"So raise your glass if you are wrong; In all the right ways, all my underdogs"

“Wait, what?” I stare into the camera of the laptop and see an image of myself in an emerald green sweater and flat hair looking back at me. Just minutes ago, I thought activating the video had been a mistake and tried desperately to undo it. I fidgeted with the buttons. Clearly, I am not supposed to be here like this. Surely, I’m not supposed to be seen. This is not how the earlier seminars had been.

I had known about the event for the past four months, registering for it just a month after my start date, excited to learn about the organization's advocacy campaigns, and eager to watch the experts dive into the bigger issues. Although disappointed the event was virtual versus in-person in Washington, D.C, I expected a Zoom-like conference and an opportunity to mingle with similar minds, even network and build connections.

Leading up to this end-of-the day meeting, the conference, thus far, underwhelmed me. It had been similar to watching one YouTube video after another, background noise really. Since early afternoon, I sat in front of my laptop at my home desk watching broadcasts of bigwigs speaking about advocacy. Some were invigorating, others slowly sucked the life from my veins.

My interest peaked and waned at the campaign asks that are above my pay grade. Yes, I have some politicking experience, but my passion lies in bringing a voice to other people’s excitement. My plan had been to sit in the proverbial back row with my notepad and mentally prepare for similar get-togethers in the years to come. After all, my knowledge of the asks is barely baseline. I have only been in my position for five months. I'm not qualified to speak to the intricacies, nor the numbers. And, if I were to ask Congress for a billion dollars, I believe I should know the particulars inside and out. I should be able to speak comfortably about the topic in everyday language, maybe slang.

Throughout the afternoon, I had been reminded there were seven-hundred advocates from across the country scheduled to participate in this three-day virtual event that concludes with state legislator meetings and asking them to support our, mostly, budgetary needs. They referenced it as “Hill Day,” yet something wasn’t adding up. I understood the concept of talking to a legislator, but in what capacity? So far, the virtual conference had been a never-ending video, minus commercial breaks. The closest any seminar came to being interactive was when speakers allowed questions in the chat boxes.

I asked one question, which was addressed and answered on screen. I felt recognized and accomplished. Job well done. I impressed a bigwig. Score!

In the collaborative training discussions leading up to the virtual event, the organizers stressed dressing professionally, following online etiquette, and using appropriate language. Was this it? Was I professional for a chat box?

As I sign on to my last meeting of the day, I expect something resembling the seminars before this one. Yet, I'm in this virtual room with five other participants and my video is on. For the first time all afternoon, my face can be seen.

I freak out.

I have to undo it. NOW!

I frantically move my mouse around the screen looking to exit the meeting, mute myself, and stop the video. It takes literal minutes before I realize it’s OK. There are no organizational titles shown on the screen. There are no fancy suits or corporate office backgrounds, nor anyone yelling at me to disappear. I cautiously take a deep breath and am welcomed into the meeting, unaware of what is happening.

We introduce ourselves and I quickly learn I’m the greenest freshmen in the virtual room. I have no full-time advocacy experience, nor a job department that showcases anything relating to this proficiency. I have no previous familiarity with the conferences, nor tenure with the agency.

I want to sink into my green sweater and disappear like a turtle in its shell.

“Well, Brandy,” says the host of the meeting, “since you’re the only participant representing the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, we’ll have you moderate and lead the three meetings with the three Massachusetts’ legislators.”

My heart stops as I’m sure it has done many times before. Although this time I’m convinced it’s for real.

“Uhm, what?” I repeat, suddenly singled out from the rest of the participants in my Zoom-like meeting. I don’t know if they can see my eyes pop out of its sockets or dart from side to side. Nor do I know if they see my blood pressure rise and my palms sweat.

“Um,” is the only sound I can form. No words follow.

I listen to the other participants talk about their previous experiences in past years and their job descriptions that shine in this arena, wondering how I got here. Here. In this room. With these people. On this call. A bigger-wig insists she’ll sit on my calls and be my moral support.

When we end the meeting, my brain goes into overachieving mode. I frantically attempt to catch up on everything I’ve ever missed.

Epilogue: My three meetings with the legislative aides of two Massachusetts’ senators and a representative went extremely well. I'm still blown away.