Kera Chronicles
Celebration of life and what most likely will be
During my work week, reporting whatever is thrown at me, I’m put in some pretty awkward or otherwise uncomfortable situations if it wasn’t for my sense of humor. And Friday was a doozy, but luckily it involved the demographic I’m oddly comfortable with thanks to the years I tagged along with my mother during her home health nursing visits.
I’m talking about old people. I get along really well with old people.
Now if you’re reading this at the age of 50 or 60-something and are starting to get offended by my 20-something-year-old babble, cool you’re fucking jets. I attended a birthday party for a 104-year-old and a 106-year old. I can call them old.
I was invited to the party, held at one of the nursing homes in the town I work in, as a member of the local media to highlight the special occasion. Among the two century-plus January birthday residents were other residents who were 90 or older present to partake in the festivities.
The residents enjoyed sweets—cake, chocolate covered strawberries, donut holes— and were entertained by the local middle school choir (which was actually much better than what y
ou are thinking of right now). Some chatted with visiting relatives, while others snoozed in their wheelchairs. One 90-year-old woman with a mustache told me how she would much rather a sandwich than cake, because she was really hungry. Another had to wipe the drool from her mouth every time she formed the letter “s.”
One woman and I had a make-believe conversation, as I struggled to ask for her name since she was in the background of one of my photos. I didn’t understand what she was saying, and it was pretty obvious that she had no idea what I was talking about. But we held hands and smiled at each other for about a minute, exchanging dialog that neither of us understood.
When the nurse stepped in to help, she asked me, “Are you alright?”
I answered, “Oh yea, we’re fine. We’re just having a pretend conversation.”
I did not find humor in these occurrences at the time, and I still don’t (well, it was funny when the make-believe conversation lady spit her tongue at me. I laughed). I’m just trying to paint a scene for you.
But what I did find hilarious and inspiring was one 90-plus-year-old lady who was happily making train sounds. She wasn’t making them to herself. She wasn’t sitting quietly letting conversations go on around her.
No. She had something to tell you. And she told everyone, “The train in Naplate goes woo-wooo every night!”
This lady—who was very little with no teeth and sat in a bed-like wheelchair to accommodate her crippling body—belted “woooo-woooooooooooo” and she didn’t care what you thought.
I’d also like to point out that the 104-year-old man and the 106-year-old woman were very coherent. They knew what was going on, they’d answer your questions and reflected on their lives (but neither one could hear worth a damn).
If I had the opportunity to choose which of the extremes I’d like to be if I mature beyond 90 years, of course I’d chose the sharp-as-a-tack, walks-around-the-nursing-home-for-exercise, out-lived-both-of-her-husbands 106-year-old woman.
But something tells me that I’ll probably end up like the woman yelling “wooo-wooo” in the corner to anyone who will listen. And I hope when that day comes, a silly camera-wielding reporter will make the same horn-pulling gestures I did to acknowledge that someone did listen.
***Photos aquired from Google
Now if you’re reading this at the age of 50 or 60-something and are starting to get offended by my 20-something-year-old babble, cool you’re fucking jets. I attended a birthday party for a 104-year-old and a 106-year old. I can call them old.
I was invited to the party, held at one of the nursing homes in the town I work in, as a member of the local media to highlight the special occasion. Among the two century-plus January birthday residents were other residents who were 90 or older present to partake in the festivities.
The residents enjoyed sweets—cake, chocolate covered strawberries, donut holes— and were entertained by the local middle school choir (which was actually much better than what y
ou are thinking of right now). Some chatted with visiting relatives, while others snoozed in their wheelchairs. One 90-year-old woman with a mustache told me how she would much rather a sandwich than cake, because she was really hungry. Another had to wipe the drool from her mouth every time she formed the letter “s.”One woman and I had a make-believe conversation, as I struggled to ask for her name since she was in the background of one of my photos. I didn’t understand what she was saying, and it was pretty obvious that she had no idea what I was talking about. But we held hands and smiled at each other for about a minute, exchanging dialog that neither of us understood.
When the nurse stepped in to help, she asked me, “Are you alright?”
I answered, “Oh yea, we’re fine. We’re just having a pretend conversation.”
I did not find humor in these occurrences at the time, and I still don’t (well, it was funny when the make-believe conversation lady spit her tongue at me. I laughed). I’m just trying to paint a scene for you.
But what I did find hilarious and inspiring was one 90-plus-year-old lady who was happily making train sounds. She wasn’t making them to herself. She wasn’t sitting quietly letting conversations go on around her.
No. She had something to tell you. And she told everyone, “The train in Naplate goes woo-wooo every night!”
This lady—who was very little with no teeth and sat in a bed-like wheelchair to accommodate her crippling body—belted “woooo-woooooooooooo” and she didn’t care what you thought.
I’d also like to point out that the 104-year-old man and the 106-year-old woman were very coherent. They knew what was going on, they’d answer your questions and reflected on their lives (but neither one could hear worth a damn).
If I had the opportunity to choose which of the extremes I’d like to be if I mature beyond 90 years, of course I’d chose the sharp-as-a-tack, walks-around-the-nursing-home-for-exercise, out-lived-both-of-her-husbands 106-year-old woman.But something tells me that I’ll probably end up like the woman yelling “wooo-wooo” in the corner to anyone who will listen. And I hope when that day comes, a silly camera-wielding reporter will make the same horn-pulling gestures I did to acknowledge that someone did listen.
***Photos aquired from Google
Chronicles of Kera
Oh my God, there really are Chronicles of Kera, except the "Kera" isn't referring to me. It's about a planet of dominant female aliens.
Fuck yea.
Fuck yea.
The power of a hot-ham-and-cheese sandwich
There are a few food items that take me back to my childhood the instant they hit my pallet—Fago Red Pop, a crunchy sandwich (a ham sandwich with Lays barbeque chips inside), Werther's original hard candies and a hot-ham-and-cheese sandwich grilled in a frying pan. And tonight, I had my first hot-ham-and-cheese sandwich in more than three years, and DAMN it was good! It took me back, way back.
But what’s weird is that I’ve just been back. I just got back from going back, so to speak. I returned to Illinois yesterday from a week-long visit to my parents’ house in Louisiana. I got my fill of my mom’s cooking (okra gumbo, vegetable soup with ground meat, gumbo sausage and stuffed chickens from a Cajun meat market), enjoyed the Louisiana 50s-70s “winter” weather, visited old friends, cuddled with my parents’ dogs and sneezed, a lot. I was driven and drove down the roads I know so well. I stared out of the car windows a lot, engraving the site of flat land, old crawfish ponds and egrets in my mind’s eye.
So why a childhood favorite the second night I’m back in Illinois? Well for one, I’m broke and ham, cheese, bread and butter is affordable. And two, I did it in the name of reflection.This time of year, as we close the 2010 chapter of our lives and are looking ahead to 2011, it’s natural to look back at what was and how it’s changed. This time last year, I was scared to death of the winter weather because it was so foreign to me. This year I have more confidence, but I’m still an anxiety-case when driving in the snow due to a recent uncontrollable slide after taking a curve too fast that put me in a neighboring house’s driveway (hopefully the car behind me thought that house was mine, because it was just by dumb luck that I missed the mailbox and street light). This time last year Rayce and I were ok, but had no clue how much better and happy we could be. This time last year I was nervous every time I had a cover story to write. Now I write with more confidence with the knowledge that I can do it, no matter what.
And while I did have a great time in Louisiana, and now I get jealous when I see my friends getting together without me on Facebook (because I know how much fun it is to spend time with them, specifically when alcohol is involved), I know that I’m better where I am. Sitting in my chilly one-bedroom apartment in the town I work in, listening to my mom’s Eagles CD, eating cold popcorn. Because I’m happy.
My alternative most like would be to be in Lafayette getting drunk with my old high school friends (which is so much fun), but without Rayce (a man who loves me more than I thought was possible) and working at the Daily Advertiser newspaper thinking that’s the way journalism is supposed to be ( and I now know it’s not.) I’m on my own here, building a life with Rayce. And I like it that way.
But it’s always nice to be reminded of where I came from. So I will retreat to my mental images of Louisiana on the nights that my feet just can’t get warm and will break out a hot-ham-and-cheese just for the hell of it.
***Photo by me
Christmas Time's A’Comin
I’m really not a Christmasy person. No really, I’m not. I’ve decorated a Christmas tree MAYBE 10 times in my 23 years of life. My mom once handed me and my sister’s unwrapped gifts out of a black trash bag. On Christmas Day, it is tradition in my family to stay in your pajamas.
Plus, I want to punch the radio stations in the face that play nothing but Christmas music starting the day after Thanksgiving. I’m allergic to pine trees. I hate eggnog. I’ve never been kissed under mistletoe (Rayce, get to work on that).
And even last year, Rayce and I didn’t have a wisp of Christmas in the house—mostly b/c his grandmother tried to force it on us when she visited last October and Rayce was against it, full throttle. I mean, we were going down to Louisiana the entire week of Christmas and just really didn’t want to put the effort into it.
So even with my unChristmasy self, when Rayce offered to buy a Christmas tree this year, I got kind of excited.Rayce, like he always does, went all out on the Christmas tree because there are tall ceilings in his house (and he has this “go big or go home” mentality). We put it together, decorated it, and even got lighted garland (his idea) to string on the rail along the stairs. It’s so adorable, and it made me so ridiculously happy. I felt like a little fucking kid. I mean, I was like literally jumping up and down in anticipation of decorating the tree.
Examples of my change of heart towards Christmas this year: I’ve gotten all of my Christmas shopping done (with a few exceptions, but I know WHAT I’m getting. Just not able to get them yet). I’m actually EXCITED for the impending first snow. I made Christmas cards this year (seriously) and I plan to attach (to the inside of the cards) a photo of Rayce and I in the snow. I asked my mom for Sammy Kershaw’s “Christmas Times A’Comin” CD.
Yea, it’s that bad.
I mean, I remember making big to-dos about the holiday when I was in elementary school. But then my grandmother tried to die on Christmas day (which was also her birthday) three years in a row. And then one year in middle school a lot of stuff happened and we didn’t even put up a Christmas tree and that trend just stuck.
Then my parents bought a tree with colored fiber optics that was really too pretty to decorate. So we didn’t. Looking back on it, I really hate that fucking tree. It’s like a half-ass attempt at Christmas—plug it in, light it up, sit back and relax. Merry whatever.
My last years in high school, we didn’t even bother decorating at all. Then I got to college where my sister and I would attempt holiday cheer around the trailer we shared together. And you’d think living in the City of Lights that’s famous for its Christmas lights displays would put you in the Christmas mood—but it’s hard to get your cheer on in Louisiana 60-degree weather.
So this year I’m taking Christmas with a new stride. The living room is decorated, my Sammy Kershaw CD is in the mail and the first snow is only about a week away.
Now if I can only manage to make a decent center arrangement on the dining room table, I’d be all set. (For some reason, I don’t do well with table arrangements.)Wish me luck!
***Photos by me
The buggy incident
I forgot to tell you about this pretty significant event that occurred right after Rayce and my two-hour Sonic visit with Kelli and Bryant.
After we said our goodbyes, I had to pee so bad that Rayce and I decided to use the bathroom in the Wal-Mart directly across the street before we left for home. The bathrooms in the back of Wal-Marts are usually the cleanest.
Right after Rayce parked his car and turned off the engine in the Wal-Mart parking lot, I noticed a shopping cart being pushed by the strong wind heading directly toward the front passenger side of Rayce’s car.
Now stop. Before I tell you the actions that followed that brief moment, let me first tell you about Rayce and his car.
I remember when I first pulled into the parking lot on my first date with Rayce, the first thing I noticed was his truck. It was nice. It was clean. It was lowered. He had fancy wheels.
I thought, “Oh no, he’s a truck guy.”
And I was right.
Rayce read truck magazines. He was a member of an online truck forum. He researched ways to properly clean his truck so not to scratch it. He had a closet (and still does) devoted to his truck’s cleaning supplies. He bought a buffer (and uses it about twice a year) to polish away any scratches in the truck’s paint. He avoided puddles in a parking lot if he just washed his truck. He and his dad performed all the maintenance and alterations to his truck (more male bonding). He parks in freakin bum-fucked Egypt everywhere we go (so careless idiots don’t put a door into it or rub their purses on it). He bought a supercharger for his truck (that was very expensive) that only lasted 6 months. He bought 22-inch wheels for the truck (that were very expensive) that he has yet to sell. He’s only raced with me in the truck once (and that’s all it took for him to never do that with me in the vehicle ever again).
Luckily he’s not an asshole-y truck guy. He wouldn’t put tacky shit on his truck and brag about it. He wouldn’t egg-on a race with someone (everyone did it to him. No seriously, they would). He wouldn’t cruise around town in his “cool truck.”
His care for vehicles is obvious, but when you really get down to it—he takes care of what’s important to him. Any large investment, even the dehumidifier for the basement, he takes time to research online to find exactly what he wants. His CDs and cell phone have no scratches on them. He washes his bedsheets every week. He takes his shoes off at the door. (All of these traits will make him an excellent husband)
So, when it was time for him to purchase his own vehicle and sell his beloved truck that his father gave to him, he—like he always does—researched. He found the one vehicle that he was totally ga-ga for and can recite every detail about it, from where it came from, its engine power, its gas mileage and why the window controls are in the center instead of on the door (and since I’m his girlfriend, so can I). His Halo and Xbox accounts are named after it. When introduced to neighbors, he was referred to as “the guy with the black car,” to a nodding response of “Ohhh, yea.”
So this beloved car, that he purchased with his own money and has cared for through the winter (even though it killed him to drive it with all the salt on the roads), was in danger. A torpedo was in the water, and it was a wind-propelled Wal-Mart buggy aimed right at us.
I saw it first, heading directly at me in the front passenger seat. I gasped, “Oh no!” My protection instincts took over. With reflexes like a fucking ninja, I opened the door as quickly as I could and tried to put myself between the buggy and Rayce’s four-wheeled darling. I held out my hands to take the blow of the shopping cart as it speeded its way to impact. I managed to stop it right before it hit the opened door. My right hand hurt from the force.
And that was it. I laughed about how close of a call that was and walked the buggy back to the cart-rack so it wouldn’t get caught again in the wind.
When I get back to the car to get my purse, Rayce is standing by his car with the driver’s door still open. He says four words that made me feel like the best girlfriend in the world.
“You are fucking awesome.”
The look on his face was priceless. He was impressed/shocked/happy/excited. He told me (and I truly believe him) that he never loved me as much as he did in that moment. He wanted to buy me something.
It’s crazy the things that you love about a person. I don’t love the fact that Rayce makes me walk such a long ways because he parks so far from the door. I don’t love having to talk him out of buying something for his car (which I do far less now than I did back when he had his truck). I don’t love when it takes him all weekend to detail his car.
But I do respect him for it. It’s who he is, and he will never change. All I can do is support him, because I love him and know how important it is to him.
I will gladly step in front of 500 shopping carts in order to keep him happy.
Photo crasher of the night
This was taken at an story assignment I went to tonight at the library. No little girl, I'm not taking a photo of you, but thanks for ruining my photo (where I was trying to capture the fact that a lot of kids were there).Little douche.
Visitors
***Since my friend Kelli informed me that putting up an article I wrote for work doesn't count as a blog entry, I'm writing this one. Plus, reading her blog made me realize how much mine sucks in comparison. I need to get more on the ball.***
My boyfriend and I have had a number of visitors over the fall. Some might consider this strange, but fall is seriously a high demand season for our family and friends. See, in Louisiana, where all of our visitors are from, there really isn't a fall. It goes from hot to cold so quickly that all the leaves just turn brown and die in November-December. I never really considered the fact that Louisiana doesn't truly have seasons. It's like I knew we didn't, but because that's all I've ever known it never bothered me.
But now that Rayce and I live in a place that has a fall, it's really the only time we have visitors. His dad came up at the end of August, at the peak of Louisiana's summer right when it starts cooling off here. Rayce always finds a project for him and his dad to do when the man is up here. It's how they bond or something.
Then we had my mom and sister at the end of September. Now this was very special to me, because my family only saw a little bit of Bloomington over a year ago when they first dropped me off in Illinois. They never saw the town that I work and live in (half the week). It's a very cute town, with lots of issues and nice people. So on the Friday of their visit, I took my mom and sister to my new town for them to meet the people I work with and see my small apartment. It was nice for them to see where I spend my days, since it's hard to describe how much corn there really is through the phone. Central Illinois— you seriously can't get away from it.
It was also felt good to have them in my element. Have them walk where I walk and breathe the air I breathe. It's important to me.
Two weeks later, Rayce's mom, sister and grandmother came up for a visit. That was lots of fun and a relief to Rayce's pocketbook since they pay for everything when they're here. Rayce spent a day with them without me, b/c I was still working, which I always prefer so they have family-time. I know they love me and all, but I still think it's important for him to spend time with them without me. We went to Chicago, walked
around a state park, went out to eat at nice restaurants, and mostly just laughed together. I love that.
This weekend, Rayce and I drove to an Indiana Sonic to visit my friend Kelli (the one referenced above) and her fiancee Bryant. Kelli lives in Ohio, so we both drove to meet in Indiana. Unfortunately, I forgot about the time change, and it ended up being farther for them than us, and the trip was just not planned well. BUT I did get to spend a good two and a half hours with my former college roommate, and it was nice to share work stories and again, laugh together. We'll do it again next spring/early summer and hopefully we'll work out the kinks
.
Then (yea, I'm still not done) my friend Leigh and her husband Eric are driving up to spend the weekend with Rayce and me. I'm so excited to have them here! They're Rayce and my "couple friends," since we do things as couples. We have the weekend planned out to involve Bloomington, Chicago and Ottawa. It's gonna be busy, but I'm most looking forward to talking with them. We never seem to run out of things to talk to them about. Also, it'll be nice for them to see Rayce and I in our natural environment (sounds funny when I say it like that). I mean, this is our life together. I tell Leigh about it all the time, and it'll be great for her to see and feel it.
After that, Rayce and I get a break. In between work and visitors, we've been booked every weekend since the end of September. While I love my visitors, I also miss our lazy weekends together. But the winter's coming, and we're wimps to the cold, so I'm sure we'll be shutins once again. We just need to figure out what TV series to watch on Netflix to take up our weekends. Last winter was Lost. We need a new one this time around.
I'll take suggestions if you have them. For now, that is all.
My boyfriend and I have had a number of visitors over the fall. Some might consider this strange, but fall is seriously a high demand season for our family and friends. See, in Louisiana, where all of our visitors are from, there really isn't a fall. It goes from hot to cold so quickly that all the leaves just turn brown and die in November-December. I never really considered the fact that Louisiana doesn't truly have seasons. It's like I knew we didn't, but because that's all I've ever known it never bothered me.
But now that Rayce and I live in a place that has a fall, it's really the only time we have visitors. His dad came up at the end of August, at the peak of Louisiana's summer right when it starts cooling off here. Rayce always finds a project for him and his dad to do when the man is up here. It's how they bond or something.
Then we had my mom and sister at the end of September. Now this was very special to me, because my family only saw a little bit of Bloomington over a year ago when they first dropped me off in Illinois. They never saw the town that I work and live in (half the week). It's a very cute town, with lots of issues and nice people. So on the Friday of their visit, I took my mom and sister to my new town for them to meet the people I work with and see my small apartment. It was nice for them to see where I spend my days, since it's hard to describe how much corn there really is through the phone. Central Illinois— you seriously can't get away from it. It was also felt good to have them in my element. Have them walk where I walk and breathe the air I breathe. It's important to me.
Two weeks later, Rayce's mom, sister and grandmother came up for a visit. That was lots of fun and a relief to Rayce's pocketbook since they pay for everything when they're here. Rayce spent a day with them without me, b/c I was still working, which I always prefer so they have family-time. I know they love me and all, but I still think it's important for him to spend time with them without me. We went to Chicago, walked
around a state park, went out to eat at nice restaurants, and mostly just laughed together. I love that.This weekend, Rayce and I drove to an Indiana Sonic to visit my friend Kelli (the one referenced above) and her fiancee Bryant. Kelli lives in Ohio, so we both drove to meet in Indiana. Unfortunately, I forgot about the time change, and it ended up being farther for them than us, and the trip was just not planned well. BUT I did get to spend a good two and a half hours with my former college roommate, and it was nice to share work stories and again, laugh together. We'll do it again next spring/early summer and hopefully we'll work out the kinks
.Then (yea, I'm still not done) my friend Leigh and her husband Eric are driving up to spend the weekend with Rayce and me. I'm so excited to have them here! They're Rayce and my "couple friends," since we do things as couples. We have the weekend planned out to involve Bloomington, Chicago and Ottawa. It's gonna be busy, but I'm most looking forward to talking with them. We never seem to run out of things to talk to them about. Also, it'll be nice for them to see Rayce and I in our natural environment (sounds funny when I say it like that). I mean, this is our life together. I tell Leigh about it all the time, and it'll be great for her to see and feel it.
After that, Rayce and I get a break. In between work and visitors, we've been booked every weekend since the end of September. While I love my visitors, I also miss our lazy weekends together. But the winter's coming, and we're wimps to the cold, so I'm sure we'll be shutins once again. We just need to figure out what TV series to watch on Netflix to take up our weekends. Last winter was Lost. We need a new one this time around.
I'll take suggestions if you have them. For now, that is all.
The value of humor and anti-‘trollop' Halloween costumes
I wrote this for the newspaper I work for, Ottawa Delivered. This does belong to them, but as long as I say that it's there's, it's ok. I just thought it would be helpful to some of my friends that read my blog. Enjoy!
The sexy bumble bee, sexy plumber, sexy barbarian, sexy mental patient—it gets pretty ridiculous around Halloween. Especially since the definition of sexy in this case requires lots of cleavage and little to no skirt. Besides the obvious tongue-in-cheek, there is no real humor or creativity in these ridiculous female-targeted getups.
A guy can where a bright orange shirt and track pants, lie on the ground and claim to be a speed bump. It’s creative and freakin’ hilarious. But if a woman tries to do that, the perception is “What’s wrong with you?”
That’s why it’s most important as a woman to balance humor and creativity with sex appeal. The idea is to be funny while still physically attractive, but not skanky.
Here are my top five anti-trollop costume ideas. I’ve come up with these on my own, stole from friends or while researching for this column. Unfortunately, I haven’t tried these out personally, but they’re on my list of things to wear for future Halloweens.
1. Hot dog: I’m most proud of this one, because it’s 100-
percent me. Basically, dress really sexy—not slutty—and put on a dog mask. I have a mask that only covers part of my face, with attached ears. Use a name tag for the slow people at the party, so you don’t have to repeat “I’m a hot dog” 100 times.2. Roller Derby Girl: In honor of the new Illinois Valley Vixens Roller Derby League, breakout those Barbie roller skates, put on fishnet tights and a cut-up T-shirt. Use make-up to create bruises, a black eye and black-out teeth just for fun.
3. Big Alice: You could use the “sexy Alice” costume or find a nice blue dress with a black ribbon. Get a cardboard box to draw a house on and cut head and arm holes in the box. Put it over your Alice costume, but be sure the box is big enough to get in and out of comfortably since you most likely won’t wear it all night. Don’t forget a cupcake that says “Eat Me.” You’ll be sure to get a good laugh and even better pictures.
4. Superhero: Find a really stretchy child-size superhero costumes at Wal-Mart, cut the costumes neck and head part off and then manipulated the top to create a halter. Put on the mask and karate-chop the villains in the room.5. Trophy wife: The dress is entirely up to you. But the main idea is to have big hair, lots of makeup, jewelry and a martini glass. Then smile really big in all photos, photo-crashing as much as you can. Incorporating a trophy is entirely up to you.
To the anti-slutty Halloween dressers, I hope this helps. May we cherish our brains and sense of humor by not exploiting our bodies this Halloween, because we’re cooler than that.
***Photos stolen from Google and my friend's FB profile
Noticing the growth
I’ve been working for a new media company here in Illinois for a year now. We celebrated our 1-year anniversary newspaper last week. We’ve definitely come a long way in a year.
I’ve joked about it with a few people, reminding them that this time last year I was still trying to convince people I was real. But I was reminded of what it felt like to be the inexperience, unknown, new guy tonight, and how I am perceived by others.
Tonight I attended the rehearsal of the high school’s mock “Dancing with the Stars” event. Last year was their first year putting this on, and it was the first big event I covered at the high school (pre- teacher strike.) So what’s cool about this event is that I can actually use photos saved from the event last year for the preview article now this year—something I’ve never been able to do before since everything we covered was new to us.
I was approached by the same ladies I interviewed last year about the event. (Sadly, I don’t remember their names )Both of them were happy for me for how far I and my publication have come. They reminisced about how uncertain they were about me last year, having only first met me and unsure of what paper I was representing b/c we were so new.
“At first we were like, who is that? What paper is she from?” the first lady said.
“And look at you now. You’re everywhere!” the second said.
I remember the second lady from the high school superintendent’s wake last year (the one that killed himself during the teacher strike I covered. Click here for that crazy story ). I was trying to work up the courage to approach the coffin, which surprised me by being open. I felt extreme guilt for having to cover his funeral the next day. Tears were running
down my face, as I stood by the door trying to catch my shit. The lady approached me to thank me for the fair and balanced coverage I was producing about the strike. That caught me off-guard, and I thanked her in a cracked voice.It’s little run-ins with people like that which have helped me understand my impact on this community. And for these ladies to approach me tonight and hug me for simply being happy for my growth over the past year is incredible.
***Photos by me from last year's "Dancing with the Stars" event
Piece of their childhood
Ok, so you wanna know something weird that happened to me today? Of course you do. Why else would you be reading this crap?
Today I covered the local high school’s freshmen orientation. The high school in the town I work in is pretty huge on my standards—1,500 kids. The students come from the surrounding grade schools—like about four or five.
Well all last year, I covered those grade schools and inadvertently learned who would make up this year’s freshmen high school class. Today when the kids were running around trying to find their classrooms or participating in the team-building exercise, I’d recognize a few and think, “Hey he came from Wallace” or “That’s the big kid from Shepherd,” or “I think she was in St. Columba last year.”
Honestly, I didn’t see much of the freshmen class last year—I saw more of the seniors and juniors b/c of the teacher strike I covered. But when covering grade schools like high schools, the older ones usually do the most. So I was exposed to last year’s eighth graders, who now make up this year’s ninth graders.
This weirded me out because, 1. I know these kids. I know he’s a smart one because he’s the spelling bee champion or took part in one of the academic teams last year. I know he or she likes math, lives in the city or out in the country or plays a certain sport.
2. They didn’t belong there. It’s like my mind knows what to expect when I enter a high school (hormones) or when I enter a middle school (awkwardness). I was caught off guard to see these faces in the high school terrain.
3. I’m going to see these kids grow up, and I’m going to grow with them. These are the students I captured during the last year of their middle school careers, which in my opinion is the last time a kid can really shine the brightest before being dimmed by their peers (which they normally get out of hopefully by the end of college). This is before the pressures of high school get to them to conform and give in. I get to watch these kids go through the tests of high school, and I’m sure the ones that stand out to me from last year will inevitably be highlighted again in the future.
Well all last year, I covered those grade schools and inadvertently learned who would make up this year’s freshmen high school class. Today when the kids were running around trying to find their classrooms or participating in the team-building exercise, I’d recognize a few and think, “Hey he came from Wallace” or “That’s the big kid from Shepherd,” or “I think she was in St. Columba last year.”
Honestly, I didn’t see much of the freshmen class last year—I saw more of the seniors and juniors b/c of the teacher strike I covered. But when covering grade schools like high schools, the older ones usually do the most. So I was exposed to last year’s eighth graders, who now make up this year’s ninth graders. This weirded me out because, 1. I know these kids. I know he’s a smart one because he’s the spelling bee champion or took part in one of the academic teams last year. I know he or she likes math, lives in the city or out in the country or plays a certain sport.
2. They didn’t belong there. It’s like my mind knows what to expect when I enter a high school (hormones) or when I enter a middle school (awkwardness). I was caught off guard to see these faces in the high school terrain.
3. I’m going to see these kids grow up, and I’m going to grow with them. These are the students I captured during the last year of their middle school careers, which in my opinion is the last time a kid can really shine the brightest before being dimmed by their peers (which they normally get out of hopefully by the end of college). This is before the pressures of high school get to them to conform and give in. I get to watch these kids go through the tests of high school, and I’m sure the ones that stand out to me from last year will inevitably be highlighted again in the future.
So in that way, it’s really exciting. I know a little piece of these kids’ childhoods, that maybe they themselves won’t remember later. And that’s cool.
p.s. The water park was a freakin blast this past weekend, in case you were wondering
***Photo by me
