November 7, 2003
Jay and Journalism
I finally found some time to write, even if it is for college essays. I have to take what I can, right? Sometimes I do not even count journalism as writing. My article on the Pope has proved to be quite frustrating; all of the teachers in my school are afraid to comment or answer my questions. Somewhere in my school there is a thought that everyone is being judged harshly and is only a step away from deep shit.
It is ugly. And like I said, frustrating.
I am anxious to turn in my application for Ohio University only because I am anxious to receive an acceptance letter. I want a piece of paper that says I could potentially get a degree at an institution of higher learning. All I have now is people and people are nothing like contracts and change a little bit too much like the wind.
Something worth noting but not worth dwelling on publicly quite yet is a person who was very much like an older brother to me died almost a week ago in a horrible car accident. He was 24 and I am filled with regrets about not talking to him more or staying in contact though I also know that this is the only way it really could have been. People grow apart, especially when the age difference is what it is and everything else. I wrote a horrible poem about him, kind of remembering what was most significant. It actually would not be too bad if not for the fact that I know there is glaring sexual imagery that is unintentional but hard to prevent.
One of the details in the poem talks about the fact that I sleep in his old bed frame. It is simply how it is and though I could change it for poetic license, I do not want to. On the frame there are some exposed screws because he sucked off some of the metal bulbs or unscrewed them. Whenever I am running my fingers along the frame I find one such abandoned screw and I remember him. I think for the first year I had the frame or so I was annoyed with the imperfection but of course now it makes it more valuable to me.
The more I think about him (not dwelling obviously when completely out the window) the more I realize how much he really cared about me and how wonderful he was. For my fourth birthday he dressed up as a clown, completely, without any kind of monetary incentive from as far as I could tell. He was ten years old at the time and I have a hard time thinking any ten year olds now who would go to all that trouble for a little four year old. He was the coolest babysitter ever and I really love him. As much as I love him, though, it bothers me that more people, especially of the people I know, do not realize and never will realize how incredibley great he was. He made mistakes and he even got into a fued of sorts with one of my neighbors after he called her a bitch to her face, which is not good by any means, but she kind of provoked him and it is certainly not the kind of thing one preserves a fued for. He was thirteen at the time. Short of bodily harm, it's not fair to hold that kind of thing against someone at that age, especially when the neighbor was thirty or so at the time.
But really all I meant to do with this entry was write a paragraph or two and then paste my first draft of my Ohio University essay. I was instructed to write about my passion for my area of study (journalism), and this is what I wrote. It is probably passable at this point but I know I can do much better:
A man who rarely pick up books will often go off into his morning with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He will drink their coffee black and scan through the headlines, searching for words that will capture their interest away from some of the mundane tasks in life; maybe he will even find a bit of news that will cause him to react against injustice or chuckle over an act of stupidity. I prefer to toss around "intellectual" questions with the company I keep, but in my love for journalism I also discovered a desire to want to connect to and excite this man about the world around him.
I have always adored writing for the same reasons as every other writer, compounded with an ability to go through life without a pen flowing through my fingers. In my prose I tell stories to provoke thought and in my poetry I build images to communicate emotion, but in my journalism I write words to provoke thought.
I am fortunate enough to be excited by many of the events happening around me and this heightened sensitivity to action translates into an obsession with sharing any sources of outrage or thought I encounter. If I share the facts as I know them to be, I am convinced that almost anyone with the same information will come to the same conclusions that I arrive at.
During my junior year I discovered my district's gifted program hung in the balance for the budget and immediately I gathered any research I could find to prove the importance of gifted education. I attended every school board meeting, published a letter to the editor in my local paper, and informed the school board of a grant I discovered that could aid our district in the expense of gifted education. I was beyond the age of benefitting from the cause and I lack younger siblings to profit from the program, but I knew that because it was a program for an imiportant minority of students I had to do everything I could to save it. The cut was an idle threat, but at the very least the experience taught me how important it is to me to feel persuasive in important matters.
Nothing is more important than the news around the world because it is the living history of people. Journalism serves as a tool for me to take causes or stories that might pass under the radar of the man with his coffee and make him aware. Before I wrote a story for my school newspaper on a monument being erected by Greg Phelps to celebrate the death of Matthew Shepard, no one in my school was aware of the story because it had not received any coverage in our local newspapers or television stations. People were appalled and it encouraged discussion over the perameters of free speech. For one day at least, a few people were able to see the everyday application and importance of the Constitution, along with the potentially ill consequences.
Journalism is my way to learn about the world and pull others along with me. While my articles will not bring about a new Renaissance, it is my hope that as I hone my craft it will result in a few more enlightened individuals that will improve society for the better, armed with knowledge. Journalism is the only way I know how to make an impact for the better; because it often encourages thoughtful discussion when an article is balanced before erratic action, it is the only method I would want to use. One cup of morning coffee at a time and I know we will all be better off.
Love,
Mandy