My summer in the Clubhouse

It almost never fails.

I would say that about 90 percent of the time I tell people what I did last summer, they ask me a variation of the same question – Do you get to see them naked? Who has the cutest butt? Did you date any of them?

As a female covering professional athletes, apparently most people think the only reason I’m there is to ogle, date and eventually marry one of the players. I mean really, I couldn’t actually be serious about doing this as a career. But I am. So when I get asked these questions I usually tell people the same thing – yes, they’re usually naked when they come out of the shower, I try not to look at their butts and why would I want to date any of them.

To be fair, I was warned when I applied for the internship with MLB.com that covering the White Sox was probably not going to be a walk in the park. However, I’m one of the most stubborn people I know and once I got the idea in my head that I wanted this job, I wasn’t going to give it up.

So, over Spring Break last year I went to a couple days of the White Sox Spring Training in Tucson. I was really looking forward to it. I would get to meet Scott Merkin, the MLB.com beat writer who I would be working with all summer. I would also get to meet the team – the baseball team that I’ve been watching since I was born, cheering for at games and basically obsessing over (especially in the previous season when they had won the World Series). I met Scott before one of the games and we went into the locker room so he could show me around and introduce me to the other beat writers and the team. I walk into the locker room (if my life had a soundtrack, this is where heralding trumpets would play) and the first thing that happens is Brian Anderson, a rookie center fielder, walks past me, looks at me and says, “They’re letting girls in here now? Great…”

That’s when I realized that this endeavor was going to take some extra effort.

Most things in my life have come pretty easily to me. I grew up in an upper-middle-class Chicago suburb, where my parents provided just about anything I could ask for. I was always driven academically. I had great friends. I was accepted to Mizzou. Thankfully, I didn’t have to work too hard to get any of these things. But I could tell that this baseball thing was not going to just follow in that pattern.

I wasn’t the only girl in the locker room last summer – but the other did not help my case. She was a producer for one of the local sports talk radio stations and paraded around the locker room in the smallest, tightest outfits possible (she worked for a radio station called “The Score” and aptly her nickname around the locker room rhymed with score).

I felt that I had to work harder, do more research, ask better questions and write better stories than anyone else – because I had something more to prove. While it was exhausting, I felt like that extra work I put in was completely worth it. I had a good relationship with everyone on the team and the other beat writers. Aside from journalism and experience, one of my goals was to be treated like one of the boys – and I think I really accomplished that. The players felt comfortable joking with me along with the other beat writers. I knew I had won over manager Ozzie Guillen (known for his fiery mouth) when I asked him what he said to an umpire that got him thrown out of the game and he told me the incredibly vulgar story without hesitation – something he had been reluctant to do at the beginning of the season.

While I accomplished what I wanted to journalistically, (high clip count and an invitation back for next summer) I was just as happy with what I accomplished personally.

As for those questions that I get asked, a lady never tells.

A journalist (almost) by accident

I’ve always thought I was a pretty good writer. Or, at the very least, a pretty decent writer — better than most, I suppose. At least that’s what I’ve been told. I’m still waiting to find out if it’s really true.

It started in second grade. My teacher, Mrs. Bosquet, an older woman with a messy jumble of curly black hair resting atop her head and a curious attachment to stretch pants, asked us to write a Christmas story. I didn’t work exceptionally hard on it; I just wrote what I thought sounded like a pretty good tale about Santa Claus and the reindeer saving Christmas. And the next morning, after our spelling lesson, Mrs. Bosquet said she wanted to read the best story to the class. It was mine. My face turned red; I was embarrassed but secretly thrilled. I decided I liked writing stories, and I started telling people I wanted to be a writer. At some point around eighth grade, somebody suggested I become a journalist. I didn’t really understand what that entailed, but I knew it involved writing, and that was good enough.

High school was more of the same. I wrote essays; teachers read them aloud. I continued to claim I wanted to be a journalist, still without really understanding it. I thought I was pretty smart and good at writing, especially when compared to the other 163 students in my graduating class. But I always had a sneaking suspicion that once I got out into “the world” — anything outside Mexico, Mo. — reality would kick in and I’d find out I wasn’t so smart after all.

Through a series of unfortunate events and the strong-handedness of my parents, I wound up at MU. And, because I had shown an interest in politics and law, it was decided that I would be going to law school after receiving a prestigious degree in journalism. At one point, I tried to switch to interior design. But my parents quickly shot that down, saying I wouldn’t make any money in interior design. Apparently, they didn’t know much about journalism.

My first reporting class was absolutely terrifying. Our first assignment was to interview five strangers and write about them. I walked up to my first stranger, opened my mouth, immediately spun around on my heels and walked hurriedly back to my car, where I sat and cried on the phone with my mom. I could write, but I couldn’t report. Or, rather, I couldn’t force myself to report. I wasn’t sure I had “it”— whatever it takes to be a journalist. So it was with great trepidation and utter fear that I entered the Missourian the next semester. I fully expected it to be the worst summer of my life, and I was terrified that I wasn’t going to make it. Even more, I was terrified of what I would do if it didn’t work out. I’d been saying I wanted to be a journalist since eighth grade, and in my mind, there didn't seem to be any alternative.

But somehow, I went in to the Missourian and just did it. Something clicked in me. I got it, and I did it. Eventually, it got easier, and by the end of the summer, I felt fearless. For the first time, I really got into it — journalism, that is. I was excited about it. I changed my sequence from Magazine to News Ed. And I fell in love with newspapers.

Despite my newly discovered journalistic talents, I still had law school hanging over my head. So in August, I started getting ready for the dreaded law school application process. I had a top-notch GPA and excellent recommendations; I was certain I could go to Northwestern or Georgetown or wherever I wanted to go — or wherever my parents wanted me to go. But then there was the LSAT. I took a practice exam a month before the exam date, but I didn’t do so well — about 15 points not so well. I thought I was smart, and I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t do it. I just didn’t have it. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have it. I was terrified that I was a failure and that I was a huge disappointment to my parents and to myself.

Eventually, it dawned on me that I was getting into law for all the wrong reasons. I didn’t have any real desire to be a lawyer; I just wanted to prove I was a big shot and to make my parents happy. I had gotten into journalism almost by accident, and that had worked out pretty well. But what if law didn’t work out so well? What on Earth would I do then?

So it occurred to me: I’m getting a degree in journalism, a field I’ve been lucky enough to fall in love with. And I’m going to The New York Times, so I must be doing something right. So I’ve decided to do some journalism for a while. Of course, I’m afraid I might find out I’m not as good as I think I am. I might be too shy, too neurotic, too afraid of failure or just too inadequate. But that’s OK. I’m determined, and I’m a perfectionist, and I can work at it. I may have fallen into journalism almost by accident, but it’s worked out pretty well for me. I’m staying in it for the right reasons. I just hope I have what it takes.

looking for approval

I did not always want to be a journalist. Actually, one of my earliest memories is of telling my mom I wanted to be a judge. Judges got to bang hammers against their desks. I still have pictures of myself in second grade, dressed in makeshift judges robes and holding a tiny gavel during dress-up career day. Looking back, I probably looked a little out of place sitting next to all those commandos, baseball players and ballerinas. But my parents seemed to approve.
A few years after that (career day again), a UFO... expert, I guess, visited our class and showed us pictures and videos of crop circles and alien spacecraft (weather balloons?). To this day, I don't know who booked him or what they were thinking when they did it, but I didn't mind at the time. We all sat indian-style in a circle and took turns telling him about our own UFO experiences. Amazingly, every single fifth grader in my class had, at one time or another, made contact. I went home and told my parents I wanted to be a UFO expert. They did not seem to approve.
A few years after that, in middle school, I'm sure, our guidance counselor visited our homeroom and had us each take a short standardized test. It was supposed to tell us what we were best equipped to do when we grew up. The questions were easy, at least. Stuff like, "Do you like to paint?," and "When your friends get in arguments, do you feel the need to help them work out their differences?" When we finished, a friend of mine told me, without an ounce of irony, that he was going to be a secret agent when he grew up. At least according to the test. "What did yours say?" he asked me.
I told him I was going to be a secret agent, too. I didn't have the heart to tell him I was actually facing a choice between golf course/restaurant manager and marketing something or other (as fulfilling as those jobs may be). Needless to say, I did not approve of the test results.
A few years after that, my dad and I were driving to my high school swim meet. He asked me if I knew what I wanted to do with my life. When I said I had no idea, he told me that when he was in high school, he had always wanted to be a journalist. When he was visiting prospective colleges, one of the advisers had asked him if he had any idea what he wanted to major in. He told her journalism, and the adviser asked him if he had worked on his school paper. He told her no, and ended up majoring in logistics. I went home that day and signed up for the necessary prerequisites to get on the school paper. It sounded like fun, and, as it turned out, it was.
A few years after that (over Christmas break, actually), I was sitting in the kitchen with my mom as she made dinner. We were talking about what I might do after I graduate. "You can go be a TV journalist for Fox News!" she said. I got up on my pedistal and told her that, first of all, 90 percent of what's on Fox News doesn't count as journalism, and second of all, I wouldn't work there if they offered me a million dollars. If I wouldn't work for Fox News, then where would I work? I have absolutely no idea. She does not approve.
Looking back, it seems a little weird that I've stuck with journalism as long as I have. Seven years is a long time to stick with anything -- at least it feels like a long time to me now. Now that I'm here, though, I can't really see myself doing anything else. I define myself as a journalist. I define everything around me as a journalist. I couldn't imagine anything else.

No offense, but are you Mexican?

I love it when people ask, but even more when they just guess. Because people from the Midwest are crazy. “Indian?” “Brazilian?” “Hawaiian?” Not one Midwesterner has ever asked me if I was Mexican. Best not to offend?

I can hardly see a week before someone asks me “what I am.” Back home, out in the west Texas town of El Paso, no one ever asked me “what I was.” After eighteen years, I barely knew that I was biracial. OK, I knew, of course. I can remember the day in high school I said hi to a chulo (homie, gangsta, etc. in Spanish) from class and he called me a coconut in front of all his friends and their baggy pants. Get it? It’s brown on the outside, white in the middle. It didn’t even bother me. It really didn’t. I kind of thought it was funny. What is there to be upset about, I thought. It wasn’t racism because racism is a white people problem. It’s why they can’t laugh at certain jokes or say certain words. If you want to be comforted by the lesson that racism can come in all colors, look elsewhere. We can laugh, he and I. There are words were allowed to use.

Once a darling journalism major told me I should refrain from using the word “Mexican.” As in “My mom is Mexican.” Fresh from a lesson in Cross Cultural Journalism, she informed me that “Hispanic” is the preferred term. What is so offensive about being Mexican? I told you the Midwest was crazy.

Back home, in a racially diverse city the likes of which Missouri does not know, it’s actually an insult to be white. My girlfriends would call me white if I made a ditzy comment. I’ll let you in on a secret. Among the friends of a biracial girl, “white” means certain things: bland, ignorant, slutty. It was nothing to be too offended over. In the Midwest, don’t call someone a Mexican. In the southwest, don’t call them white. Apologies again, no lesson here that these are equal offenses. They aren’t rooted in the same kind of racist thinking. Missouri was a slave state after all. I saw my first confederate flag the year I started at Mizzou, learning to be a journalist inside a world and racial status I didn’t know existed.

I grew up in a house where a map of the Western hemisphere was hung upside down in the study. I asked, as a curious third-grader, why that was. My parents said it was because, in space, there is no up or down, and why should our country look like it was on top? God Bless Everyone. At the proper age, I was told it was my choice to wear high heels — if I was OK with wearing a symbol of woman’s oppression and making myself less mobile and decorative, like a cake on a stand. I chose to wear them and still do, but I’m conscience of their meaning. I was the kid who was taken out of school on Martin Luther King Day (not a school-holiday in the Texas public school system, I’m sorry to say) to attend a celebration and memorial of a man I was taught to admire. I was the kid who plastered my high school with anti-war posters back in 2003, before it was common sense to think the war on Iraq was based on a lie.

I was born into a family of some true-blue leftists, and I’m proud of that too. It makes me special. I’m no self-righteous, recently-enlightened kid from the ’burbs who rails against Wal Mart because that’s what matches my asymmetrical haircut.

I got into high school journalism to stick it to the man. I fought for inclusion of stories in the yearbook that highlighted the fact that almost every teenager in El Paso crosses the border to party in Juarez, Mexico. I won. I weathered the threat of a libel suit at the tender age of 17 from a mom who was upset her son decided to come out in the yearbook under a nickname. I didn’t win that one; I just didn’t lose. She decided to drop it.

I got into collegiate journalism because I like reading. I was a much more ruthless journalist in high school than I am now. Now I’m the kid who isn’t the ruthless reporter. Now I’m the kid who isn’t the relentless copy editor. I’m content to work and learn. I’m much more mellow. Frankly, I don’t even have the ego needed to enjoy writing about myself. I like to think that makes me a J-School rarity. A white tiger — brown on the inside. Mostly, I quietly contemplate racism and why the Midwest is so strange. I think about who I am all the time, it’s that time in our lives, I guess. But since living in the Midwest for four years and having to constantly speak to “what I am,” I think about “who I am” very differently. These Midwesterners have scrabbled my brains with their shallow diversity-consciousness. The answer to “what” and “who” I am is the same: I don’t know. I love it when I don’t know, but even more when I just guess.

Growing up, my parents always told me that you can be whatever you want to be. As a young kid, I always thought this phrase was just one of those things parents say. Treat others how you want to be treated. You can be whatever you want to be. Eat your vegetables. You get the idea. So even though I never really believed that phrase, it was always in my mind when it came to thinking about my career. I guess that’s why parents hammer these things into your head. But, could I really be a doctor, a lawyer, a scientist, even a journalist? Not me. Not the kid who was never in the gifted program, who never took any honors classes, who never got all A’s on his report card. How could someone like me, an average academic student, have a career such as those that’s defined by people with higher degrees, higher GPA’s and higher brain functions than me?

For most of my life, that idea is what I struggled to come to terms with when choosing a career. I never believed that I was smart enough to become a doctor (not that I wanted to be). I never thought for a second I had the analytical skills to be a lawyer (I always hated those critical thinking questions). Whether playing, watching or reading about, sports have always been my passion since I was a young child. I played baseball at a high level for 12 years until college, among other sports. Even at a young age, I was always that kid whose friends would turn to when they wanted to know the stats from last night’s game. Before high school football and basketball games, people would turn to me for a preview and stats about the opposing team like I was the school’s resident ESPN analyst. No matter how many people asked me, it never got old or annoying. It was around this time early in high school that I realized this was my duty. I wanted to take my expertise and share it with my friends and the world because I enjoyed it and I felt like I had something to offer. That was when I realized that this was the role and the career path I wanted to take in life. Sports were my passion and I couldn’t live without them. I truly believe that if you are not passionate about your career that you are not fulfilling your potential and you will be miserable in life.

I joined the newspaper my sophomore year of high school as a staff writer and immediately I was taken aback at the adjustment it required. Much like here at Mizzou, it was largely on the job training and I’ll admit I struggled at first. But really, what better way is there to learn than by practicing yourself? As I quickly improved I began to see how much I enjoyed what I was doing. My junior year I was promoted to assistant sports editor where I began to write editorials, design pages and edit copy, of course. I was pretty set on my career choice and I had been set on Mizzou since the first thought of attending college entered my head. When I learned that Mizzou had the top journalism school in the country I was both excited and frightened to death. It seemed like a match made in heaven, but if I was going to the top school in the country, how was I going to compete with the honors kids of the world? I felt like I was going to Harvard Law School or something.

When I finally got to Mizzou, there was a moment my freshman year that has helped define my college career. Sitting in the auditorium of the Physics building with hundreds of other freshman journalism students, we were lectured about what to expect the next four years. The Dean and other professors spoke about how there’s 800 or so freshman journalism students and how only about 200 or 300 will leave with a journalism degree. As unsure I was in myself before, this statement doubled it. How could I possibly be one of those elite members to gain a degree from the top school in its profession? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. It was at that point that I decided that if I truly wanted to be a sports writer, then I was going to stick it out and do whatever it took to get my degree. As hard as it seemed at the time, I welcomed the challenge and told myself that failure was not an option. After all, if you are going to get a degree from the best school in your profession, it shouldn’t be easy.

As my college career is winding down to its final semester, I’ve evolved as a writer and a person. As cliché as it sounds, I’ve come to realize that everyone has different God given gifts and abilities that make them unique. I am very proud and fortunate with what I have and I will always use what I have to the best of my abilities. It’s always been my belief that what you have in your thoughts will project outside your body for the world to see. Therefore, if you are insecure in yourself and your abilities, everyone is going to see it. I no longer question whether I am good enough to be in this profession or in this school. If I walk into an interview questioning in my head that I’m not good enough to get this job, then the employer is going to read that all over my face. The time has almost come for me to collect my degree and move on to the next chapter of my life. I can’t wait to see what challenges lie ahead next for me. After all, just like Mom said, you truly can be whatever you want to be.

Refusal

I couldn’t look at her any more. Not after what she just said.

I had been furiously swiping at my eyes, throwing aside the tears that were pouring from them. My mother was doing the same thing, but her venomous onslaught never slowed.

I had just told her that I was gay, and what followed was a tirade of the most hurtful things anybody has ever said to me. After telling me how morally wrong and physically revolting she thought it was, but before telling me I would be cut out of her inheritance and will, she said something that cut just as deep.

She asked me how I thought I was going to be a sports writer after making “this choice,” saying there was no way I’d ever get athletes to talk to me as a homosexual.

I had all sorts of quick retorts for her biting words, never expecting that I would need to use them when talking to my mom. This one, though, was different.

She knew I wanted to write sports since the time I stole the section out of the paper early Sunday mornings in middle school. Sports and writing were my two passions, so it just made sense to combine the two of them for my future job.

I turned away from her, continuing to sob, wondering what I did to deserve such a bitter betrayal by the closest member of my family. She knew it would cut deep, and really, I think that’s one of the main reasons she said it. I don’t know if it was out of anger or shock or what, but those words were enough to really make me question myself for the first time in my life.

Growing up, my mom had always been my biggest supporter. My dad played a big role, also, giving me my toughness and unwillingness to settle for anything less than my best. But she always made me feel proud with my accomplishments, no matter how trite or little they actually were.

That’s what made coming out to her as awful as it was. I expected rage from my father and a sense of confusion or lots of questions from my brother and sister. I counted on her being the calming, soothing voice of rationality in the whole thing. After all, she played that role my entire life, so why would something like this change her now? Her reaction was the complete opposite of what I was expecting, and it led to a trying few years in my life.

We hardly spoke on the phone, and I never went back home unless I absolutely had to. My grades in school were the lowest they ever have been, I put on weight, and I had trouble falling asleep sometimes because I didn’t know if things with her and my family would ever be like they once were.

A series of problems with the undergrad journalism advising office, coupled with my poor grades, delayed my entrance into the j-school and made me wonder if I was ever going to get in.

Thinking back, I’m honestly not sure what got me back on track. I think part of it was seeing my friends starting to accomplish all of these great things in their fields, which gave my competitive spirit a jump. But really, I think it was my stubbornness and refusal to let myself be controlled that got my ass in gear.

The following year, I got involved with different organizations in my res hall and on campus, and I rededicated myself to studying for classes. I opened myself up to my extremely close friends, telling them some of the details of my family life and gained an incredible amount of strength from their support. I still don’t think they know just how much they helped me.

I stopped getting those oh-so-friendly reminders about being on academic probation from the university and moved into leadership positions in many of the groups I was involved with. When I got my acceptance letter into the j-school in my junior year, I knew my life was back on track. All that was missing was the emotional backing that my family had been able to provide throughout my life.

That Christmas break, I didn’t go home until the day before Christmas Eve, and I planned on going back to Columbia a few days after. As I was loading my stuff into my car, my mom walked out into our garage. She told me that she knew what she said back in my freshman year hurt me and that she was wrong to have said what she did.

The apology was unexpected, but not as much as the words that followed it: “I still love you.”

Still bitter, I mumbled something in response and drove off, but I mulled over in my head what she told me on the drive home and for weeks afterward.

I started writing sports for the Missourian that semester, and I started making calls home to her on occasion.

We talked about what her class at school was doing (she’s a fourth grade teacher) and about what the rest of the family was up to. She talked to me about how much she liked my most recent article that she read on the Missourian’s Web site, an accomplishment for her because she’s computer-illiterate. Eventually I was able to forgive her in my heart for what she did, and I was able to say “I love you” back on the phone and mean it.

The calls became more frequent, and are now a regular occurrence. A lot of the time, it’s us making small talk or her harping on me for forgetting to do something. I don’t mind at all.

Meeting my expectations

My mom has always said that her mother and I share many characteristics. Which makes sense, because she was a huge part of my life in my childhood – I was constantly spending the night at her house and going shopping with her and my Mom.
Since I was a teenager, Grandma Marcella and I had rivaling shoe collections and exploding closets, and both of us always had a tendency to button our shirts so they ended up uneven at the bottom, with no button hole for the last button.
But that’s not all we had in common. My grandma was a free spirit. She didn’t marry until she was 28, something almost unheard of in the 1940s. Her family often jokes she thought she would be an old maid. Her husband was two years younger – another unique aspect, but something she didn’t let get in the way of her happiness.
I’m also quite the individual. I won’t let anyone tell me what to do, although I’ll listen to their suggestions. Last fall, I broke my arm riding a horse, something my parents didn’t like me doing. But I have no regrets, because I did exactly what I wanted to do.
My grandma and I are both particular, but in different ways. For as long as I can remember, she would call my Mom every Saturday afternoon to talk about what she would wear to Church that evening. Grandma Marcella was proud of her appearance and always wanted to look her best. That’s why she got her hair done every Thursday afternoon at the beauty parlor on the lone main street in her rural town. And I was never allowed to touch it, other than gently patting it.
I think this attention to details is what attracts me to journalism – I’m a stickler for details. My sister laughs at me when I point out a grammatical error in newsletters, bulletins and other publications. At Christmas Mass last year, she rolled her eyes when I pointed out a misspelled word in the Church bulletin. I call it saving the world, one grammatical mistake at a time.
But grammar and editing aren’t the only aspects of journalism that require special attention. A designer needs to pay attention to every detail, giving stories the appropriate placement and headline treatment, plus other layers of subelements. He or she also needs to pay attention to style, ensuring the article’s text begins six points below the descender, not five or seven. And a reporter needs to pay all sorts of attention to details – who is involved, showing all viewpoints, and getting the accurate information.
In my time at the Columbia Missourian, in addition to my internships, I have found the usefulness of the attention to details. At the newspaper back home where I work during breaks, the managing editor jokes “give it to Michelle. She’ll find something wrong with it.” This particularity may offend some people. But I’m just doing what I think any good journalist should do – paying attention to the details.
I actually didn’t know that I wanted to be a journalist until I thrust myself into it. Not being able to afford out-of-state tuition, Mizzou was actually the only school I applied to senior year. It’s one of, if not the most, prestigious universities in the state. Plus my older brother came here, and graduated from Mizzou the same week I graduated from high school.
With the passion I’ve developed for journalism, it’s hard to imagine I was one of those students who just checked the journalism box because I had no idea what I wanted to do. Like a lot of the others, I had been told a time or two that I was a good writer, and figured since Mizzou was renowned for its School of Journalism, it was a good choice.
I came to college with the intention of focusing on broadcast journalism. But a couple things stood in my way – for one, my Southern accent. Other students on the floor of my dorm would playfully tease me because of my accent, and I didn’t want strangers to be making fun of it, although I (and some others) find my drawl cute and interesting. Another obstacle was experience – when I went to search for a job the summer after freshman year, I was taken on at the newspaper; no positions were available at the news station.
But I think that is God’s way of helping indecisive people like me make decisions – by closing one door and opening another. During that summer at the Sikeston Standard Democrat, I grew and learned more than I could have in any course. I got to do hands-on work and was assigned a story to finish my first day. But I was hooked. For the first time in my life, I had a job I enjoyed. I, the one who loves to sleep in, loved getting up and heading into work early in the morning.
I’ve had some failures over the years. Freshman year of college, I got my first C on a test – and though I would die. I rear-ended someone six months after I got my drivers license because I wasn’t paying attention. I’ve forgotten to send my dad a birthday card. I’ve made a mistake in my writing and had to run a correction. But I’ve learned from all of my mistakes and they have helped me grow. I don’t regret any of them.
Although I’m not aware of any instances, I’m sure my grandma failed at something – that’s part of human nature. But there’s one thing I’m absolutely certain she never failed at – being a wife, mother, grandmother and sister. Family was always important to her – she saved enough money to help each of her children buy their first home.
That’s something I know I will never fail at either – I can’t. What is most important to me is being a good wife and mother. My mom has been a housewife since the week before my brother was born and I know how imperative it is for children to have a parent around. And I want a husband I can share all the wonders in life with.
But just because I want someone to be with my children doesn’t mean I have to alter my working hours. I would actually like to be the breadwinner of the home. After taking a newspaper management course last semester, I’ve decided to obtain my MBA, taking classes part-time while working full time at my hometown newspaper in Sikeston, Mo. Ultimately, I would like to be a managing editor or own my own newspaper one day, and make enough money so my husband could stay home or only work part time.
I’m getting my MBA because it’s an interest of mine, but also to satisfy my Mom. She, nor my dad, a farmer, never attended college. They’ve seen the importance of an education and made sacrifices to ensure my two siblings and I would be able to obtain a college education without having any debt. My brother, who is four years older than I, got his masters and is working for John Deere now. I’ve always viewed my parents to thinking he is perfect, so I know I must receive the same level of education he has. My mom also makes me feel guilty for going back to work at a community newspaper – she thinks I could do better, and work at a more renowned company, as my brother is doing. But that’s what I want in life. I want to make a real difference in the life of people, and live in a town where you go to the grocery store to pick up a gallon of milk and loaf of bread and run into five people you know while there, spending 30 minutes at a five-minute task.
A career woman is one thing I am that Grandma Marcella wasn’t. Sure, she worked in a factory before she had children. But then, as society dictated, she quit work to raise a family and help manage the family farm. I think that if she were my age today, she would be a career woman, too. I wonder what her college major would have been.
My grandma and I do have some differences. But we are alike in many ways, most importantly that we are thorough and don’t accept failure. That’s why, although I miss her horribly, I am peaceful with her death last August. I know that it was her time and she had accomplished everything she wanted to in her lifetime.
I only hope I can be as lucky and accomplished.
- Michelle

Starting Again

It’s a fluke that I am currently on the verge of graduating from the School of Journalism. It’s as simple as that, a flat-out fluke. I am convinced it will turn out to be the luckiest fluke of my life.

A little over a year ago, I walked into the office of Bill Dawson, the head of the English Department at Mizzou. (At least, I think that is his name, it’s not really important). I was done with Journalism. Or, at least, I was done with this journalism school. I had registered in the good ole’ “Reporting for the Missourian” class that fall, and was quite disappointed when I walked into Orientation and picked up the little slip of paper that said what beat I would be working on. “General Assignment”, it said. Not sports, not even entertainment, or government, or health, but general *expletive deleted* assignment. A couple months later when, frustrated at my inability to get stories and with the attitude of my editor (among other things), I decided to drop the class, I told myself that it just wasn’t the right beat for me. But, truth be told, I probably gave up the day I received that slip of paper, a day before the school year even started. Nonetheless, I was convinced there was no way I was going to survive the School of Journalism at Mizzou. So, there I was, walking into an office asking to change majors. “Tell me what I need to do to change my major officially, I just want to get out of the journalism school as soon as possible,” I told him. Bill told me that all I would need to do is fill out a graduation form, and that most students don’t do that until a semester or two before they graduate, so there was no need for me to rush anything. I left his office that day unhappy. I wanted to change my major, and I wanted to change it right away. But, I continued on into the next semester officially as a journalism student, a journalism student that was only taking one journalism class. I took 3 English classes that semester. I hated them all.

I went home for the summer, and in a place I had lived my whole life, I felt completely lost. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I felt like a failure. My parents, who are far from rich and struggle to pay their bills these days while trying to put me through college, had paid out-of-state tuition for three years so that I could attend the “World’s Best Journalism School”, and here I was, about to drop out of the J-School. They had practically begged me to stay in-state, to go to the University of Illinois or to Illinois State, but journalism was my dream, and I’d be damned if I was going to let some silly state border hold me back.

You know, it’s actually pretty funny that I almost gave up on this dream so easily. Everyone told me not to go into journalism. Sure, it was cute when I was 5 and could rattle off the current stats of everyone on the 89 Division Champion Cubs. Yes, it was pretty cool when my uncles, all sports lovers themselves (a couple of them even played college sports), would turn to me for opinions on sports when I was still in grammar school. It was great when my high school teachers would tell me how great of a writer I was, and when I aced the English part of the ACT. All that was nice, but journalism for a career? Surely, I should go into something more practical, something guaranteed to bring in some money. I watched as my cousins were graduating with engineering degrees and medical degrees. I watched as, seemingly overnight, they went from living with their parents to living in huge houses and going around the world. Follow in their footsteps, I was told. It seemed like a good idea. Besides, was I even good enough to be a journalist? I still remember a day in sixth grade when my best friend, standing with me in the playground across the street from Queen of Apostles middle school in Riverdale, Illinois, turned to me and said that I would “never be a sportswriter.” To him, as to most, it seemed like an unrealistic dream. Yet, I pursued it.

Somehow, in the months leading up to the summer of 2006, I had lost that determination to follow my dreams. Then, in another chance occurrence that has had a huge impact on my life, and will continue to do so whether I spend the rest of my life in journalism or not, I met someone who brought it all back. She convinced me that I could succeed in whatever I wanted to, she gave me confidence in myself (something that I often struggle with), and most importantly, she was there to be my crutch when I doubted myself and worried about the future. I made up my mind to give this whole journalism thing another shot, and when I walked into J4450 orientation for the second time, sports was on the beat slip. I was still scared to death when that semester began, I admit. But, I loved pretty much every minute of it. I loved it enough to register for advanced reporting, and when Greg Bowers told me I was going to be in a “general assignment” role for the sports section, seeking out my own stories, I no longer dreaded it. I saw it as a challenge that I looked forward to taking on. I still doubt myself way more than I probably should, and I worry about the future. But, I’m thrilled that I am giving my dream another shot.

In the fall of 2006, I got the chance to start all over again in journalism. Thank goodness for dumb luck and flukes.

For the right reason or not

In reality, my career as a sports writer can be traced back to a story my dad continues to tell people to this day. And for me, the story never gets old.

The story took place when I was four years old, and in the backyard of the house I lived in until I was 12. My twin brother (Evan) and I, along with my dad, were playing baseball, a daily activity for us. In this particular story, I was pitching and my brother was the batter. My dad was in the outfield.

And, in a rare occurrence, my brother got lucky and hit my fastball over my dad's head in the outfield. As Evan rounded the bases, thoughts raced through my head of how my life would change if I were to give up a home run to my brother, backyard baseball or not.

I have always been ultra-competitive with my brother. A grade card of straight A's looks a lot less impressive when your parents get another grade card with the same results. My competitive nature meant daily fights for my brother and me. But at the same time, it drove me. I couldn't let my brother beat me in anything. Still can't.

Anyway, as I watched my dad run after the ball, I immediately ran to home plate, hoping my dad would chase it down before Evan could complete the home run. Apparently, my dad was thinking the same. Forgetting his son awaiting his throw was only four years old, he turned and fired the baseball home as hard as he could. As the ball soared through the air on a line, my dad yelled out a few profane words, realizing his throw was right on target and left me directly in line for a black eye – something similar to Smalls in The Sandlot.

He shouted for me to move out of the way. Yeah, right, and let Evan achieve what previously seemed like an impossible feat? I don't think so. Never would I hear the end of that story. So, I reached out and snagged the ball, tagging my brother out before he touched the plate. For my dad, it was a relief that I had caught the ball. I tend to view it, however, as a moment that saved me from a childhood of torment from my brother.

It was at this moment that my dad thought I had a future in sports, especially in baseball. My first T-ball team, I was placed on a team with who is now my best friend, Jeff Porter. Jeff is the son of the 1982 World Series MVP, Darrell Porter. After seeing my brother and I play for the first time when I was five, Darrell asked me to autograph a baseball. "Some day, this is going to be worth something," he told my dad.

My childhood was spent playing baseball. It ran my life. And looking back on it, I don't really regret that. It included trips to what seemed like all 50 states, as well as Cuba. It was a year-long season for about 10 years. I don’t know how my mom could stand it, but she came to every game I played.

My "soon-to-be Major League Baseball" career ended in high school, the time I stopped growing (or continued to not grow depending on how you look at it). My freshman year I was still less than 5 feet tall, so my power hitting days were over.

I think it was about that time that I started to really develop the personality that has stuck with me, or what I call extreme cleverness. Others call it a smart-ass personality. Either way, it's a big part of my life. Some people view my personality as cocky or just plain mean. Those people, I tend to ignore. If you're someone who can't take a joke, then odds are you won't get along with me. And to be honest, you're probably not someone I want to spending time around anyway.

I had quit playing baseball in high school, but I decided I still wanted my career to include sports, just now in some other way. So for the right reason or not, I decided to become a sports writer in high school. After all, that is where all the washed-up athletes go. Or at least ESPN had instilled that thought into my mind. To be a sports writer, you don't have to be some amazingly good athlete. Just look at my colleagues at the Missourian.

People tell me I got into this profession for the wrong reason, but to me, that’s irrelevant. Fact is, I’ve stuck with it for the right reason. I wouldn’t be doing the work if it was something I didn’t want to be doing.

But the field does worry me. I don’t have a job yet. I don’t even know that I’m all that close. But in a time of stress like this, I look back at the story of me playing baseball in the backyard at four years old and remember its moral:

No matter what game you’re playing, and no matter how far behind I may seem, I always win in the end.

-- S McDizzle out

My Journalism Creed

It seems only fitting, funny even. Here I am a senior in the hallowed halls of the University of Missouri School of Journalism and I begin my first paper of my last course – the all-encompassing and ever-so-eloquent Journalism and Democracy capstone – with a lesson learned in intro to sociology. A lesson so basic and unsophisticated it’s odd, but notable it still strikes me today.

The most fundamental premise of sociology, and the motive for many of you wanting to major in the field, the professor said, is that the human condition is worth studying, and more so, that the human condition is something that can be improved upon.

Let that sink in. Who we are, what we do, how we do it, where we came from, and why, is all important. It all has meaning. Our lives have meaning. And they can change for the better.

Now apply that same idea to journalism. The foundation of journalism is that it is something worth doing. It must be. At some point in the practice of gathering and delivering news, the decision was made that what journalists do has value. This judgment is evident in our forefathers inclusion of freedom of the press in the Bill of Rights.

While today the value of journalism is as often questioned as it is assumed, the belief that journalism is worth doing is an imperative one for those of us choosing to commit our careers to the endeavor. Thus, it begins my own journalistic creed (modeled and inspired by Walter Williams’ original). I believe in journalism as a tenet of democracy and as a means to maximizing societal and individual fulfillment.

My second belief is as much a vision as it is a conviction. Journalism, to its credit and despite its condition, is something that can be bettered; that should be better. Herein lies the logical maxim: if it’s worth doing, then it’s worth doing well. Journalists must serve to advance the good of journalism in the face of adversity, to bring progress where progress is due. I believe journalism is inherently good, but easily corruptible by the forces of nonbelievers. I believe still in the promise and potential of journalism despite these pollutions.

The rest of my doctrine comes in no order of significance other than that with which I saw reason to arrange. Is it comprehensive? Of course not. Is it conclusive as to who I am and what kind of journalist I aspire to be? Most certainly.

I believe in journalism’s allegiance to accuracy and credibility; without these, journalism is a conversation few will listen to, and those that do will give little meaning.
I believe in journalism defined broadly; inclusive of all forms of news communication.
I believe that the news should reflect and represent the interests, values, and voice of its readers and its community, not money nor its own interests, values, and voice.
I believe journalism should act as both delegate, voice of the masses and/or voiceless, and as trustee, setting an appropriate and advantageous agenda.
I believe that journalism is an institution of and for our society, not a business, and should act as such in being an active participant in the community it covers.
I believe journalism is a public service and in that has an obligation to foster public discussion and serve as a marketplace of ideas in order to be a catalyst for change.
I believe the product of journalism should serve the reader and the community equally, holding each accountable, embracing and empowering, and building a bond between the two.
I believe journalism is a tool of the masses, not a craft of the chosen -- and as such should promote and demand the participation of the whole.
I believe the process and practice of journalism is one to be open to the public in transparency, accessibility, and participation.
I believe that journalism is a means to validating and recording our experience, our purpose, and our place.
I believe in the power of language, the power of words and images to change the world.

Amidst all, I believe in my ability to embody such journalism. This is my creed, and in accordance, my pledge to this creed; my pledge to this calling.

Self - (conscious) Actualization

I am shy. Painfully, and sometimes self-destructively, shy. That’s probably one of the most important things to know about me. Shyness causes me to be a little socially awkward as people get to know me. That’s something about me that’s probably just good to know.

I was and wasn’t always shy. My mom tells me that I almost never cried as a baby. She says that if she didn’t have a bottle ready when I was starting to whimper for my supper, she’d just rub my cheek and ask me to wait a minute or two. And I’d wait quietly, she says. That’s another thing about me – I’m not fussy and usually pretty patient.

Mom says I was a fabulous child until age 3. I was very quiet and easy to please until that point. At 3, however, I started opening my mouth. Talking, crying, demanding tons of attention. “Everyone would ask me, ‘What happened to your sweet little baby?’” Mom recalls, sometimes with a laugh.

I don’t think my mom intended any malice when she first told me that story, but for a long time I thought it perfectly defined me. Usually, people enjoy my company until I open my mouth. Correction: People enjoy my company until I open my mouth to say something other than an agreement or compliment. It’s always been that way – throughout middle school, high school, parts of college – and it makes sense, I’d rationalize. No one’s ever liked what I’ve had to say, even as a cute little 3-year-old.

Truth is, that story doesn’t perfectly define me, even though I allowed it to for a long time. Actually, I only very recently let go of it as my monicker. I’ve hidden behind it for a long time, using it as an excuse not to speak up. But by leaving it up to that story to determine who I am, I thusly let others decide who I am, too. That’s not really fair for anyone.

So here’s who I am, or at least what I’ve figured out about myself so far.

I’m shy, but only in certain situations. Most of the time I can hide that shyness, but it often comes off as arrogance. That’s fine, though, because I am arrogant. I also have low self-esteem and often feel unimportant and unloved. I am fervently independent, which can cause me to alienate and mistrust others. I’m judgmental and vain, too.

And I’m okay with all of that.

None of those are particularly good things to be, but unlike my story, I don’t let those negative qualities totally define me. They are a part of me, yes, but they supplement the rest of who I am, which is the out-going woman in red with the loudest laugh in the bar.

I am the woman who is humble while believing in her own greatness.

I’m the woman who knows that she may not be important to everyone, but is confident in her worth and knows a select few love and need her.

I’m the woman that cherishes solitude and independence while choosing to let people in and not be alone.

I am the woman that isn’t afraid to voice her first impressions, even if they are a little mean or nasty. I’m also the woman that doesn’t hold tight to such thoughts, forever believing in giving others benefit of the doubt.

And I’m the vain woman who steals glances of herself in store windows, because when I think I look good, I feel good. I feel more confident in who I am, and that’s when all these positive qualities materialize for everyone else to see.

No matter what, I am shy. I can’t totally let go of that part of me, even though I’ve let go of the story that tagged me. I don’t really want abandon my shyness (though I’ve promised myself to challenge it, which is why I posted this essay on the blog). Letting go of that trait would disrespect my past, how far I’ve come and who I became in the process. It would also disrespect my journalistic self. Being shy attracted me to writing and eventually journalism, a profession where is okay – and sometimes encouraged – for people to not like what you have to say.

I’m okay with being shy. That’s probably the most important thing to know about me.

Content in it just being "so"

I’ve been an intense person as long as I can remember. And I’m a perfectionist to the point of it almost paralyzing me. I began compiling my school notes on a typewriter when I was in the fourth grade. For some reason, my notes seemed more orderly that way. Twelve years later, with the advantage of being able to key over 90 words a minute, my inclination to type persists--and just misses being absurd. I’m a hopeless romantic who probably belongs in a different era. Politics, for me, is irresistible, and it’s a sort of love affair that began at the age of eight, when I wrote a letter to George H.W. Bush to tell him how sorry I was that he’d lost re-election. My family and friends, politics and French, classical music and some contemporary art--these are the things I love most in life.

Since I was young, I’ve had a tremendous respect for journalism. It’s a field I’ll most likely part ways with after I graduate, but it’s one that’s nonetheless taught me to be a thinker and a writer. I came to the Missouri School of Journalism because it’s the oldest and the best. I never doubted my decision once I got here. My father, who hates the New York Times and will read only the Wall Street Journal, was convinced that, invariably, I’d be wronged because of the school’s “liberal leanings.” At one point, he advised me to keep notes--perhaps even recordings--of my classes, thinking I’d somehow catch those “liberals” in the act. Later, he said, I could file a lawsuit against the school--after going to law school, of course. I laughed. And I think sometimes even he doesn’t believe the things he says.

My family is made up of conservatives. There’s not a single liberal-leaning member of my family. My maternal grandfather, who passed away years ago, was a Democrat, but he was a Democrat because he loved Jimmy Carter so much. He was a family doctor in my hometown, Warrensburg, a farmer and a larger-than-life figure in my life that still lingers longingly, even though it’s been 16 years since his death.

I’m very close to my maternal grandmother, my only living grandparent, who has a wry sense of humor and is more Republican than anyone I know. She clips articles out of newspapers for me about upcoming political campaigns. She is a classy, clever, competent woman who has an opinion on just about everything, including MU basketball.

I got my love for politics from my father, who has made me think that I can do anything in the world. Since I was young, I felt pressure from him to be political and to share his desire to better the world through politics. When he got out of college, he moved to Washington, D.C., and spent time working out there for the FBI. I’m moving to Washington when I graduate in May, and as easy as it’d be to say it’s because of my dad, I feel like it’s the right move for me, too. Perhaps more important, though, my father showed me that people are inherently good and kind--and they help us get through life. He has what I believe to be the best qualities in a person: honesty, humility and a good work ethic. He speaks of his father as if he were a gregarious figure to whom he could never compare. Strangely, I’m left feeling the same about my own father.

My mother, who’s infinitely more difficult to describe, is softer, more fragile. She’s always been a friend first, and she isn’t one to settle in to talk for hours about what it means to be alive. She’d much prefer driving around town together, listening to her old faithful: music from the early 1990s. She has a gentleness and sense of ease with her life that goes unnoticed by people busily passing by. I wish I were more like her.

My older sister, Gina, is unyielding in so many ways. She has looked out for me since I was young. She is passionate without going overboard, unhurried without missing out on her life, which is full of what she loves most: her promising career, good food and good-looking men.
Each of my family members brings pieces to my life, inextricably linked, though we’re no longer exactly intact. I am guilty of romanticizing the idea of the perfect family. And, for so long, I thought I had one. And then my parents separated my sophomore year in college. Now, almost two years later, I am wondering where their marriage went wrong and why they stayed together for so long.

I’m not a zealot or offensive. I’m actually kind of soft spoken and spacey at times, and if I get going on politics, I’ll morph into a different person. But I’m still an Olympia-Snowe-type Republican. I love it. Makes me feel like a renegade. I’m also somewhat of a bleeding heart. And gullible.

Sometimes I think I’m my worst enemy. With every bone in my body, I want to be a lobbyist, but I wonder how well I’ll fare, swimming in a sea of severe people when my disposition is softer. I also have a way of muddling my own high hopes and aspirations by thinking that because I’m a woman and a conservative, perhaps it’d be best if I were to just stay out of politics. I know it’s not that way, but in many ways, I have difficulty reconciling my intensity for politics and my wanting to have a family. I’m afraid I’ll retreat and never really pursue my love for lobbying and politics because I’ll have met someone who feels the same way--and then get on to having a family. Interestingly, my mother and father have never shared my thoughts or concerns on the subject, always thinking that because of their work, they are the better for it. Maybe I’ll settle into the same ideas. And maybe I wont. Regardless, I want to get in there for the time being.

For a couple of years in college, I was defined by a guy I was seeing. I was drawn to his political nature, his gregariousness and his charm. But I parted ways with him when I realized I was just as smart as he was--and maybe smarter. And I had grown tired of his saying that I’d be the “perfect political wife.” So, after a while, I got used to college, gained more confidence and dropped him for good. And then I focused on my sorority. I later became the president of a sorority that I was at first hesitant to join. And it stole all my time. I loved it.

A lesser-known point about me--and one I’ve made known to few of my college friends--is that I had an eating disorder in middle school and my early high school years. It’s almost embarrassing to bring it up--seems so predictable coming from someone who’s such a perfectionist. But I never wore the disorder as a badge, and I do not say these things with nostalgia for my glory days because they were not, as I recall, very glorious days for me. I was cold to the bone, and I’d settled into a dreary life. Since then, I’ve wanted to reach out and somehow connect with people who were struggling with similar issues, but for some reason I never did. It seemed cliché, and I didn’t want that part of my life to define the person I was going to become.

My family, with its loose ends and variations, can’t be confined to boxes and bows--and neither can my position on politics. And yet, however complicated, I am inseparable from all these things.

In sum, I’m a romantic about life. I like to view it from rose-colored glasses. I tend to think things are better than perhaps they really are. And if I were a character in a book, I’d be Voltaire’s Pangloss, thinking that all is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds.

It might not be true, but I’m content in thinking it’s so.

Art class cheater

I have always been a sleepwalker. When I was little, I would wander down the hall into my parents’ bedroom to tell my mom I didn’t want a ham sandwich in my lunch the next day. The doctor said I would grow out of it. As I got older, my parents were convinced I had. But my college roommate, who I lived with all four years, disagreed. Every morning she would inform me of what I said and did the night before. I never remembered any of it.

I chalk all the sleep walking up to anxiety and my worrying over the future, school, waking up late, anything.

That worry was what threw me out of bed early one morning after hearing my roommate’s alarm go off. I didn’t need to be up yet, and I really wasn’t. I was sleeping on the top bunk, so when I threw myself out of bed, I hit the floor, scraped up my knees and then climbed back up, all without waking up. Though I guess something good came out of it, my roommate had a good laugh that morning.

I like making people laugh, but that’s not exactly what I was going for. I’d rather just have a sarcastic comment that could do the job. I’m usually full of those.

I always had a smart mouth, or at least that’s what I’m told. When I was young, I was intelligent and I got good grades; I won the spelling bee in first grade.

Later, I was labeled a writer. My older sister was good at math, so I had to be good with words. My sister, actually, was good at a lot of things. That came in handy when I was taking art classes that I hated. One day I brought home a lump of clay, handed it to my sister and brought a dinosaur back to school. I wasn’t artistic and didn’t enjoy any kind of painting, drawing or sculpting, but I refused to get a bad grade. I wasn’t supposed to get bad grades.

Besides art classes, I did well in high school and was involved in a lot of activities. I worked on the paper, I was in band, meaning the marching band, jazz band, pep band, symphonic band and concert band. I also took piano lessons.

My parents weren’t as interested in music. I knew my mom didn’t understand what I was talking about when I said the saxophone section had some really hard drill for our next halftime show, but she always listened like she did. That’s the kind of family I have. They’re incredibly supportive, and my parents never pushed too hard. I pushed myself enough for all of us. They’re also always there when I need help. I haven’t had to worry about paying for college or for my car or apartment. They have been willing to support me so I could focus on other things, like doing well in school and finding a job. Maybe that makes me spoiled. I think it makes me lucky.

But it also gives me no reason not to succeed in life.

I came to college thinking that wouldn’t be too difficult. I knew I wanted to do something with journalism and that I had picked the best school to go after that. I had experience writing stories and had always been told my stories were good.

But I started taking journalism classes and working at the Missourian and got a slap in the face. I wasn’t as good as I thought. The first story I wrote was torn apart. And I wasn’t the best anymore. Everyone else was the editor-in-chief of their high school paper too.

My confidence was shaken. I began to question myself and analyze everything. Though I never stopped liking journalism, I figured I’m in it now, and I’ll do what I have to to stay in it.

So I guess I grew up with the myths that I was confident and independent. I thought I was sure of myself. But now a compliment from an editor about my work is one of my favorite things to hear.

I also think my fear of the future limits me. I like to have things planned out and I often think that everyone around me has grand plans for their lives that they’re already working on. I assume I’ll be doing something in the journalism field, and if I am, I hope that’s what I want. I’m not sure what I’m going to want.

I just don’t want my limits to stop me. I know I can be overly analytical and critical of myself, but I acknowledge that and hope I can use it to be better and do better work.

When I buy new jeans, I try them on with every pair of shoes I own. There are many factors to consider in the decision of whether to keep the jeans. Depending on the leg opening, the color, the length and the cut, they may not go with all my shoes. My mom says I’m too critical. I say there’s no reason I should own a pair of jeans I don’t like.

failed expectations

It is difficult to explain my personality… what I am or who I want to be. My friends tease that my goal in life is to move to the Middle East, get kidnapped by Al Qaeda and shot on national television. I don’t know what that tells people about who I am, but it sure says something. I mean, if nothing else, that is a lofty life goal… which is part of what I am about, goals and expectations that are unlikely to be fulfilled.

My parents always joked that I could not be their daughter. As engineering students of the University of Missouri-Rolla, my parents had three children which sprinted in the opposite direction of math and sciences. But my parents were more concerned with my endless self-battering in efforts to achieve whatever I decided was success at that moment. They did not know where I inherited such tenacity – which, by the way, is one of my favorite words.

No matter the activity, I can’t help but to compete. Through middle school and high school I would compete academically with my best friend. I would compete with my teammates in softball when coaches told me I would never be great. I sprained ankles and came home black and blue from the track to become good at hurdles – a sport and activity that I didn’t even like. Even with my supposed goal of being shot by terrorists, I am trying to compete for a more spectacular death… if I can’t out-perform others in life, then I can do so through death.

The reasons behind my competitive nature never concerned me. My brother has an I.Q. over 150, in addition to being a certified member of Mensa. I have always felt there is a lot to live up to. If you look into my extended family, the situation doesn’t improve. I have cousins who are scientists and businessman, and one that contributed to the research for the 2001 Physics Noble Prize. There was always a sense that I had to live up to them, that everyone was expecting greatness from me. However, all of these expectations are the fabric of my own sewing. Living in the moment is so out-of-sync for me – I can’t enjoy the present because I continue to look to the future… where I picture the likelihood of my success as equal to that of peace between the Israelis and Iran, or Maldives obtaining nuclear weapons.

During Grey’s Anatomy last night, the opening monologue said, “Nobody thinks their life will be sort of okay. Everybody thinks they are going to be great… we are filled with expectations.” My expectations keep me focused, but I don’t anticipate their manifestation to reality. I have always pictured my life just being okay. I want greatness, but I don’t expect it. Though, I admit, my definition of greatness is likely to be far grander than most. Rarely do I meet my expectations because they are too far fetched. And when I do achieve something worthy of celebration, there is no time to celebrate because I have already set another goal to work toward.

I know, thus far, this autobiography is sounding like a sob story. I don’t mean for that. I am the product of an upper-class household with parents so happily married it is sometimes grotesque to think about. There are so many people I meet who have suffered through parental neglect, or as their parents’ punching bag, or through drugs, alcohol and/or crime. Yet I envy their happiness. The philosophy I hold is optimistic pessimism – sort of an oxymoron, I know. By this, I mean through expecting the worse possible outcome I will be ecstatic when anything better comes about. It’s much safer than being disappointed by expecting the best and then tumbling down the ranks with failure after failure to reach my expectations.

Sometimes my straining to reach success steers me to destructive ends. Not only am I obsessive compulsive (as diagnosed), but I have an addictive personality. When I set a goal, it encompasses me. There is no ‘EASY’ button because if a goal is easy to reach then my success is no longer unique or exceptional. I thrive on the challenge. I thirst for the bitter taste of adrenaline in my mouth.

In the past few years, I have focused my energies on journalism. At the outset of my writing – in high school and upon entering college – I wanted to be a sports journalist. A woman sports journalist, going into locker rooms, competing with the men… using my writing to trump my male counterparts, who stereotypically should be more capable and knowledgeable of sports – that’s the competition I was looking for. But, when there were no available sports beats at The Maneater, I began to cover the university.

In looking for internships, I told people of my pursuit to live and report in the Middle East. I don’t really know when I decided on this direction for journalism, or even why. In my internship interviews, everyone ask “Why the Middle East?” For more than a year I have burrowed through my brain, searching for an answer to this question. On the one hand, I have never traveled much. But there is still Europe (though that seems cliché to me) or China or Africa. So again, why the Middle East? I have worked so hard to make the transition to Middle East reporting. I have shoveled out thousands of dollars for Arabic lessons when my ability to learn a second language fluently is as likely as President Bush consistently pronouncing “nuclear” correctly. But why am I putting in such effort?

With the current political situations in the Middle East, I know there is rarely a slow moment in news. Looking at the New York Times daily, I see stories buried in the paper about a car bomb in Palestine. However a car bomb in Israel makes front page. How is an Israeli’s life worth more than a Palestinian’s? Articles are reluctant to define Israelis’ as terrorists, though reporters seem eager and willing to paint this vague and undefined label on Palestinians.

Middle East reporting is always a challenge because one side or one sect, with no doubt, feels misrepresented. I feel I could do better, or at least I am up for the test. Still the questions remain of why I am so passionate about this career direction. I have a relative, Andrew, attending the University of Texas in Austin. He is the editor of the school paper and has participated in journalism forums in Washington, D.C. I am threatened by the success of others. I don’t want to wind up on the Metro desk in Podunk, USA. During a conversation with my mom about this, she suggested that moving to the Middle East is my route to ensure a career I won’t feel ashamed of. If Andrew starts his journalism career in D.C, even if I start out at a small newspaper in the Middle East, the distinctiveness of my career can compete with him, or anyone else.

Usually I write way too much. I have to whittle down my research papers from 20 pages to the maximum 15. In my journalism articles, I work hard to be precise in my writing so as to not ramble. But this writing assignment has taken me days, and many conversations with my mom, sister and roommate. I have written off most of my characteristics as genetics, or just chose not to think about why I am the way I am. Trying to explain my career choice and way of thinking has been painful. I thought my aspirations for Middle East reporting were more grounded and profound. I am not questioning my career goals… I want to report in the Middle East. Partly I hope what I see and report on will open my eyes to something other than the comforts of upper-middle class living. But I also hope that my reporting will open the eyes of others… I hope my concerns will change to impacting others instead of getting my story on the front page.

--Sheena

My design

I think a large part of what makes me who I am today, is being adopted. I was born in Taiwan and adopted only weeks later but have lived in the United States — specifically Missouri — for basically all of my life. Unlike other adopted children, I have always known that I was adopted. There was never a time when my parents sat me down and explained to me why I don't look like them. I think this is part of the reason whey I have always felt very comfortable and open about my adoption.

Being asian, on the other hand, was something I had to get used to. Until high school, I was one of maybe three asians students in my graduating class. People thought I was different, and I was very shy. I kept to myself a lot and didn't have many friends. I know my parents were worried about me. By eighth grade though, I started making friends. I remember my mother coming back from parent-teacher conferences with a smile on her face because my teacher had told her that I was talking too much in class.

Since then, I have embraced the things that make me unique.

I didn't realize I wanted to be a newspaper designer for a long time.

While growing up, my parents kept my sister and me very busy and involved in all sorts of activities. I started taking dance lessons at age 3 and by the time I was in high school, I was involved in so many activities that I hardly had time for anything else: I was in a ballet company; I played the violin and viola; and I was in a musical theatre group and a choir. In high school, I joined the yearbook staff and the cheerleading squad and also landed roles in several theatre productions.

One day while rushing to a dance rehearsal after a football game, my mom looked at me in the back seat through the rear-view mirror and asked me what I wanted to do after college. My first thought was, "I want to be a ballet dancer, of course ... or go to Broadway ..." It was then when I realized that I couldn't do everything.

After a lot of thinking, I realized I could never be a ballet dancer. I also thought about how hard it is to make a living in the theatre business. I loved all of the activities I was involved in, but I knew I couldn't pursue any of them. My parents could see that I was torn and didn't know what I wanted to do with my life.

A few months after that first conversation, my mom asked me if I had ever considered a career in graphics or layout design. She reminded me of how much I loved my graphic design class and being the editor of the yearbook.

At first I thought the idea seemed silly. I thought, "I'm not a designer girl. I'm a performer, I love being on stage." Then that spring, I won a second place, two first places and "Best in Show" award for my yearbook design and realized that I was good at designing. Not long after, I quit the ballet company and the choir I was in and started focusing on design.

When it came time to apply for colleges, I knew I wanted to come to Mizzou. I knew that I didn't want to major in art because drawing wasn't really my thing. I also knew that the journalism school at MU was really good. My parents were reluctant about the career choice I had made and insisted that I also apply to some schools that had a good dance program in case I changed my mind.

I didn't change my mind. Even though part of me will always long to be on stage in a pretty costume, I think my decision to become a designer was one of the smartest decisions I have ever made. Getting a design internship at the Virginian-Pilot this summer really helped me realize that I am where I want to be doing what I love to do.

A little, or a lot, behind

A few people on this blog have mentioned how much writing about themselves sucks. I agree.
I’ve spent my life trying to take my average-ness and make it extraordinary, spending the majority of this attempt of mine planted face first into the ground.
I’m 24 years old, and still working on my first degree, when most of my high school friends have families, children and have move onto medical school or law programs.
I’m not part of the honors college, nor will I walk down that stage in May with some “laude” attached to my existence. I wasn’t targeted at any age as being special, or bright, or someone my teachers should pay attention to.
I think that’s why I curse and are proud of how I am doing at the same time. I think I am not as talented as the dozens of people I have met in the j-school, but I think I am underestimated. I try to accomplish things such as traveling the world or getting a good internship, and are still left with the idea that I have failed in some way.
People sometimes say they come from a “traditional values” family. I was always perplexed by that idea, but I couldn’t ever pinpoint what a traditional values is. I claim that title on the idea that I’m the first-born male of my generation that comes from an old-money family who lose their prestige and money a long time ago. Therefore the old money title no longer works, unless you ask my parents. I was told at a very obscenely young age that I was required to bring “honor” back to my name and all this shit by my grandmother.
Somehow I have to bring honor to a divorced, mostly dead family name.
It still haunts me to this day.
I chose a career of which my parents disapproved. I was supposed to be a lawyer or a doctor, not a writer.
When I said to my mother I was moving to Missouri for journalism, she said promptly to me, “Oh honey, Missouri exists for one reason and one reason only – to be flown over.” Then she proceeded to ask how my NYU application was coming.
This is my life.
I feel most of the time I fail. Obviously, I have the shadow of not choosing a career that has made my family proud to even talk about.
Plus, I don’t think I am that raw blindly talented at what I do that I can legitimize this choice. Going to a really good school surrounded by talented people is overwhelming for two reasons. First, the raw talent you meet inspires you to do well, and inspires you to be at least 50 percent as good as they are.
Secondarily, people are so damn proud of what they have accomplished.
I hate talking about myself. I’m not that important. My work is more important than me. Hopefully, maybe, I can prove it to someone.. At least for my mother’s sake.

A Clean Slate

Near the end of high school I vividly recall staring into an eerily similar blank computer screen in my childhood bedroom writing an autobiography just as painful as this one. I always hated writing about myself. My teacher told me that there are only two reasonable explanations for my dilemma. Either, I don’t like who I am or I don’t know who I am. At the time, maybe both were true. I’d like to believe she didn’t mean that, but the motivating words were probably worth it anyway. So, I wrote that day how I hoped the next four years would be better than the last. That I would take the proverbial clean slate and find my future. But, my story begins many years before.

Looking back, I guess I was groomed to be a journalist and destined to be a sports fanatic. I really didn’t have a chance elsewhere. My father forced me to read the paper with him every morning. The Daily Herald; first the news, then the sports. At every possible oppurtunity my father would rant about corrupt politicians and greedy professional athletes. I just wanted to get through the news so I could read yesterday’s box scores and my favorite sports columnist.

Working for my high school newspaper was hell. I wanted to play sports, not cover my friends’ awards ceremonies. I was embarrassed enough that I didn’t even play one semester of high school sports, but of course, my friends wouldn’t let me forget it. Every time I had a story in the paper, they would joke that maybe a college newspaper editor would recruit me. If it weren’t for my father I probably would have quit. I continued. I spent two years writing the staff editorials for my high school paper. I found a niche in journalism that I really enjoyed. I now regret having let my friends get to me, but back then I was shy and embarrassed that I had a talent and desire to do something different.

This is where that college clean slate came in. I chose a university where journalism was valued and where professional newspaper editors really do recruit reporters.

I’m sure most journalists have similar childhood and high school memories. But my memories won’t escape me now. I wake up and go to sleep with them every night.

My father died exactly one year and 25 days ago. New Years day of my junior year. It was the most defining yet numbing day of my life. He was my biggest fan and my biggest critic. Even when he was terminally ill with cancer and in and out of a hospital bed he read every story I wrote. He relentlessly analyzed my work and let me know exactly how he felt about every aspect of the story.

I once visited my father at a suburban Chicago hospital, the same day my first front-page centerpiece was published. My mother called me early that morning and told me he had taken a turn for the worse and I should come visit. I immediately drove to the St. Louis airport and booked a flight while on the road. I landed in Chicago a couple hours later and took a train to a station nearby. When I finally walked into the hospital room I was terrified of what I would see. It had been building in my mind all day. He was sitting upright with a full yellow-pad of questions to ask me about my story in his lap. It turned into one of the most fulfilling discussions of my life.

He continued to read the Missourian online everyday and then would email me, often before I would even wake up. He was truly relentless. He always had a list of questions that he would have asked. He never held back. But, most importantly, I knew he was telling me how proud he was.

My biggest fear as I continue in journalism is that nobody will ever care for one of my stories the way he did. His persistence got me here and I now have to carry it the rest of the way. It is a very scary thought.

In an age where anybody can be a journalist, I went to the best journalism school in the country because my dad instilled in me that it has to be done right. There are corrupt politicians out there that need to be exposed, there are greedy athletes that need to be put in their place and there are fathers and sons out there that want to share a quality newspaper together over breakfast.

I realized that I worried too much about what other people thought about my work. I was filled with self-doubt about whether I could really do this. But the most important thing I learned in college, which didn’t even happen in a classroom or a newsroom, was the confidence and relentlessness needed to be a great journalist.

In a few months I will have another clean slate.

Light and darkness

When my father was the engineering director of a manufacturing company, he had to hire a lot of people. His favorite question to ask during an interview was always

“What do you see yourself doing at the peak of your career?”

My dad said this was always the fastest and most interesting way to get to know someone. If a person said “I’d retire and go fishing,” he knew they didn’t really want to be working. If a person said “I’d really like to own my own company,” he knew they were ambitious. There were always, of course, some fascinating (and strange) answers in between.

My roommate and I played this game a few weeks ago. She quickly answered that she wanted to work for a steady food magazine so she could have a family.

It took me a little longer to answer the question. The truth is, I know I want to write, but for me, this means working in a foreign bureau or war corresponding. I don’t know why I want to do this. I just do. And of course, I’m not going to get there right out of college, but we’re talking about the peak of my career, right? So we can dream.

Undoubtedly, my dreams will be hard to attain. Sacrifices will be made. My dreams mean being far away from the people I love. And of course, a war zone is no place for children.

**

My sophomore year, after my first round of reporting at the Missourian, I thought maybe I didn’t want to be a journalist. So, I started looking at alternatives. I have been involved in volunteer work, and had gone to a fairly progressive high school, so there was always this nagging inside me to join the Peace Corps. After a while, the nagging got stronger, and I really started to believe that I would join after graduation.

But then a friend’s sister joined the Corps. Sara was sent to Paraguay with out a lick of Spanish in her vocabulary. Sara, who had also gone to my progressive high school, is the strongest, toughest, coolest person I knew. She’s a badass.

In Paraguay, she lived in a grass hut in the middle of no where, without a toilet, and with a machete at the foot of her bed (for protection, she explained). And she cried every night for the first two months.

Sara cried? Sheesh. If that’s the case, then I’m doomed. Terrified that I couldn’t hack it, I scratched Peace Corps off my list. Inside, I was scared. Outside, I told everyone I just thought it was more important to work with people at home than abroad.


So what do these two stories mean? Don’t worry. I’m wrapping it all up here.

Basically, I’ve always felt I’m meant to do big things. Yeah, it sounds arrogant, I know. But I want to change things. I want to shake stuff up. I think that’s why most of us were so interested in journalism in the first place. I know that’s why I am.

But in a lot of ways, I’m a coward.

I’m scared I won’t make a big change. I’m scared I won’t make it. I’m scared that I might cry. I’m scared that I might have to move far away. I’m scared it might hurt. I’m scared it might be too hard. And like so many women, I’m scared that my career ambitions might compromise my hopes for a family of my own some day.

There’s a way to do it all, I’m sure. At least that’s what I’ve been told.

But for now, this fear paralyzes me so much that I want to quit before I even get a chance to start. It seems to me that fear of failure is a disease that plagues a lot of journalism majors.

So what do I do when it all feels like too much? I remember this little ditty by Nelson Mandela. I think it could be useful for everyone graduating this semester:

Our biggest fear is not that we are inadequate;
our biggest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves:
‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?’
Actually, who are you not to be?
Your ‘playing small’ doesn’t serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.
As we let our own light shine,
we consciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
our presence automatically liberates others.

Confessions of a tomboy

My three older sisters always tease that I was my parent’s last chance at a boy. As a failure from the beginning, I had a lot of ground to cover. I became a true tomboy to compensate. I was ready for life, at age 10, equipped with flint and steel, a B.B. gun and a rusted pocketknife (a tetanus shot soon followed). A sense of independence, personal strength and toughness was born in me from running wild through 40 acres of alfalfa fields.

This is my story, or at least the one I use to explain why I care less about fashion than a housecoat-wearing recluse and why I refused to let the cute boy across the hall help me move a couch into my apartment this summer. Most recently, I have been using this story to explain why I am unflinchingly pursuing a career in print journalism. It seems to work for employers who see tenacity and dedication in these stories.

It doesn’t, however, seem to work on my boyfriend. He laughs at these essays that portray a box of venomous feminism ready to unseat the social injustices in the world. He laughs, not because he hasn’t been bitten by my tirades or witnessed my dedication to reporting but because he is close enough to see my other side.

This side of me, the one that wants to have lots of babies and live close to my sisters, comes creeping out when I feel safe. My three sisters are all married and all have children. My oldest sister, 34, is due to deliver twins on the day I graduate. I can imagine sharing recipes with my sisters, carpooling our kids to soccer practices and waiting for a wonderful father and husband to come home from work.

Here in lies my dichotomy. Can a woman have both? Most acquaintances have probably heard me quip that I will never get married, but most friends know better. I want to travel. I want to live in dangerous locations where journalists seldom go, a place where my writing serves a greater good. I want to influence policy, open eyes, make the world a better place. Can I hear my internal clock ticking just thinking about this? No, sorry, that’s just the sound of my heart breaking.

The most frightening aspect of this internal debate is that both paths are available. Post-graduation, I could throw all of my efforts towards becoming a foreign correspondent or towards uncovering corruption in Washington. I could also hang around Missouri for another year and a half until my perfectly supportive, intelligent, driven boyfriend completes his MBA.

I understand of course that this isn’t an all or nothing decision, but at this turning point in my life, it certainly seems that way.

Thus far in my essay, I have ignored the complication that even I at times question my loyalty to journalism. Does the fourth estate still exist as an influential element of democracy? Am I willingly accepting a life without the comforts of an expendable income in pursuit of an ideal that is dead? This question flashes through my mind only briefly, but I immediately dispel the hypothetical. The ideal can’t die unless no one pursues it. Even if I am the last person rejecting the corporate-revenue-based definition of journalism, the ideal will still be alive. Someone needs to lead the revolution. And I am willing.

Whether or not I am capable is another question.

To be perfectly honest, journalism became my passion in high school because calculus and chemistry were too easy. The real challenge was language arts. I read Fitzgerald and Ondaatje in utter amazement at their command of language. If only I could grasp some of their talent, then I too could touch the world. The only hitch in my plan: I sucked.

Writing didn’t come easily to me. No one ever told me I was good. Math and science were no problem; I don’t think I even studied, but I would stay up all night perfecting my English papers.

Mrs. Thompson taught AP English and she was the most challenging teacher I have ever had (that should say something about the level of instruction here at Mizzou, but that’s another essay). She underlined excellent writing in gold. I coveted the “golden sentence,” but my papers were returned with nothing but red ink. It’s the challenge that drew me to journalism not my natural ability.

If I needed conformation of my decision to forgo studying science it came at a Body Worlds exhibit in Denver last summer. The anatomy and physiology of the human body was incredible, but more than anything I wanted to know the stories behind the bodies. Who were they? How did their families feel about the decision? I wanted to write their stories.

Despite my struggles with writing I have been able to work my way to a fairly strong clip base. An internship this summer in Missouri will allow me to delay my “hanging around dilemma,” and allow me to pursue both lives simultaneously. At some point I will, however, have to make the decision of where my priorities lie. Will I stay true to the little girl who constructed forts in the wilderness and made girls cry on the soccer field? Will I become the next Jessica Stern traipsing into the Middle East to foster an understanding of religious fundamentalism?

The wonderful news is that I am completely unafraid of either path. I must merely decide where I am headed and then run in that direction. The stories that define me have never confined me, nor will I allow them to.

On My Own

I find myself wanting to talk about so many different things - my hobbies, my family, my friends, my past, my future - all of that stuff helps make up who I am (that was a bit of "duh" statement). Although most of those things have changed over the years, I think there is a part about me, a part of my personality and character, that has stayed consistent and continues to influence those other things about me. Sometimes this trait has had a positive influence on my life and sometimes it's obviously negatively changed things.

Independent.
I have always been that way. Even as a young child I found that I was happy doing my own thing. I wasn't one of the kids that was terrified to be separated from their parents on the first day of preschool. I begged to go to sleep-away camp. When I went to France in fourth grade on an exchange trip for three weeks, I didn't want to come home. I hate asking for help. I wanted to go to college far enough away that I couldn't drive home for a weekend. I like driving long distances by myself. I hate when people pay for things for me. I have different political views than everyone in my family (and I mean everyone, extended family included).

It makes it sound like I don't like my family, but that is the furthest thing from the truth. I love them and they have done a lot for me over the years. As much as it breaks my mom's heart that I don't want to move close to home after I graduate, I'm glad that I'm not scared to move to a place where I know no one. I've done it several times in the past four years and every move has taught me something new.

Maybe I became so independent because my family moved several times when I was growing up - I learned at an early age to say goodbye to good friends and start over again. Maybe it was my obsession for reading, where I would easily get lost, and still do, in an adventure tale where the main character would take on everything imaginable and come out on top. Whatever it was, I'm thankful.

My independence has taught me to believe in myself, to do what I want to do even if others don't agree or question my ability. When I told my high school newspaper advisor that I was planning on coming to Mizzou for journalism he told me he wasn't sure it was the right profession for me and that I might not hack it. I'm glad I didn't think he was right, instead I used it to push myself harder, to excel at every journalism-related course, task or job that was set out for me. I enjoy journalism for the freedom it gives me and the fact that I'm always learning something new (just as an example, today I learned how much wood a woodchuck could chuck if a woodchuck did chuck wood - no joke).

In the past year and a half I've discovered that my talents lie in the editing and design field. When I find myself not wanting to eat lunch so I can make a story flawless, or write the perfect headline, or find a way to draw in a reader with exciting typography or break down a story into reader-friendly bullets - I know I've found my niche. And it certainly reminds me of when I was younger and would skip meals to read one more chapter, read one more book, finish one more series.

But as much as independence has helped me succeed, it has failed me in other realms of my life. It has made me try to do it all, and when I can't - for instance, get straight A's every semester - I get upset. I often take on tasks and jobs unnecessarily because I feel I can only trust myself to do it right, which causes a lot of unneeded stress. I also find it hard to make really deep connections with people. I can say I've never had a true best friend - lots of just regular friends, but no one that knows me from the inside out. Not that I've ever really let someone in. I don't want to risk my freedom by getting attached to someone.

I embrace my independence for all that it has helped me accomplish and I look forward to confronting the new challenge of the real world on my own and doing a job that I love. But as I move ever closer to life after schooling, I realize that it's important to open up, to let others help me and to learn to trust others. For now, I'm glad my future is still pretty wide open and I'm not afraid of where it might be taking me.

Happy so far

My life story isn’t the kind of story Wright Thompson would write about.

I’m the product of a happy marriage, with a support system of family and friends that I wouldn’t possibly trade for anything. My sister is studying abroad in Paris right now, and I couldn’t be more jealous. I’ve been out of the country for all of about four days of my life, and that was Canada, so I’m not sure it really counts.

My Dad owns his own small business near our home in suburban Chicago. He inherited the business from his Dad, and it took me a while to get over the fact that I’ll probably be the break in the chain of running that business. My Mom is a preschool teacher and a former nurse. She gave up nursing and moved into teaching in order to help raise my sister and I. She gave up her dream for us, and I don’t think that kind of favor can ever be repaid.

I think I can point to three separate events in my life that got me into writing, and more specifically into sports writing.

1) When I was 3 years old, I started reading the sports page of the Chicago Tribune on our living room floor every morning while I ate Pop-Tarts. Granted, I didn’t really read the words, but my preschool teachers knew exactly how many rebounds Scottie Pippen was averaging and what Mark Grace’s batting average was. I had the fortune of running into one of my preschool teachers a few years ago, and somehow she still remembered that. That meant a lot to me.

2) When I was in Kindergarten, I co-authored a book called “The Fish Buyers.” Admittedly, it wasn’t much of a page-turner. I liked football, my friend Sara liked marine animals, we compromised and the main character of the book was Dan Marino the Football Fish. Corny? Of course. But it’s one of the few events I actually remember from Jackson Elementary School so it had to have some sort of a major effect on me.

3) Finally, what actually got me into writing? Not Horatio Alger. Not Woodward and Bernstein. Not even Kornheiser and Wilbon.

An episode of Def Poetry Jam.

I don’t even remember the poet’s name. I remember that we (cough) somehow (cough) got HBO for free for a few months. I was just flipping around one night and stumbled onto this show. The poem was called “I want to hear a poem.” There was a stanza in the poem that started like this:

“I want to hear a poem where ideas kiss similes so deeply that metaphors get jealous…” the poet said.

By the end of it, I wanted to write for a living.

“Where the subject matters so much that adjectives start holding pro-noun rallies at City Hall.”

If that doesn’t move you, check your pulse.

Other than the information you’ve just read, I have relatively few insecurities or myths about myself. I’m confident in my abilities. I’m happy with who I am. I don’t have a fear of failure, but I do fear that a great amount of success would change me. I can get nervous around a person I don’t know well, but even that has really started to fade in the last couple of years. I used to be introverted, now not so much. I’m more excited than anything else about graduating in May and jumping feet first into the real world.