Below are two essays written just before Graduation 2006. The Class of 2006 SPJ fundraised to give a $500 cash award at the end of year to two students who demonstrated their personal growth during the year. To be eligible, students had to: 1) be a paid SPJ student member; 2) submit an essay 300-500 words answering the question: “If I could tell myself in August what I know now, it would be….” All entries were judged by a panel of alumni organized by the alumni office during the first week of May. The awards were announced and given during Journalism Day. The winners were Elisabeth (Lisa) K. McDivitt and
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“If I could tell myself in August what I know now, it would be….”
By Elisabeth (Lisa) K. McDivitt, MS 2006
If I could tell myself in August what I know now, it would be nothing. I would meet myself on the steps next to the statue of Thomas Jefferson, and my August-self would be looking at the school, feeling small and unsure. I would have an urge to say something at first: “Don’t worry, you’ll pass!” But then, just as I would be about to tell myself the outcome, I would back away and let my August-self, filled with anxiety and irrationality, proceed up the steps with the entire discovery still ahead of me. Because if I said anything to me then about what I know now, I would be taking it all away.
I would be taking away the moments where, after all of my senses had been deadened, I got to surge to life again.
I could tell myself that RWI would remind me of my 10th grade AP biology midterm, when I didn’t know any of the answers (not even the extra credit question asking for lyrics to a Jimi Hendrix song), and I would feel simultaneously unlearned and uncool. But that would deprive me of the surprise when, as second semester was starting, I had that sensation where you’ve been standing in a doorway, pressing your elbows against the sides, only to walk out of it and have your arms float up on their own. I wouldn’t want to ruin the fun of learning to love to write again.
I would want to tell my August-self to pay more attention to the city, to look up every once in a while. But that would take away the moment when I actually did look up, and I finally saw the way the tops of the buildings make avenues in the sky.
Or, I could prepare myself for the time in November when I was coming home from Brooklyn on the F train, glaring at the map of New York, while the florescent lights reflected off the plastic and glared right back at me. I was filled with anger at this city that I couldn’t call home, with its cut-up land, its bridges and subways. I didn’t belong to any of it.
But that would spoil the day, months later, when I would be in that same cramped seat on the F train, headed off to dinner with friends. My elbow would knock the book of the woman sitting next to me, and I would apologize. She would look up and smile this warm, forgiving smile, and I would smile back, because we were neighbors. New York neighbors. And I suddenly realized I was home.
So, as I would be walking down the steps of the journalism building, passing my August-self heading up them, I would not say a word. I couldn’t ruin the surprise that, even though I thought I was too old for it, I was about to grow up.
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“If I could tell myself in August what I know now, it would be…”
By Carolyn Slutsky, MS 2006
Dear Carolyn,
Relax. Take a deep breath.
Now get on the subway and hit the streets. See the old lady sitting in the park? She’s nice, and she’ll be happy to talk to you about the oil spill in her neighborhood. That guy behind the counter in the pharmacy? That police officer? Friendly, open people. Don’t be afraid to introduce yourself, to ask them questions. When you’re pacing the narrow hallway of your apartment, cringing about confronting the lying principal, just pick up the phone and make the call. Don’t be intimidated: once you introduce yourself, 90 percent of people will just start talking, leaving you time to collect your thoughts and think of follow-up questions. If you’re talking to an old person, or a PR flack, or anyone with a little time on their hands, they’ll be more than happy to talk to you (and talk, and talk…).
You know more than you think you know. Remember all the books you’ve read, all the late-night conversations you’ve had, the times when you’ve navigated foreign countries in which you didn’t speak the language. Surely you can get a reluctant doctor to speak to you about his patients, or a Latina administrative assistant to tell you why she gave $50 from her meager paycheck to a political candidate.
Go with what you have. When a meeting falls through, when a source fails to call you back, don’t panic: Everything will be ok. You’ll reschedule, you’ll find a back-up source, you’ll be industrious and spin the article another way. Despite the fact that you may be freezing on a bridge straddling the border of Brooklyn and Queens, or sneaking around a library interviewing Muslim women in hushed voices, when the deadline approaches, you will have a story. It may not be the story you set out to get, but that’s fine. That’s journalism.
When you have a choice (and sometimes you won’t), write stories that enflame you, that make you feel enraged or enlightened. If people around you are interviewing corrupt politicians or investigating undocumented workers for an immigration story and all you want to write about is pierogis in a Polish restaurant in Greenpoint, go for it – your story will end up in the New York Times, and your cheeks will blaze with pride.
Most of all, enjoy this year. It will fly by, and you will make friends and have experiences like no others you have ever had before.
Wear comfortable shoes.
And take it easy; but take it.
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