I’m Not a Journalist
Somewhere in my attic lies a Denver Post press pass featuring a mug shot of my ten-year-old, platinum blonde, smiling self. My dad, a journalist, ensured that my valid credential for Take-Your-Daughter-To-Work-Day was nothing more than a dress-up accessory. As his two-decade career at a mass-circulation newspaper ended with longer hours, less-engaging work, and a buyout, he warned against entering the family business.
I cycled through various career aspirations growing up – children’s book author, “baby doctor,” geneticist – but never considered the forbidden field. That didn’t mean I wasn’t addicted to news. I flipped through the newspaper at the breakfast table each morning, and tuning into NBC Nightly News was a 5:30 p.m. family ritual. Seventeen got a few glances, but the pages of each issue of Time were wrinkled from hours spent studying the contents. I learned about war, famine, political bickering, life-changing technologies, and exotic cultures.
But that was just what I read – not what I lived. That world was distant from the fifth-grade gossip I heard as I strolled home along tree-lined streets, clutching my Disney Princess lunchbox.
By high school, lunchboxes were out. I happily joined the swarms of teenagers jay- walking across Colfax to get our Pizza Express fix – a huge slice and a drink for $2! But when downtown “bureaucrats” threatened our off-campus lunch, I wrote to a local columnist. When enough of us spoke up, they listened.
Sure, the issue was trivial. But, as a fourteen-year-old whose sole income came from babysitting, it affected my daily life much more than the Iraq War or Medicare Part D.
I spent the summer after high school café-hopping, listening to activists explain why they needed health insurance reform. I also shared my story: My family was fortunate to have adequate coverage to pay for therapies, a wheelchair, and other services for my little brother, but I’d watched our friends battle insurance companies over coverage for their children with disabilities.
One of my volunteer’s stories stood out: Katie was fighting for love. She and her boyfriend couldn’t get married because their combined income would make him lose his state-sponsored health coverage. He had a preexisting condition and wouldn’t qualify for a private plan. An HMO shouldn’t say “I object!” on anyone’s wedding day.
I’d seen stories like Katie’s on the Nightly News and in Time, but hearing her tell her personal experience over a chai latte was infinitely more powerful – more than the threat of losing my petty lunch hour.
There are stories that are moving, and then there are stories you can relate to on a personal level because they touch your life. These stories incite action. That’s journalism, applied.
The Port Side is more than a newspaper. We don’t just write about what happened, whether it’s a fire across the globe or across Ninth Street. We strive to bring the Claremont Colleges community closer to the story, asking why should we care? We want to spark discussion and encourage you to share your own experiences. Each of our stories takes us one step out of the Claremont Bubble.
I’ll share my story – so fine, call me a journalist. I’ll be one, if you will too.
