"So You Want to Be a Spy?" (Originally published on Substack 04/10/2025)

2008: 

“So, you have one job. Try and figure out how to get past the front desk without signing your name or showing ID to the security guard.”

The CIA recruiter smiles as she looks around the room. “Think you can do it?” 

As everyone else murmurs, I raise an eyebrow and scribble some more Chinese words on my legal pad. I can barely remember any characters – a childhood of Saturday Chinese school and three years of undergrad courses clearly haven’t stuck – so I’m more or less writing a nonsense sentence: My name is Celeste and I love dogs. 

But it seems to impress the guy sitting next to me. 

He’s tall, with slicked-back hair, and is wearing a three-piece navy-blue suit. It feels like overkill given the mild Southern California day, but it matches his vibe. He’s told anyone who will listen that he speaks Farsi and has been to Egypt.

Twice. 

“And Cairo is really great!” Glasses declares to everyone with a wink and a smile. 

He’s also been sneaking glances at my notepad all afternoon, brightly mentioning more than once: “Oh! I want to learn Chinese too!” 

I’m willing to bet good money that he’s probably a part of the prep-school to Ivy League pipeline. Shiny. Extroverted. Overly confident. Sure enough: 

“What are you writing?”  Glasses whispers, nudging me.
 
“Oh, just making some notes,” I whisper back with an icy, polite smile, which I only use when feeling intimidated. “We should probably pay attention.” 

And then I tilt my notepad over, just a little, so he can see the words I scribble next. 

Heart. Me. Day. Friends. 

***

It's 2008 – fall. I’m at a hotel in Southern California. I’m in the first phase of the recruitment process to join the CIA’s clandestine service - or to become a spy. 

Each of us in this room have survived several rounds of the recruitment process already; we’ve been vetted, interviewed, and have passed a battery of IQ and personality exams. We’re greeted with a round of applause by the CIA recruiters as we enter. 

“You’re all here for a reason,” announces one of the recruiters, as she kicks off our introductory session. 

There are three of them, and we quickly learn that they’re normally out in the field as case officers and operations officers – think Ethan Hunt from Mission Impossible, with a Luther Stickell (Ving Rhames’s character) in the mix. They’re each doing a year-long rotation to help recruit new officers. 

“You’re the top of the crop,” adds another one of the other recruiters, with the slightest hint of a southern drawl. 

I have a good ear for accents, thanks to a childhood of pretending to be British – blame the Spice Girls – and linguistics classes in college. Something about hers sounds a little off. I amuse myself, wondering if it’s a put-on. 

But I’m probably overthinking this, right? 

Still. While they don’t openly say it, we figure out pretty quickly that none of the recruiters are using their actual names. Makes sense; they’re working spies, after all. Maybe it wouldn’t be that weird for one of them to fake an accent? 

Yeah, I’m probably overthinking this. 

As the recruiters give their PowerPoint pitch for why the CIA is the right place for us, with some pointed reminders that yes, we should feel lucky to be here, there’s a part of me that’s very impressed by all of this. 

I’ve wanted to join the CIA since I was six, thanks to my dad swapping bedtime stories for retellings of the Tom Clancy novels he liked to read. Later, when I grew older, we’d sneak marathons of spy movies like True Lies and Mission Impossible, instead of reviewing my math homework on weekends. 

But my dream of being Ethan Hunt takes on sharper edges after the September 11th terrorist attacks. 

As I watch the towers fall in real time, the spy movies I loved suddenly feel less like fiction and more like a calling. It’s an instinct to help. To do something, as I see the pain on the faces of the firefighters and hear the desperate pleas of family members posting missing fliers across New York City. 

In 2005, that instinct sharpens. I’m in London for a study abroad program when the July 7th bombings hit. The rest of the summer, spent in a city wrapped in grief, cements my gut: I want to help prevent this type of pain from ever happening again.  

So, on a free day at my Congressional internship, I apply to the CIA. With the 2008 recession in full swing, this feels like a far better option, especially as the world craters under the pressure of foreclosures, protests, and George W. Bush.

When I get the call from the CIA a few months later, it feels like fate. 

But now that I’m actually here, the imposter syndrome is hitting hard. Most of the other recruits are better traveled than I am, with fancier suits and slicker jobs. Lawyer. Doctor. Journalist. 

I’m barely out of school and still living at home. My dad still regularly slips me gas money. How can I possibly compare to Glasses or the guy in front of us, who’s a hotshot criminal defense attorney?

It also hasn’t escaped my attention that I’m only one of two women, and the only Asian in the room. I knew the CIA wasn’t exactly winning diversity awards, but this still feels pretty bleak. 

“… And if you have bad credit? Withdraw and reapply later!”  

I tug on the cuffs of my scratchy polyester suit from New York & Company, as we watch a recruitment video that looks like it was shot in the ‘80s, probably on the Unsolved Mysteries set. 

Our on-screen host is in a trench coat, thundering out all the reasons why we shouldn’t continue with this process. Bad credit (a security risk)! Smoked marijuana (a security risk)! Or God forbid, if you have student debt (you get the idea)! 

But that’s not all. We also learn how to maintain secrecy, and it can basically be summed up into one sentence: you lie to everyone with two exceptions: your spouse or your parents. 

Everyone else nods, but I hesitate. Is this really the life I want? Rigid and full of rules? I can barely get to my internship’s weekly staff meeting on time. How am I going to learn to lie consistently? 

I’ve also seen enough to know that there’s always a price to pay for being the one of anything in the workplace. Here, I’m the only Asian in a room of thirty people – probably one of the reasons I’m considered a good recruit, despite having little experience. 

But what happens when the rooms get bigger? When it’s not just thirty people, but an entire Agency and I’m still only one of the few people who look like me? 

By the end of the session, I’ve made up my mind. When Glasses winks and asks, “I’ll see you around, maybe?” I wave and smile. The next day, I withdraw my application. 

Though I dabble with a few more CIA-offered opportunities after that, including taking their Mandarin translator test —hilarious, given I can’t read or write — I put away my dreams for now. 

Something in my gut is telling me to pause. I need to get better at this. 

I apply to graduate school. I wait.  


***

2012:

“Okay, so like, I thought because you were the only girl in the room, you’d be really hard on us. And I was like, really glad you weren’t? Since you know, women can be bossy?” 

I blink. There’s no way anyone can be this casually sexist, right?  

The speaker has curly blonde hair, tanned skin and a whitening strip-perfected smile, which he flashes, waiting for me to answer. He’s definitely a surfer or lacrosse player. I’m tempted to ask if he plays either, but I need to pay attention – and not respond to the sexism. 

It’s spring 2012. We’re at an undisclosed CIA facility in northern Virginia, and on day two of a three-day process for clandestine service applicants. I’ve made it two steps further than 2008, and if I can survive the next day and a half, I’ll get a job offer. It’s the carrot I’ve been chasing for months.    

I’m in a conference room with five other recruits –including Lacrosse Guy– and we’re fresh off a role-playing exercise which I’ll admit I didn’t fully understand. Something about an African country and getting tribal leaders to talk?

From what I can tell, no one else really understood the assignment either. But if there’s one thing would-be spies have in common? It’s our ability to bullshit. Everyone’s acting very into this exercise, which probably explains Lacrosse Guy.  

“Well, I just wanted to make sure everyone else could keep up,” I finally reply, flashing my iciest smile. “Got to rep my entire gender, you know.” 

To his credit, Lacrosse Guy looks a little flustered. 

***

After a year and a half in London for grad school — where I collect most of my CIA interview anecdotes, including my work on a wedding event for Prince William and Kate Middleton, a fact which delights my first interviewer — I’m back on track to being a spy. 

I still haven’t been to Egypt or learned Farsi. But I’ve watched the Arab Spring unfold alongside classmates from the Middle East - including the Princess of Bahrain - lived through the London riots and marched with Chinese dissidents protesting Ai Wei-Wei’s detention. I understand what it actually takes to be good at this job now. 

I’m also no longer the only Asian in the room. 

It’s pretty clear that in the four years since President Obama has taken office, there have been big improvements at the Agency. Not only do I see more females and Asian recruits, but I even see another Asian female recruit. I resist the urge to high-five her. Barely. 

Considering that being Asian in intelligence is a double-edged sword, with extra vetting, deeper vetting and an ever-present suspicion that we might be too close to the countries we’re being asked to spy on, having more of us in the room feels like progress. 

Even if it comes with extra side of scrutiny. 


***

On day three, I end up at a table with a guy built like a football player, who speaks with a slight South Ohioan accent. We’re joined by another recruit, an Asian guy who 100% screams STEM background, and I’m pretty sure is also from Southern California. 

“This is awesome, right?” Football Guy slaps the table, inhaling his sandwich in the same breath. “We’re all gonna be spies!” 

STEM Guy shrugs. “I think I’d rather go for DS&T instead.” 

The CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology? Absolutely the most Asian response ever. 

“Dude, that is so Asian of you.” I snort. 

STEM Guy smiles. “You’re right. But we got to make our people proud, right?” 

We both laugh. 

“I don’t know why we’re laughing, but I’m here for it!” Football Guy grins, still mid-sandwich.

While we’ve been coached not to share too many personal details, it’s clear this isn’t 2008. I want to work with everyone here. 

Even with the occasional detours into casual sexism – oh hello, Lacrosse Guy – there’s a clear sense of mission humming through the air. We’re learning how to disappear into the shadows, protect the country, and each other. This feels right.  

I don’t have all the answers for my final meeting – an evaluation by a CIA psychiatrist. But I know in my gut that I’ve done well. I leave for the airport feeling confident.  

***

I run into Football Guy again at Dulles. He’s sitting on a bench and talking on a phone as I walk past. He waves. 

He compliments me on my trench coat, asking where I bought it. He wants to buy one for his girlfriend. I’m feeling a little sentimental as our conversation ends, so I pull out my copy of Elizabeth Wein’s Code Name Verity – a book I purchased just before this trip, as my own sneaky little nod to all of this.  

“Hey, take this.” I hand him the book. 

“Okay?” He raises his eyebrows. 

I shrug. “Consider this a souvenir. You can give it back to me when we’re at Langley.” 

He laughs. “Thanks for the reading material, I guess?” 

We head off to our respective gates. We don’t ask each other’s last names. I never see him again. But I hope Code Name Verity still has a place on his shelf. 

***

I barely have time to unpack before the CIA offers me a job: Case officer. Langley. 

The salary is twice what I’d make in politics, and I start picturing myself at the Farm, the CIA’s famed training facility. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m on the right path. I have a purpose. 

But what I don’t know is at this very moment, the CIA’s China network is bleeding out its most valuable Chinese informants. A double agent by the name of Jerry Chun Shing Lee has helped dismantle years of intelligence work, and my dream job is about to go up in flames. 

Lee, a former CIA officer from 1994 to 2007, was secretly recruited by the Chinese government in 2010, with promises of cash and protection. Soon after, the Agency’s Chinese informants began being jailed or killed one-by-one, with eighteen to twenty in total dying. One is executed in front of his coworkers, as a warning to anyone else who might consider working for the Agency. 

At this exact moment, the CIA is frantically trying to uncover the double agent’s identity. But I’m in the dark. So, when I’m told it might take a while to process my job, I don’t think too much of it.  

Like 2008, I wait. 

***

I spend the next two years in limbo. 

I have my instructions: I’m supposed to call my CIA front company once a month to see if there’s been any movement on my file. 

And yes—we have a fake company. I Google the name one day, and realize the Agency actually hired a graphic designer to create the logo. The designer has innocently included it in their online portfolio. I wonder if they’ll ever figure out who their client really was

My monthly check-ins become a ritual. People rarely pick up, so I leave carefully rehearsed voicemails, trying to hit just that right tone of confidence and nonchalance. Yep, don’t mind me. Just trying to get my life as a spy started. No big deal! 

In the meantime, I move to Northern California and start a job in local government. I swap intelligence briefings for city council meetings, security clearances for code enforcement cases. 

It’s not what I expected, but I where I start learning the politics which will help me become Celeste Pewter two years later. 

***

A year and a half into my job, I get a notification for a FedEx delivery on a Thursday. It’s from my CIA front company. 

I ask Tom, my then-partner, to stop by our house and pick it up. He texts me when he has it, and I ask what it says. He doesn’t respond. I start worrying. 

In the ten minutes it takes for him to drive from the house to my office, I excuse myself from my desk and start pacing outside. 

When I see Tom’s face, I know. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, handing me the envelope. It’s already been torn open, and I can’t even be mad he’s opened my mail without asking. 

Instead, I sit down on a concrete bench outside of my building, nodding slowly to myself, as I skim the words on the single piece of paper. They thank me for my time, but my job has been canceled. No explanation. 

After a year of interviews and tests, nearly two years of waiting, and dozens of check-ins by phone, I finally have my answer. I’m not going to be in the clandestine services, and I don’t even know why. 

I read the words on the page over and over again, until my eyes blur. 

Finally, I cry. 

***

I’m not proud of this. But I ignore everything intelligence-related for the next year. 

Outside of applying to Johns Hopkins University for their global security/intelligence MA program, I can’t even watch TV shows or movies with characters working in intelligence, without feeling the gut punch of yes, I should be there. 

But I keep going. 

I become Celeste Pewter and start teaching civics online. I’m accepted to Hopkins for my second MA program and keep building. I teach hundreds, maybe thousands, how to call their reps and do it regularly. I start thinking that maybe I didn’t get the CIA job, because my voice was needed to help save democracy. 

Still, I wonder about the life I didn’t get to live. When I read The New York Times exposé on Jerry Chun Shing Lee and the collapse of the CIA’s China network, I’m devastated. 

But at least I know now. It wasn’t me. I didn’t fail to keep the job.

When I meet my graduate advisor, Mark – a former CIA officer - he confirms my suspicions. After Lee’s betrayal, the Agency had to start over with China-adjacent analysts. It’s comforting. But also, a bitter reminder of how different my life might’ve been, if not for one man. 

Mark encourages me to apply again. I tell him I’m not sure. 

I know – it sounds silly to mourn a job I only had in theory. But I poured so much of my heart into being a spy. Trying again feels a little too hard, for now. 

***

2023:

“So, I’m feeling a little outnumbered,” I confess to the CIA recruiter. 

She’s blonde and tells me she has four kids. She looks exactly like the type of mom who’d send care packages to her kids and their roommates before finals, so I’m choosing to believe her cover is real. 

“I know, right?” She waves her hand at the room. “I was surprised, too. But I think we’re near some military bases, so that’s probably why you’re so outnumbered.” 

She smiles brightly. “You can usually tell by the haircuts.” 

It’s 2023. Winter. I’m at another Southern California hotel for another introductory session for the clandestine service. It feels a little like coming home. 

But unlike 2008, I’m the only woman in the room this time. The recruiter’s explanation about military bases make sense, but I can’t help but wonder if the glaring gender gap is also a casualty of the Trump era. It tracks, unfortunately.  

This time, I’m amused when I also realize I’m one of the older applicants. Almost everyone else is in their early twenties, looking just as nervous as I did in 2008. 

Oh, how the tables have turned.  

After 2014, I didn’t think I’d apply to the CIA again. But then came my cycling accident. Somewhere between doctors predicting I might end up paralyzed and the long haul of weekly physical therapy, I made it a promise to myself: I’d apply one more time. Just to prove I could. 

Except… I half-ass it. 

Blame the post-injury recovery haze. I somehow send in a resume with “Join the FBI” listed in my one-line summary, along with my application.  

If you didn’t know already: the FBI and CIA are long-standing rivals. They have a standing tradition of swapping one officer from each agency to visit the other agency for a year, to strengthen communication, and it’s been called “the enemy exchange.” Think of it like a hostile study abroad program, but with fancier suits and security clearances. 

Luckily, the CIA recruiter finds my slip-up funny, especially after I explain about the injury. I advance again and again in the process, until I land here. 

I’m supposed to have a one-on-one interview the next day, but I push it for two months out. That morning, as I was getting ready to leave, Tom had another meltdown. I don’t feel safe leaving the cats alone with him, so I pack it in and head home. 

I’m keeping my expectations low. But when my train pulls out of the station, and I hit play on Taylor Swift’s Only the Young, I feel a flicker of something I haven’t felt since that day with Football Guy and STEM Guy. 

Maybe this isn’t a detour. Maybe it’s my way forward. 

***

JANUARY 2024:

“So, you’re from LA?” 

My interviewer looks a little like the actor Scott Porter, and his eyes crinkle in amusement when I shake his hand.   

From the way he words his question, it sounds like he’s never been to Southern California. So, I cue up my best yes, isn’t California so wacky schtick – something East Coasters always seem to expect. 

“Yup. Bad traffic and the 405. Earthquakes too!” I say cheerfully. 

He laughs. 

January 2024. I’m in another west coast city, finally sitting for my one-on-one interview with a CIA recruiter. It should feel normal by now, flying into a new city and getting my spy on. But I still get a little thrill knowing I’m one of the few let into this secret world. 

For the next hour and a half, Scott Porter Spy drills me on my analytical skills. It’s similar to 2008, but it’s a solo test this time.  

I fumble more than once. 

My once-sharp spy brain of 2012 has been reshaped by eleven years in government and writing. It’s less counterterrorism, more people centric. At one point, I accidentally flex my author instincts, pretending to be a children’s author instead of a government employee as the exercise probably expected. Scott Porter Spy is amused. 

But halfway through another question, I notice a backpack in the corner of the room. It catches my eye. It has the colors of a local Southern California university. 

I’m surprised. The backpack is such an obvious tell, I wonder if my interviewer is testing me. Maybe it’s a planted Easter egg to see if I’ll notice? But logic kicks in. What would even be the point of that? 

After I step outside for a break, and he comes back to get me, I take my chance. 

“Oh, I forgot to tell you earlier, I love [your alma mater]!” I say.

Scott Porter Spy blinks hard. For the briefest of seconds, I see uncertainty flash across his face. I hide my smile, as we walk back into our meeting room. 

“Oh! Huh,” he clears his throat. “Did you know I was from So. Cal.?”  

“No,” I smile. “But I saw your backpack, and I recognized the colors.” 

Scott Porter Spy recovers smoothly, telling me about growing up in Southern California and his undergraduate years. We swap stories about going to Disneyland. I tell him I’m going to the park next week. 

“Jealous!” he declares, before asking me to eat a Mickey beignet for him. 

But I can barely hide my smirk, as I see him casually slide the backpack behind the table, clearly trying to make sure no other recruit can clock this detail about the real him. 


***

MARCH 2024:

“…Good for you!” the CIA psychiatrist laughs. “Those are the types of skills that just can’t be taught.” 

I’m back in Virginia for the next round of CIA interviews. Like 2012, I’m one interview away from a job offer – I just have to power through this final meeting.

My psychiatrist is in his mid-sixties, with a head of thick gray hair and glasses. Up until this point, he’s been professionally pleasant, telling me he came out of retirement for the Biden administration. He compliments my answers and tells me, if I wasn’t interviewing for this job, I’d be a shoo-in as an excellent psychiatrist. 

But when I tell him about the backpack and Scott Porter Spy, he puts his notepad down and bursts out laughing. 

“Honestly, we can bring in fifty recruits, and very few of them will have what you have,” he says, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes. He’s laughed so hard, he’s almost crying. “I feel like this is the benefit of getting applicants who have actual work experience and can really read people.” 

I laugh too. 

There’s a part of me that’s wondering if Scott Porter Spy is about to get some kind of call from HR, asking why he screwed up and shared his real identity. 

But honestly? It’s good to know age can still be an advantage in the spy game. 

Before I leave, the psychiatrist lets it slip more than once. When I get the job, he hopes I’ll be okay leaving California and moving to Virginia. 

“The weather here really can’t compare,” he admits ruefully. 

“It’s a good excuse to break out my cutest boots,” I tell him. He laughs again. 

I don’t actually know what I’ll do if I’m offered the job. I started the process as a way to prove I could, but the CIA has felt so removed from my life. Did I really want to give up everything I’d built for myself over the past eleven years? 

It doesn’t even feel like the same Agency anymore. Some of my 2008 worries of being the only Asian in the room are not only back, but they’re louder than ever. Not only do I see no Asians amongst the other recruits, there’s also just fewer recruits and more contractors in general. 

Do I really want to lock my life in rigidness and secrecy, if I’m working side-by-side with people who enter the spy game as pay-for-hire types? For a second, I wonder if Football Guy and STEM Guy are still in the game – and what they think. 

But I also can’t deny it. This job still has a pull on me.  

I go home to California and wait. 

***

APRIL 2024:

Like 2012, the answer arrives abruptly. Two lines: I didn’t get the job. 

I’m disappointed. I’m also not surprised. 

I know it’s not about the injury; every recruiter had been impressed with my resilience. I’m impressed with myself for being able to do this. 

But the life I’ve built over the past eleven years, including becoming Celeste Pewter, has made it harder to fully disappear into the spy world. CIA security flagged it, when I mentioned my social media presence and the fact I write books. There’s also the fact that I’m probably on a sitting U.S. Senator’s enemy list – I’m not exactly inconspicuous. 

But I’m okay. Because when Donald Trump is reelected as President just eight months later, not getting the job again feels like fate.

It’s time to put my Celeste Pewter hat back on. It’s time to fight for democracy. 

***

CODA: FEBRUARY 2025

I’m offered one more chance to work in intelligence. There’s a job in London. It would be everything I’ve ever wanted.  

I think about it seriously. I imagine myself living in North London with my three cats. I fantasize about strolling down High Street Hampstead, Caffé Nero in hand, ready to vanish into analysis work. 

But I don’t take it. I’m not the same person I was in 2008 or 2012, or even last year. I’ve learned what matters to me. And for the first time, it’s not about the job or proving myself. 

It’s about something closer to my heart now. 

It’s about him.