A Man of Many Myths

As a child, I read early and I read often. I remember being in first grade, and my teacher had to bring in books from home so that I could read during “Silent Reading” time —I had logged every other book to memory. From this time on, I was considered one of the advanced kids. I got special treatment.

Up until high school, I never took this “advanced” label for granted. For lack of a more creative phrase, I soaked up every piece of information like a sponge. I had a genuine thirst for knowledge. Then, somewhere along the way, my thirst became satiated. Maybe it was the result of forced assignments that I deemed superfluous. Maybe my sponge became temporarily full. Maybe I just realized that I could put in a “D” effort and still pull “A’s” and “B’s.”

Whatever it was, I lost my focus. My commitment to academics slipped. But a curious thing happened: my grades didn’t. My academic record kept my grades up. My report card and my reputation became my myth.

I am convinced that if I had seen an immediate impact in my grades my efforts would have picked up again. But they didn’t, so I didn’t. This is not to say that I dropped academics altogether — quite the contrary. I merely dropped (or nearly dropped) everything that I found uninteresting. The sciences of biology, chemistry and physics were the first to go, followed shortly by math. I maintained a strong interest in history, geography and especially the German language. But my real passion was writing.

Freshman year I was lucky enough to have the newspaper advisor as my English teacher. She was brilliant and, more importantly, she pushed me like no other teacher ever had. She didn’t care about what I had done before; she wanted to see what I could do now, and what I could do better the next day. I worked hard to prove to her that I was a writer, and not just any writer, a great writer. I realized under her tutelage that writing was something that I needed to take pride in. It wasn’t good enough for me to just get good grades, I had to be proud of every piece of writing I turned in to her.

My sophomore year I took the journalism class offered by this same teacher. It was from that point on that I knew I wanted to be a journalist. I loved the news writing process, I loved doing interviews and, admittedly, I liked the prospect of seeing my name in print. My junior and senior year I worked for our newspaper, first as a reporter and later as an editor. I was smitten with journalism, which led me here to Mizzou.

My first week at school provided plenty of lessons. Remembering names was much more difficult than I previously imagined. Keeping your door open all the time made it easier to make friends. College classes weren’t much different from high school classes. And, most importantly, I wasn’t “the best and brightest” anymore.

I was on a floor of honors journalism students, all with academic accolades more impressive than my own. And, they could all write! Really well, I might add. I found myself sucked into this ultra-competitive vacuum that only existed in the journalism school. Being someone who spent the last four years worried about how good I personally though my work was, I felt a little bit like a fish out of water. I was never competitive when it came to my grades, but now it seemed I had to be. My roommate had already been published in the Washington Post, worked in the summer for a daily newspaper and was attending Maneater meetings. I just wanted to meet new people and transition into my new life 600 miles away from my old one.

Looking back, this might have been my biggest mistake. My roommate’s currently on internship number five — I’m still hoping for my first. I’ve come to realize that one of my limitations is that I don’t fight for myself enough. Sure, I’ll fight like hell when it comes to changing a word in one of my stories, but I have never been aggressive enough in searching out jobs. Part of me fears the rejection that comes with putting yourself out there, and part of me just thinks I’m not good enough. The confidence I exude is often a myth — like most everyone else, sometimes I just need someone to tell me I’m doing a good job to believe it.

As I hesitantly approach graduation, I feel strongly that my four years here has taught me a lot. I’ve learned about my strengths and weaknesses. There have been times when my resolve and abilities have surprised me, other times when they’ve disappointed me. I’ve learned I really enjoy crime reporting. I’ve learned I want to write a book. Most importantly, I’ve realized that graduating from Mizzou, from the best journalism school in the country, doesn’t entitle me to anything outside of its confines. I’ve expended a tremendous amount of energy here between classes, Vox and the Missourian, but it doesn’t mean anything if I can’t produce outside of Columbia.

I’m working to live beyond my myths and limitations — I want to write and will not stop short of accomplishing that goal, but I realize it’s a process. And a process that won’t be handed to me — I’m going to have to work for it, and I’m going to have to fight to convince someone to give me a shot.

Walking contradictions

My brother’s wife once told me she was surprised that I still talk to my brothers. The comment came after a Thanksgiving dinner years ago when we were all reminiscing about all the horrible things they did to me growing up. The sad part is she didn’t hear the worst of it. But she is an only child-she wouldn’t understand the special bond I share with my brothers. True, they once locked me in a Rubbermaid storage container, convinced me I was adopted, and made me eat a roly-poly…twice. But they also beat up their best friend when he made me cry, and accompanied me downstairs to get a glass of water in the middle of the night when I was too scared to go alone.

My brothers are my closest friends and I have learned a lot from them. I learned how to properly throw and catch a ball and I can make a killer fort from sheets and pillows. But they also taught me to be self-reliant, determined and resilient. I had to hold my own with my brothers and I am strong woman because of them. So I guess it makes sense that I get along better with guys than girls. Girls can be mean and caddy, and I really don’t have time for that.

I have high expectations for myself and I am scared I won’t satisfy them. I still look to my parents for approval and I am wondering if I will ever stop. Sometimes I do things not because I want to but because I know it will make me look good in other people’s eyes.

I’ve learned that life isn’t as black and white as some people make it out to be and sometimes I feel like a walking contradiction. I act tough but little things make me blubber like a baby. I walked around for two weeks with fractured leg without knowing it, but I have yet to sit through a Baptism without crying. I can be both the tough girl and an emotional wreck. There were days growing up I would switch out of a sweaty sports bra from soccer practice to slip into a delicate pink leotard. I can stop a soccer ball from going into the goal, and I can also do a back flip on four inches of plastic five feet from the ground while keeping my toes perfectly pointed. I can be a jock and graceful gymnast. I can be a hard-nosed reporter but still have compassion.

I have odd insecurities. I think my arms are too hairy and that my collar and hips bones are too pointy. I am afraid of mascots, and at the age of 18 I cried at Disney World when Pluto tried to get me to take a picture with him. Happiest place on Earth my foot.

My world came to a halt this summer when my dad had a heart attack. What was he doing having a heart attack? This was my father, and I am his little girl. I spent hours on my bathroom floor sick with nerves. In the end everything was ok, but it was still one of the most painful times in my life. I will never forget making the calls to my brothers, who are scattered around the country to tell them about our dad. I’ve learned you can’t control life, no matter how hard you try. At one point your family becomes the “it only happens to other families” family.

I’m getting married this year. Yes, I will be 22 years old, and yes, I know I am young. But I also know it will be the best decision I’ve ever made. I am tired of strangers and sometimes friends looking doubtful when they hear my news. You don’t know me. I get to spend the rest of my life with my best friend and I can’t wait.

Great Expectations

If you can be honest, I can be too. If you'll take the first step, I'll follow you through. But no one wants to bleed. No one wants to hide. No one wants to hurt alone inside.

I painstakingly drew every loop to each letter. When they didn’t look perfect I erased and redrew them over and over again, until I was certain perfection had been attained. But then the moment of truth—I received the handwriting assignment back to see that I’d gotten an A-.
I had the best handwriting of everyone in my 4th grade class. My best friend Stephanie even said my handwriting was better than her mom’s was. I was devastated. I sat in the backseat of our minivan and cried. In spite of my teacher’s assurances that I would still get an A in handwriting deep down I could not get over the trauma. If I couldn’t even be perfect at one of the few things I was actually good at I’d never be good at anything.

My life plan was set in grade school—in spite of my sub-par handwriting assignment I still had high hopes for myself. I would graduate college by 20. I’m going to be 21 when I graduate—missed that one. I would have a Ph.D. by the time I was 23. (I don’t where I was going to find the world’s shortest Ph.D. program.) I clearly missed that goal.

In my family, as in many families, there are unspoken classifications. My parents would never say it and I honestly am not even sure they believe, but from the outside and from my siblings you can feel it. I’m the “smart” one. My sister is the “social” one. My brother is somewhere in between. My grandma said I was her last hope to be a doctor. She told me that in middle school. My brother, sister and a cousin weren’t out of school yet either. I felt a little insulted for them that I was already her last hope. She really wanted to have one doctor in the family. I never liked science. She was pretty disappointed when I told her that. For a brief moment I thought that maybe I should try to be a doctor anyway. Then I realized that would be crazy. Living life to fulfill others’ expectations is ridiculous. Yet still it’s so easy to set high expectations for myself—and so much harder to realize it’s ridiculous.

Be strong. Don’t show you’re insecure. Don’t show that you’re hurt. If everyone assumes that you have everything figured out they’ll never see your weaknesses. Don’t admit you don’t know. Don’t care too deeply—you might be disappointed. I learned early the way to deal with failure—don’t try so hard. If I worked really hard at something and didn’t succeed I had truly failed. If I didn’t put in all the effort then the reality that I still wasn’t good enough wouldn’t be as harsh.

If I was not so weak
If I was not so cold
If I was not so scared of being broken
Growing old
I would be...

My sophomore year in high school I found this mean note under a desk talking about me by a girl who went out of her way to be my best friend. I didn’t tell anyone. Part of me didn’t want other girls to dislike the girls who wrote it because I didn’t feel want them to be offended for me. The bigger part of me was ashamed. I didn’t want to admit what they said because by repeating it seemed to become true. And what if those words were true? What if it was what everyone thought? I even helped the girl with her homework later that day. She didn’t know I knew. Maybe it was better that way. That night when my sister said how nice she was I said maybe she wasn’t that nice. I broke down and told her. The next morning the girl came to me crying and apologized. My sister didn’t like to see her baby sister hurt.

It’s easy to ignore things when they’re hard. Confronting them is the hardest. I can count on a few fingers the people I’ve yelled at in my life outside of family. The first time I started crying midway through and apologizing even though the girl deserved it.

My sister made some choices that she later regretted a few years ago. She told my parents and apologized but she never told me. She knew I knew, but she couldn’t tell me. It was easier to let my parents down. I had higher expectations for her than they had. We finally talked about it this year. She said she knew I would be so disappointed in her. It would be too hard.

I remember the moment in life I fully realized the expectations I set might be unreal. That people might not be perfect. It was watching the 5 o’clock news and finding out that a man who I thought stood for everything I believed in, who was an example of the person I wanted to become, had died from cocaine use. It was seeing the faces of the wife and kids he’d left behind and thinking of how he let them down. It was wondering how someone I’d thought was so great could have fallen so far. Then it was realizing that I didn’t want to remember him that way. I wanted to remember the strengths not the weaknesses. Humans are imperfect. As his wife said there was only one perfect person to walk the earth—he wasn’t it…and neither am I.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember that, though. It’s easy to dwell on the bad moments of life—the hurts, the disappointments, the negative qualities of those around me of myself, the probability of failure, but those are the moments where my real high expectations of myself should be set. To remember the smiles on the faces of Mexican children who had nothing by my standards but were just thankful to God for another day. To remember the days when peoples’ smiles and encouragement meant the world to me. To remember that true failure doesn’t lie in failing when I try, but rather failing to try at all.

If I get up I might fall back down again
we get up anyway

-Anna

Family Matters

The father of one of my oldest friends once told me I am the best storyteller he knows, a high compliment for a journalist.

I love to tell stories, particularly funny ones. I get into them: hands waving, voice inflection, dramatic pauses, the works. Currently, this is my favorite.

My father works as an architect and owns his own small business. Dad’s been remodeling our home in Boca Raton, Fla. for about two years. Boca is located in one of the wealthiest counties in the U.S. Donald Trump lives 20 min. away on the island of Palm Beach. Anyway, in front of our house is a sign promoting his firm. One day, my father receives a call complaining about the construction at one of his projects—our house.

“The construction has been going on for years and it is an eyesore in our community. This is a disgrace. There’s a port-a-potty for God’s sake!” the man on the other line said.

My father quickly pointed out that the house in question is his own and all permits were in order, so he has every right to be doing the work. This quickly escalated into a heated argument and my father, a hot-blooded Latin man, did not back down. The guy, Chris, hung up. My father quickly called back and left a nasty message when Chris didn’t answer. “A real man would have not hung up the phone.”

So, my father went home that night and put a new sign in our front yard: “CHRIS: KISS MY ASS.”

That one always gets a laugh, especially if you’ve met my dad.

I start this with a story about my dad because family is an important part of who I am, and something that’s been on my mind lately.

My parents came here from Brazil, and although they’ve become quite Americanized in the 22 years they’ve spent here, one thing never changed: family always comes first, always.

I was the first born, the apple of my parents’ eye. I was a big hit at the pediatrician’s when I asked to be excused to use the bathroom at 20 months old. Next came my middle sister, Heather, and the youngest, Rachel, she’s nine.

I was an awkward “tween” with braces and frizzy hair, and all I really wanted was to kiss a boy, not exactly the cool big sister I’d imagined myself being. But my relationship with my sisters has grown significantly since the days of conning Heather into playing “maid” and getting her to make my bed.

During my four years of high school, my family suffered a series of unfortunate events. It began when my mother discovered that my father had been having an affair. They separated for four grueling months before they agreed to work a little harder on their marriage.

About a year later, my grandfather (my father’s father) died of a vicious cancer that spread through his body before it was detected. My parents flew to Brazil along with my father’s six siblings. My grandfather was afraid of death and was never told he had cancer, the disease that killed his sister. He died believing his children had gathered to celebrate the end of a long lawsuit with the company that fired him decades earlier. The day he died my father called and said my grandfather told him I was his favorite granddaughter because I never let him sit alone at family gatherings. A picture of my grandpa, Abba, sits on my desk. It was taken the last time I saw him—one month before his death.

If this is starting to depress you, it’s depressing me too. That’s not the point. Just bear with me.

Through all that and most of my life one woman was always there, my nanny. Now, don’t roll you eyes and the upper middle-class girl with the nanny. She was more than that. Cassie played a major role in my childhood and acted as a second mother to my sisters and I. She’s the reason I love to read. I don’t remember life before her and all of my most cherished childhood memories include her.

Two days before Thanksgiving in 2002 Cassie died in her sleep of unknown causes. She was 52.

Although I’ve never lost a parent, I have a pretty good idea what it must feel like. It’s a wound that aches for a lifetime, one that never heals and re-opens easily. Cassie did not watch me walk at my high school graduation, she will not pose for a picture with me at my wedding, nor will she nanny my children as I conquer the world, like we’d planned.

After Cassie died, I was left to be the guardian of my sisters. The great protector, I call myself. Protecting got a little harder when I came to college 14,000 miles away. I call Heather, now 18 with a serious boyfriend and college plans, and ask a hundred questions. I threw a fit in Admissions when she wasn’t accepted to Mizzou. I tell her not to gossip about other girls and to put on more clothes. I talk to her about sex. All while she does the classic teenage look-away and deep sigh.

Rachel is a little easier. She’s so young; a pair of sunglasses that match mine do the trick. After four years of doing it, I still cry when I say goodbye to her at the airport.

The point to this babble is I am still very much a part of my family. Despite the fact that I am engaged to be married to a man I cannot imagine a life without and preparing to start my own little family. I am not ready for MY family to become extended.

This is my struggle. Am I daughter of Hendrik and Rosangela? Or am I Zach’s wife? I want to watch my sisters grow up, not tell them they’re grown when I see them on Christmas. My fiancé, he’s the youngest. His brothers are grown, married. I feel foolish when I ask to live near my parents or when I cry because I spot weaknesses in my parents' marriage. It’s like I’m still a little girl. But, the truth is I am. I am the little girl running across the parking lot to greet Daddy when he gets home.

And that little girl is terrified of being a grown-up.

- Stephanie

Understanding the need to be understood

Esoteric.

Ever try to find that one word that describes you? A word that is more than a personality trait or a mere surface observation. A word that goes deep, deeper than maybe you ever wanted to search within yourself. One word that carries with it the burden of your flaws and a grip on your essence.

Esoteric is my word.

Main Entry: es · o · ter · ic
Pronunciation: "e-s&-'ter-ik, -'te-rik
Function: adjective
Etymology: Late Latin esotericus, from Greek esOterikos, from esOterO, comparative of eisO, esO within, from eis into; akin to Greek en in

Definition: understood only by a select few

Just over a year ago, I set out on a search for my word. It wasn’t a search that I was going to take lightly because, well, this was going to be my word, a one word definition of me. I would love to have some great story about how I came across the word. An epiphany. I don’t. But I do remember the search immediately ended the moment I did.

No one truly knows me; sometimes I wonder if I know myself. How often am I truly honest to myself, about myself. And there are only a few – those select few – who I’ve let close enough to see the details. Probably no closer than Row F, though.

I despise feeling vulnerable. In a way, because of that fear, much of my life has been a lie. Now I am ready to peel off a few layers of the onion.

I don’t fail. At least, that’s what I have been told: ‘Jen, you are perfect. You succeed at everything. Anything you want to do, you do.’

It’s always been easier to think that way. Perfection is an ideal, right? But now it’s time to confront the myth.

I failed my first AP biology test in 10th grade. I never told anyone. Until now.

I failed to earn one of the prestigious Harrison Scholarships at the University of Miami of Ohio. Ironically, that’s the reason I am writing this essay. That’s the reason I am in Columbia and not Oxford, Ohio.

I failed in my 3rd grade classes’ spelling bee. ‘Refrigerator’ doesn’t end in -er for those who are curious.

I failed to win the decisive match in the 2002 Georgia High School Tennis state finals. I convinced myself afterward that I was outmatched. Telling myself that was a good way to mask the simple truth – I wasn’t good enough.

I’ve failed to honor commitments. I’ve failed at staying true to my goals and to my word. I’ve failed the Golden Rule.

I’ve failed friends; I’ve failed myself; I’ve failed God. And contrary to popular belief, I fail often.

Esoteric: understood only be a select few.

I don’t like to depend on people. I like to call it self-assured. A more accurate term would be some combination of cynicism and selfishness. I like being in charge, being in control.

But it was the experience when I was as far away from control, when my life depended on depending on others that I discovered myself. Let’s go back to August 6, 2005. The story starts like this:

I reached down and gave my seatbelt a firm tug to make sure that it was locked. From my view out the window, I could see donkeys pulling carts that were stacked so high with grain that they appeared to be seconds away from toppling over. A little further down, I saw children sitting in the dust, begging for food. Behind them, mosques lined the streets.

Our plane had just touched down in Lahore, Pakistan, and I was sitting in the backseat of an old Volvo, which was taking us to where we would be staying. I refused to let go of the door’s handle as I felt like I was being driven through a video game, trying to dodge living obstacles and maneuver curves at an uncontrollable speed. At the time, I had no idea that reckless driving was a sign of masculinity in Pakistan.

That was the first of myriad cultural experiences I would encounter over the next two weeks. Only weeks before beginning my third year of college, I had headed to Pakistan with two other American women to complete missionary work in the Middle Eastern country. While the entire two-week experience undoubtedly changed my outlook on life, it was during this initial three hour drive that took me through the streets – and in a way through the lives of these people – that I questioned my outlook on life.

I doubted my own preconceived assumptions.

I watched cultural stereotypes crumble and saw the sights that news cameras never capture.

My eyes opened to another world as the experience created a new awareness in my outlook.

I learned that love is a powerful thing. It is one of the few things that is universally understood.

I realized the true meaning of ‘blessed.’ I also learned the truth behind the words ‘gluttonous’, ‘spoiled’, and ‘thankless’, all of which described Americans. All of which describe me.

I depended on a man with a gun to protect the door to our compound. I depended on my Pakistani friend to dispel the police’s threats against us foreigners. I depended on God to bring me home safe. I depended on just about everyone and everything but myself. And it worked.

Yet that peace of dependency wore off. It may be near gone now. Why?

I mask my weaknesses with confidence. I hide my insecurities with firmness. ‘I don’t want to bother anyone with my problems,’ I tell myself, while the truth is that I don’t want anyone to know.

I like being esoteric: the control it affords me, the image it allows me to emit, the truth it permits me to hide.

Esoteric: understood only by a select few.

But has esoteric gone too far? Has it led me to lie to my friends? Has it impeded my personal growth? Has it hidden the real me?

The nice thing about this little word game of mine is that I can play it again. I may have chosen ‘esoteric’ as the word that defines me, but that can be erased. It can be changed.

The question is: when will I be ready to change it? And what will my new word be.

- Jenifer

If You're Not First, You're Last

I can’t bear to eat oranges. I can’t stand the fleshy texture of an orange, or any citrus fruit, in my mouth. Strangely, I can drink orange juice by the gallon.

When I was about 8 or 9 years old, my aunt made me eat an orange with my breakfast. I didn’t like oranges at the time – I really didn’t like to eat much of anything when I was little. And I was scared of my aunt. Still am.

I puked.

And I’ve refused to eat oranges ever since.

I tell this story over and over again. I even told my aunt about the ordeal and how much it scarred me, years later. She still occasionally asks me if I have yet to eat an orange, and she seems a little amused by the idea that she has formed such an impression on my psyche.

I was a frail, but loveable creature when I was little. Crooked teeth, knobby knees, pointy elbows and poofy hair, I was a tomboy, if not completely awkward. In third grade, I was forced to play with the boys at recess when all my little girl friends moved away. They only played basketball, so I did, too. My dad was probably quaking with joy when I came home asking him to pump up my brother’s old basketball with embossed Larry Bird signature. I was taking that baby to school and I was going to be a legitimate force on the court. Only a fourth grader, seeing how shabby my old basketball was, couldn’t resist making fun of it and pointed out my ineptitude as a ball player. Luckily, my third-grade soulmate stood up for me (Soulmate was an overstatement I now realize: He gained a considerable amount of weight and works in a factory. He also never knew I liked him.).

I think that day, I might have gotten my first glimpse at my own economic status. I later got a basketball from Pizza Hut commemorating the inception of the Big 12 Conference in the NCAA. I was still poor, but it took me a long time to fully realize it.

Fifth grade was spent collecting as many basketball cards as I could get into my polyurethane page protectors. My expansive collection, specializing in the San Antonio Spurs’ star David Robinson, even makes my nephew’s eyes sparkle with jealousy. My basketball abilities improved and I was awarded MVP of the Frisco League that year.

I’m from the country. Raised in the same house all my life, I went to a tiny school and graduated as the valedictorian for a class of 28 kids. I was actually born the day my second-oldest sister graduated from that same high school – my mom missed the whole ceremony. I rarely spent the night at other girls’ houses – I was too nervous and never good enough friends with any of them to make it happen. We didn’t do a lot of phone talking because I was long distance for them. Back then, you didn’t make a long-distance phone call even if your social acceptance depended on it. My few girl friends left from high school are now contemplating having a second child with their husbands.

Somewhere along the line, I developed self-confidence and lost a little of my constant anxiety. My faith played a strong hand in my life and people knew it. My teeth became less obtrusive, but still crooked. My skinny body turned out to be decent at the triple jump and my long hair, which I learned to flip seemingly flippantly, caught more than one young man off guard.

I dated a boy, who I snagged with my patented hair flip, beginning in high school and lasting half way through junior year of college. We were “it.” But all the memories culminated to a trouble spot in our relationship, one of many, and we pretty much gave ourselves the ultimatum: get married or break up.

We broke.

Whenever I was with him, I always felt inadequate. He was from a well-off military family and he and his brothers got everything they ever wanted. I mean everything. He had two Ford Mustangs – a classic black 1966 and a matching black 1996 GT. My dad is a barber and raises beef cattle on the side. Mom is too sick to work. We’re not destitute, but I personally know people who are.

“Dusty, did you get a lot of nice things for Christmas?” the boy’s mother asked me one year when I came over for the evening’s holiday dinner.

I wanted to tell her when your family has no health insurance and your mom has heart failure caused by the chemotherapy she received when she had breast cancer, that Santa doesn’t leave you a lot of presents. I wanted to tell her my liability insurance on my used car, bought in part by my father, was paid for. I wanted to scream at her and tell her my Christmas present was growing up in a house that had no mortgage and having the government and kind rich folks pay for my entire first three years of college.

“Uh, yeah, some really nice things,” I lied, while the boy showed off his new camcorder, DVD player, new collection of DVDs and everything in between.

The shock of my life came about two months ago, when I realized I was alone in a class of 50 people. Mine was the only hand not raised when the professor asked who came from a home where at least one parent graduated from college. Neither of mine have degrees.

I’ve got to prove I wasn’t a fluke in high school. I’ve got to prove I can make a living outside of my hometown. I don’t have to be barefoot and pregnant and bow to my husband’s checkbook – I will be defined by more than my wedding ring. I’ve got to show my parents that hard work really isn’t futile. I’ve got to make up for a brother who has wasted his life in alcohol and drugs. I’ve got to do something big so I leave a positive legacy. When my grandkids go in for Show and Tell, I want them to bring me, the vivacious grandmother who has fulfilled her dreams.

Not many people know what it’s like to beg the dean for a scholarship because you simply can’t pay your bill. No one knows that I often cry out of sheer frustration with my life. No one really knows why I can’t relax when I go back to my apartment at night. No one really knows why I worked three jobs last semester. No one really knows why I refuse to fail.

I refuse to fail because I can’t. I’ve been given a chance to succeed that others haven’t and I’ll be damned if I let them down.

I don’t know how to fail because I won't.

-Dusty

I am whoever I say I am. Or am I?

I really don’t know where to go with this blog entry. In essence, I was asked to give a personality profile and history of myself and exploits in journalism. This is something I have thought about for a few days. And, as I sit here to write this, I’m still not sure what I’m going to say.

What do I talk about? Should I talk about what I think of myself? Should I discuss what other people think of me? Better yet, wouldn’t it be fun to compare the two and see the discrepancies? Probably, but it would also be depressing, and I don’t need too much of that in my head. There’s enough in there as it is. And contrary to what many people might think, it’s more than just sports trivia.

That’s one of the issues I’ve dealt with in the past couple of years. I’m known as a “sports guy”. What I do at the Missourian is only part of that. As some of you may know about me, in the world of sports trivia, I’m kind of a big deal. People know me. That’s because I appeared on a sports trivia show three times this fall, and I won twice. I don’t mention this to brag, but simply so you know the labels people put on me. When I open my mouth about something other than sports, people who don’t know me look surprised that I know something other than who won the 1974 World Series or Jason Horton’s assists-to-turnover ratio. (The Athletics beat the Dodgers four games to one and Horton is at exactly 2-to-1.)

Let’s say I was known for a deep knowledge of, for example, international politics instead of sports. People would say, “Geez, that Brian sure is a smart guy. He’s going places.” But, since my specialty seems to be sports, people probably think, “Well, he does have a good memory, that’s a plus. I just wish he used it for something important.” I don’t know if this is true, but maybe, it doesn’t matter.

Sports, after all, are just a series of games that have had rules and importance attached to them. In the long run, sports probably don’t matter. What happens in Washington or Jefferson City is probably more important than whether Mike Anderson rebuilds Missouri into what it was a few years ago. The problem, for me anyway, is twofold. One, I try and try and try again to diversify my interests. But, for some reason, I just can’t do it. It’s either, “I don’t have the time,” or, “Meh, I’ll do it later.”

The second problem I have is something I referred to earlier about the importance of sports. I know, that if everything in my career goes as planned, I will have spent my entire life talking about games. A part of me thinks that’s scary and a waste of a life. Every so often, I read the blog of the San Francisco Chronicle’s Washington D.C. Bureau Chief. The writer’s name: Marc Sandalow. My cousin. When he was my age, he was a sociology major at Oberlin College. Granted, he is a much, much, much smarter man than I’ll ever be. But, part of me thinks that with the right focus during college, I could eventually do some of the stuff he has. After all, I’ll have a journalism degree and he won’t.

So do I think I’ll be wasting my life if I continue writing about games? Maybe. It just depends on how good I get. And, I think I’m good. I’ve always thought I’m good. In high school, my advisor told me I was the best young sports writer he has ever read. High praise, or so I thought. Since then, I think I’ve always had an inflated sense of my abilities. Whenever I apply for an internship, I always believe I am the best applicant and I’ll blow the recruiter away with my talent. Just now I’m starting to realize this isn’t true. And it hurts. The internships and jobs haven’t come yet. This is somewhat because sports doesn’t have the same entry-level opportunities as other disciplines. But it’s also because I’m not as good as I once thought. My talents aren’t original. There are others that are better than me, and others who will have better opportunities.

Lately, I have found myself resenting people who openly discuss their summer plans. One part of my brain thinks these people are insufferable braggers. But the rational part knows that I am jealous and insecure. An example of this happened in class Wednesday. When that girl raised her hand and asked how to negotiate with a company that she turned down, I wanted to get up and tell her to “Shut the %&@# up!” I do not know this person, nor do I even know her name. She may be a great person, but for those minutes, I hated her essence and her soul. But the thing I hated most is what she has. What I want.

Will I ever get that in sports? Who knows, but it’s going to be one hell of a game.
-Brian

Journalism and Democracy J4990

Dear Class;

Welcome to the blog!


Your first assignment is due by midnight, Friday, Jan. 26.


Prof. Steffens