unrealistic at best and lazy at worst. Just because doing something doesn’t check all twenty of your boxes of what you want to accomplish, all at once, that doesn’t mean you sit around and do nothing or wait for something to change before you take action. Because as I talked about earlier on, in order to change the apparatus we have to have access to it first. How can I best effect real change in the world? How can I truly make a difference? These are the questions I ask myself when people accuse me of not keeping it real.

  Speaking of keeping it real and staying true to yourself, of course I have moments of doubt when it comes to knowing myself while others question me. Sometimes, my vision gets cloudy and I second-guess my capabilities or what I should do next to be as effective as I can be. One day in the spring of 2016, I thought I was going to walk off the Bernie campaign because I no longer felt valued and I tired of people questioning my skills and commitment—some inside the campaign, and some people in the media and outside of the campaign too. When I joined, people thought I had no campaign experience, no political experience, and that I’d literally been plucked out of obscurity. Nah. I’d worked on fifteen campaigns before I got to Bernie. No, never for a potential presidential nominee, but still, I’d worked on fifteen other campaigns. I remember early on, someone in-house told me over email that I could answer if BET or Telemundo came calling, but if the Washington Post or NYT called, I should forward any requests to him. I remember drafting my email back, deleting and rewriting and deleting and emailing so that I didn’t sound totally furious. In the end, I think I went with something like: “Thank you, but as the national press secretary I believe I’m empowered to speak to ALL press!”

  In April 2016, Donna Brazile and Nina Turner both called me to check in and see how I was doing. When I started complaining about the situation, they each gave me the tough love I needed. I’ll never forgot Donna had all the questions (and the answers): “Are they threatening to fire you?” No. “Are you still getting paid?” Yes. “Do you have another job lined up?” No. “Then WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Get up and go to work; pull it together! What is wrong with you? We will help you, but you have got to get back to work.” Sometimes you need the people around you telling YOU no! (Get it together, folks!) You need people you trust who you know will pull you back when they see you wandering off track. Sometimes we get into spaces and places with a lot of yes people. There are scores of them in politics. I don’t want any yes people. And I sure as hell won’t be anyone else’s yes woman.

  But I did still need to trust my own sense of direction in my career. And that’s how I arrived at the decision when I knew it was a time for me to leave the Sanders campaign. In the summer of 2016, things were getting bitter as it became more and more clear that Secretary Clinton was the presumptive nominee, and yet Sanders refused to concede. It caused a lot of rancor within the Democratic Party, and I started to feel uncomfortable for my role in perpetuating it. The race was definitely over, but I stayed through all the nominating contests because I believed what Bernie was saying—that everyone should be able to cast their ballot for the candidate of their choosing. The day before the California primary, the Associated Press had already called the race for Secretary Clinton. The polls weren’t even open, and they said, “Sorry, folks, it’s over.” Ha! And of course they were right. We lost. So, now what? Bernie was going to continue on; that much was clear. But it was also becoming evident that it was time for me to go.

  I had been “living” in Burlington, Vermont, since September of 2015 since that’s where the Sanders campaign was headquartered. I didn’t actually spend a ton of time in Burlington, but I did have an apartment there that I would go back to when I wasn’t on the trail. A few weeks before the California primary, my lease on the Vermont apartment was up. I knew I wasn’t going to renew it; I knew my time was coming to a close on the campaign, but I wasn’t quite sure how to extricate myself. So I went and packed up my stuff, managed to cram it all in a car, and I drove to DC. I crashed at my mom’s friend Lorna’s place, assuring her that it was temporary. (HA! More on that in a minute . . .) Anyway, I put my stuff at Lorna’s house, and then I went off to California for the primary on June 7. We got our tails handed to us. There’s a picture of me and the deputy communications director and the deputy press secretary out at breakfast the next morning with our heads down, all staring at our phones and notes, looking tired, but ready to press on.

  A little later that month, I went to a bipartisan political conference in LA called Politicon. I hadn’t officially quit the campaign. I had given my two weeks to Jeff Weaver, but no one else knew. In advance of the convention, someone in the Sanders campaign had sent out a statement about the Democratic committee platform, and I hadn’t seen it. So we were at Politicon and reporters in the greenroom started whispering and then talking openly about it, and they started coming right up to me, asking for comments. I was like, “We don’t have a statement.” And they were like, “Yes, you do.” Me: “No, we don’t.” Them: “Yes, you do.” I asked one of the reporters who was being especially persistent to let me read the statement on his phone. Okay, fine. There it was. Right then and there I called up the head of the communications department and told them I was done. I called Jeff Weaver and told him that I was going to let everyone else know I was leaving. I emailed Bernie and Mrs. Sanders to thank them for the ride of a lifetime. Then I walked out onstage. The emcee introed me as press secretary for Bernie, and right then and there I corrected them: “Former press secretary for Bernie Sanders.”

  My mom called. “Symone, your name is scrolling on the bottom of CNN. Did they fire you?” I didn’t freak out; I just calmly told her, “No, Madre, I quit!” And I didn’t second-guess myself. I didn’t feel like I was making the wrong choice—not for one second. After so much craziness on the campaign trail and the nonstop action of keeping up and keeping ahead and always being on call and responding to every piece of news or every request from the senator, I felt at peace for the first time in months. Stepping off the campaign at that point was what I needed to do, for myself and for my career.

  When I left the Sanders campaign in 2016, I thought I was going to work on the Hillary campaign. I remember going to Brooklyn one afternoon and folks assuring me it was pretty much a done deal. All I needed to do was wait for a call from someone in the communications department the following week. Welp, the call never came, so that was a clear NO. I was, however, still doing television during this time and quickly realized I was going to the studio for free while other folks were getting paid. So I figured the place where I could continue to truly help give voice to the movement and a lift to my bank account so I could at least pay my phone bill was on TV. But it wasn’t as if I just walked off the campaign trail and onto the set. Oh, no, no, no. Speaking of no, I got so many nos from agents and other leads that I lost count, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. Back when I started with Bernie, first I had to convince the campaign people that I belonged in front of the camera. Because the same person that believed I should only speak to BET and Telemundo couldn’t fathom I could be a credible on-air spo
kesperson. Even six months after I joined, it was still really hard to be allowed to do part of the job I was hired for. Frankly, I think I owe my entire TV career to Tad Devine and Poppy Harlow. Tad believed in me, advocated for me, and is the reason the hater on the communications team was overruled. Meanwhile, Poppy Harlow of CNN, who used to anchor Saturday afternoons, was an advocate for putting women in front of the camera. While other shows and networks would literally tell our bookers they wanted “the big dogs,” aka Tad and Jeff Weaver, Poppy’s team would regularly throw my name in the mix as a campaign spokesperson they would like to have on. Poppy valued my voice as an equal contributor to my male counterparts. I will always be grateful she said yes.

  Okay, back to life post–Sanders campaign. I had a lot of big ideas, but I also had no money and no job. I’d been doing some regular spots on TV by this point, which all my friends thought was cool, but I didn’t have a contract, so I wasn’t getting paid, and not to mention I was BROKE. Something they don’t teach in college (and you sure don’t get a class in while on the campaign trail) is financial literacy. My lease was up; I’d totaled my car. I needed help. One of my mom’s sorority sisters, Lorna, offered to let me stay at her house (more like was backed into a corner and reluctantly said yes) while I looked for a job. I took this as an opportunity to go full millennial mooch off someone who wasn’t even a blood relation.

  So here’s the backstory: It was May 2016. I texted Lorna (I didn’t even call—such a millennial) to ask if I could stay in her house for a little while. I think I framed it in some vague manner like: Can I put my items in the guest room? She texts back, Yes. I said it was only gonna be two to three months. After that I ended up working on the Democratic National Convention, where I essentially made up a job for myself as a consultant. So I went to Philly for a while, but was back at her house end of July. I still didn’t have a job job—I didn’t have a network contract, so I was working for free trying to figure out my next move. And in the meantime, I was hanging out with friends, coming home at three a.m. on a Tuesday—to the very loud sound of the garage door going up and down and waking Lorna, who had a very demanding job as an energy lobbyist.

  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was acting more like a brat than a radical revolutionary. What’s worse: I wasn’t paying for anything—no groceries, no rent, no utilities, nothing. I’d get Uber Eats and sometimes would not offer to get her anything! I did introduce Lorna to the wonderful world of takeout and Rice Krispies treats from Costco, though! In other words, I was twenty-six years old acting like a fifteen-year-old. Fast-forward: it was November 2016; days were dismal. I didn’t come home for four days. I was just hanging out with friends! Donald Trump just got elected! I couldn’t deal! Finally, Lorna texted me and was like, “I need to talk to you.” Ugh. Sometimes Lorna was my big sis; sometimes she was my other mother.

  She went right into it, said, “I want to know what your plan is.” I told her: “I’ve been saving a bit, so my plan is to stay here until March, and I think I’ll have enough to pay rent at a place of my own. Then I’m gonna look to get another contract . . .” She said, “I want you to think about this a little more.”

  Over the next month, it became clear that my leaving in March was not soon enough. We had another conversation. Lorna went, “You millennials”—already irksome—“think you can do whatever it is you want to do and be whoever it is you want to be. You’ve been told that your whole lives, but it won’t always be like this. The life you’re living now, it won’t always be like this.”

  Of course, this is great food for thought. But at the time I was thinking (not, thank God, SAYING): She’s trying to kill my dreams! She doesn’t understand. I responded, “I hear you, Lorna. I’ll be out in January.” I had nowhere to live, and I hadn’t been looking. I went on Craigslist and found a place that I could move into in three weeks. I told Lorna, and she was like, “Oh, what is it?” I said, “It’s very fabulous.” It was not very fabulous. It had no closet. It was in a basement. It was all I could find. And still Lorna helped me move.

  Lorna took me in when I was homeless and rude. Her putting me on notice was the best thing she could have done for me. When she kicked me out, that’s when I started my own consulting business because I had to pay rent and make my car payment and eat. And here’s a funny coda to the story. Two or three months after I moved into my closetless basement with no tub—where you had to walk into the bathroom sideways—my friend, with whom I’d lived when I first moved to DC, told me she needed a place for a month or two. She ended up staying six months.

  Toward the end of my stay with Lorna, I really started hustling. Nothing lights a fire like not knowing where you’re going to sleep in a few weeks. So I got a meeting at NBC. I was talking with an executive—it was an interview-type scenario—and he asked, “What would you bring?” And I was thinking, I was just a national press secretary on a major campaign—what do you mean, what would I bring? Even so, we had a good conversation. He was like, “I like you; you have good energy.” Then an assistant came in and handed him a sheet of paper. All of a sudden, he said, “I’m so sorry. I have to end this meeting.” We stood up and walked out, and there was Corey Lewandowski sitting there, and they were basically feeding him grapes; he had just left the Trump campaign and every network was trying to get him.

  Okay, so I went over to CNN. It was the same thing: “So, what do you bring?” Why does everyone keep asking me what I bring?! It felt bratty to say, I’ve already been on TV many dozens of times, and I was the national press secretary for a freaking headline campaign! That should have been self-evident. But apparently it was not. After these meetings, people were telling me, “You need an agent.” I made it my mission to get one. I had a couple of phone calls. On my first one, with a person who came highly recommended, I heard, “Honestly, I don’t think you’re palatable enough for cable television.” I had to wonder: Then why exactly had she agreed to talk to me? In retrospect, I think she was taking the meeting out of courtesy to folks who’d recommended me.

  Did she mean I was too Black, too bald, too big? Too loud, too proud, too radical? I don’t know. I tried not to take it hard, but I had been looking forward to talking to an agent who could help me figure out what I was doing wrong and tweak my strategy so I could get a job. So I talked to another agent. This one said I needed voice lessons. I asked why. She told me, “You don’t sound like what folks are used to listening to on TV.” In other words, I didn’t sound like a white woman.

  After being knocked down a few times, I didn’t want to talk to any more agents for a while. But then I picked myself up. I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I was going to get myself a TV contract, agent or not. This is easier said than done. (Most people in the TV biz will not talk to you directly; they want to speak with your agent. Same goes in the book biz, by the way.) So you know how I started? Good ol’ Google. I started typing in searches like “talent person CNN.” That’s how I found the name Amy Entelis. She is the executive VP for talent and content development for CNN Worldwide. In other words, a BFD. I knew I couldn’t just call her up. So the gears in my head started turning. Who do I know who might know her? How am I going to get in front of her?

  The same day that I did this googling, Jake Tapper was having a party to celebrate the beginning of his show in DC, and I got an invite. I wasn’t in the mood, but I rallied. As I arrived (late) and got out of my Uber, I saw Amy Entelis on the sidewalk! Thank God for the internet. She was standing with Tammy Haddad—an OG communications star in DC. Everyone knows Tammy; she’s super gregarious and has a big personality; she’s got an awesome gray swoop of hair. So I said, “Hey, Tammy!” “Oh, Symone! So good to see you!” Then Tammy came through for me big-time. “Amy, let me introduce you—you guys need to just hire Symone!” I owed Tammy favors for life at this point, but I tried to play it cool. We chatted for a moment, and then Amy Entelis gave me her card and was whisked away in a car. Just remember, you never know when the connection will come
, so always network and always remember: one day the meeting is going to go well, even if they’ve all been bad, maybe even very bad, maybe even for a very long time.

  A few weeks later, I got invited to a meeting with Rebecca Kutler at CNN. She asked me about working on Bernie’s campaign, asked my thoughts on the election at that point, seemed to actually care about my opinions and my input rather than asking flippant questions like “What do you bring?” All the same, I tried not to get too excited. Afterward, I didn’t hear anything. Two weeks later, I followed up, and I got another meeting on the schedule. I sat down with Rebecca again and got ready for a debate. I started off, “Let me just say—” She cut me off. “Well, Symone, we’d like to offer you a contract.” Well! Okay! So that’s how I ended up with my regular spot on CNN. I appeared on every single show on CNN at some point—The Lead with Jake Tapper, New Day, CNN Newsroom, you name it.

  Piece of Advice

  You Don’t Have to Listen to No, But You Do Have to Listen

  One thing about pushing for change, especially if you are working in politics or acting as a spokesperson or a public figure, is that you have to have a tough skin. You might not have to listen when someone tells you no, but you can’t just ignore everything else they might say! Try to think of people’s responses to you as feedback first, rather than insults. Make it your first assumption that what you’re hearing is constructive criticism. It’s also good to be self-aware and recognize areas for your own self-improvement. You know deep down if you did a bad job or you said something off. We live in a culture where folks are overly sensitive in many respects, to the point where constructive criticism and feedback people really do need is viewed as an attack—the response is often: “They’re just trying to silence me! They want to keep my voice from being heard!” You might need to take a chill pill! Sometimes I have to remember to take one too; we all get a little sensitive! Once, I was on the phone with someone talking about my latest appearance on a Sunday show. They said, “I saw the show and you were off your game.” I got very defensive, because the delivery was rude, and responded, “NO, I WAS NOT! Were YOU on the Sunday show today?” This person said my voice was raspy, and two to three of my points did not come across clearly. I said, “Well, I was tired! I’d been on a plane and traveling all week!” That may have been true, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t off my game. Then I got off the phone, and an hour later I admitted two things: One, I was not 100; I was 75 percent. And two, I was a little too defensive and should take some constructive criticism.