InkTank

Pride? Or a blessing?

Gold colored, automatic doors slid open as I walked into the front lobby and up to the receptionist's desk. "Interns are here to see you sir," she phoned to the national editor.

It wasn't long until the editor greeted Elizabeth Wong (a fellow WJC student and intern) and me to give us a tour of the newsroom we would soon be interning at. We walked through the newsroom, a huge collection of desks with computers and some with TVs tuned into the news (really what I had imagined in my mind of a newsroom). After a brief tour of the newsroom we made our way through several halls and corridors passing the cafeteria and meeting several reporters and editors.

 That first visit to The Washington Times was over a month ago and had me excited to begin my internship there. There was only one problem. I could not, for the life of me, remember how to get to the cafeteria. I remember it being down a certain hall after entering through several doors but couldn't remember how to get there.

Call it pride, stubbornness, or being too proud, but I simply refused to ask someone where the cafeteria was, least of all my editor who'd shown me that day. I couldn't do it . . . and haven't.

Stop and Smell the Lavender

 At the beginning of the semester during my walk to Union Station I noticed something delightful one day. When I happened to brush past a specific bush sticking out over the sidewalk, I caught the sharp but delicate scent of lavender blossoms. This sudden flowery scent amidst the typical city odors of bus fumes and cigarette smoke excited me rather like a little child who gets too excited over something simple. 

Despite the fact that I knew it was pretty silly to get so excited over the smell of a lavender bush, I would often accidentally brush against the bush on my rush to Union Station, catch the scent of the flowers, and smile. It seemed like a small piece of some other world that didn't really belong in the city, but thrived there nonetheless. I think that's kind of how I felt at the beginning of the semester: transplanted into a city that was new and strange, but still loving it and wanting to grow there. 

As the semester progressed, I guess I started to forget about the lavender bush while I got more used to the city and less inclined to take in the sights and smells that were so apparent to me in the beginning. I found myself more inclined to become part of the hussle and bustle in my rush to get from one place to another. I was constantly making the decision between becoming either overstressed or cynical about my daily situations.

Maybe you could say I was finally fitting into the pattern of a young, professional Washington D.C. person.

Alberta Jones

Alberta Jones has been a miracle since the day she was born. Being born premature with an "enlarged and leaky" heart in the 1920s was the first of many hurdles. Every birthday was a victory - two, seven, 16, 30. Doctors told her throughout her life she wouldn't live to see another year. 

Now, at 85 years old, Alberta Jones looks back at her life with a great sense of accomplishment. 

Alberta was raised by her stern grandparents who didn't allow her to get out much. Throughout elementary school, the other children made fun of her for never having left the D.C. area. Upon returning to school from Christmas break one year, Alberta got fed up. "I went to India, Italy and Peru over Christmas!" she exclaimed.

The kids didn't believe her. 

"I went to the library," Alberta said in an attempt to prove to her peers that she had experienced other parts of the world.  

She was an only child with few friends, but Alberta's life never lacked adventure. She had a strong desire to get out and see the world. Unfortunately, Alberta's grandparents rarely let her go beyond the library down the street. 

"My library card became my best friend when I was very young," said Alberta. "It's been my life-long passport."  

With her health issues, Alberta never felt the need to take school seriously. After all, she was never supposed to see the next year. However, that did not change her love of learning about different places or inhibit the development of a vivid imagination.

Why so serious?

Last week I was sent to the Supreme Court to cover oral arguments on a video game restriction law in California. The hearing was actually quite entertaining and I was excited at the chance to write a story about it.

As usual, before I turned my article in to my editor, I checked to see how other major publications  chose to write about the arguments. The story that captured my attention the most was one in the New York Times.

This article had a good balance of serious and intrigue. The Court that day had been in rare form, and those watching broke out into laughter on  more than one occassion - mostly on account of Associate Justice Antonin Scalia.

“What’s a deviant violent video game?” asked Justice Antonin Scalia, who was the law’s most vocal opponent on Tuesday. “As opposed to what? A normal violent video game?”

“Some of the Grimm’s fairy tales are quite grim,” he added. “Are you going to ban them, too?”

While the NYT article provided adequate background information, it added an extra element that is missing in a lot of journalism today: human interest. There is certainly a fine line between making a story interesting and editorializing, but I think this article is an excellent model.

How should I respond to the poor?

I was told that as students here at the Washington Journalism Center we were going to talk about this as a group at some point, but I figured I might as well get the thoughts rolling right now.

If you spend any time at all walking the streets of DC, chances are that someone has asked you for money. Maybe it’s the skinny old man in front of 7 Eleven, the old woman at Union Station who needs money for a bus fare, or the guy on the corner of 12th and F St. with nothing but a sleeping bag and a cardboard sign. In any case, it happens quite often.

I don't think there's one absolutely right blanket answer that we can give and be done with it. Poverty is much more complex than that. I mean, there’s a whole publication (Street Sense) devoted to poverty and homeless issues just in DC, not to mention the countless worldwide mission agencies, rescue missions, relief efforts, books, and a lot of Bible passages.

Perhaps I’ll get to a systematic approach to poverty later. For now, consider two recent situations I encountered.

Last week, I was walking to the gym after a long day at my internship. A heavyset black man with shoulder length dreadlocks, no older than his thirties, was standing on the street corner next to the gym asked me if I could spare some change. Sick with a cold and not in the best of moods, I brushed him off and went in to work out. When I came out he was still there, and he called out to me again. A flare of compassion, or perhaps pity, at his persistency stopped me from brushing him off again. As I started to reach for my wallet, I asked him what he was going to use the money for.

“Um, to get some beer,” he said sheepishly.

His response startled me. I appreciated his honesty and even felt some pity at the sight of his pleading face, but it didn’t help his case.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t think that’s something I want to help you with.”

I started to turn away, but in a last ditch attempt, he pointed to my water bottle.

“Is that wine?”

“No it’s cranberry juice,” I said.

And that was the end of it—an easy decision on my part. I quietly congratulated myself on the discernment and wisdom I had shown in giving to—or rather, not giving and therefore not hurting—the poor.

Overcoming interview jitters

A little over a week ago I had my first face-to-face interview in D.C., and my nerves were a wreck.

This interview was much bigger than what I have done for my campus newspaper. It wasn't with one of the professors I pass every day in the hallways of my university or another Christian studies major praising the musical talent of Mumford & Sons. I was going to sit down with Ingrid Betancourt, a Colombian presidential candidate who spent six-and-a-half years captured by a guerrilla force in the Colombian jungle. She's a woman with a haunting yet amazing story.

Of course, Murphy's Law, that morning in my office was hectic and time-crunched. I had more things to do that day than I had yet to encounter and less time to accomplish them. I also had not eaten breakfast and there was no time for lunch!

Fighting Over the News

Tony Danza becomes a tenth grade English teacher, Lady Gaga goes political and Steven Colbert is a main reason people tuned into the recent immigration hearing.

I read an article the other day titled The World’s Most Influential 16-year-old Bloggers. One of these ‘kids’ made $5, 000 in the first month of launching his blog.

Now I don’t know about everyone else but I feel semi-defeated.

I didn’t spend four years day-dreaming through math classes about becoming a journalist so that I could compete with celebrities and 16-year-olds with a smart phone.  

What is going on?

More importantly what can we do to revert the attention to the actual news media? There is such an availability of mediums and information that I’m beginning to wonder what being a journalist is going to mean when I graduate. I also feel like I have no right to complain because I still have a fighting chance. There are people in news rooms who have spent their post-grad lives making a name for themselves and now have to compete with me; a kid with less experience but a better understanding of converged media.

Fighting DC's elite just to cross the street

I trekked 2.6 miles to work this morning. First day of interning as part of the Washington Journalism Center's program! Let me just say that mothers certainly do know best and I'm glad I yielded to my mom's advice of wearing my Nike Pegasus sneaks to work instead of my adorable black, patent leather heels.

I left home at 8:35 with one of my roommates and we split up at Union Station, just under a mile from our apartment. I set out with my iPod, listening to my Hip Hop/Rap playlist. Now let me just say that although I was paying attention while crossing intersections, these roads in D.C. are a major hazard to pedestrians! There are 6 different paths of traffic going in all different directions. You have the perpendicular number and letter roads that have a state road running through diagonally. Needless to say it's an agonizing task to get up, run out the door without your coffee and then attempt to dodge taxis and raging bicyclists who think they rule the roads.

People in D.C. are nice?

Since leaving my home in Kentucky, I was told that no one in the world is like the people I grew up with. And no truer statement has ever been said. It has taken me nineteen years but I finally understand that no place in the world is like my home.

People are just not nice. I know, lots of people are shocked to hear I'm just figuring this out, but it actually never occurred to me before. See, I don't do much traveling, so I don't meet many different people. The way I grew up just conditioned me to expect certain things out of people. I expect the cashier at the grocery to carry on a conversation with me; I expect the person next to me waiting for the bus to ask me how my day has been; I expect drivers to wave to me when I cross the street, not try to run me down. My expectations, obviously, have been downgraded since I got to D.C.

Although my realization that people are usually not nice is relatively new, I have grown in this understanding a lot lately in my life. I went to school in northern Indiana my first semester and I was miserable and could not figure out why. I now realize that I was in culture shock - the people were, well, northern. In all the times I had actually traveled out of Kentucky I never concluded that the reason I thought everyone was so rude was because we were actually coming from very different cultures. Upon realizing this, I just deduced that I could never live outside of Kentucky without being absolutely miserable.

You can imagine my nervousness then in anticipating an entire semester in Washington D.C. - I was terrified. Though my nerves were shot, I was determined to make the best of this semester since I planned on working in D.C. later down the road. So I tried as hard as I could to prepare myself for exceptionally mean people. I fully expected to arrive and have people shout at me for no reason, refuse to let me sit next to them on the metro and spit on me. However, what I found was pretty shocking.

Are We Missing the Point?

I finally understand why they call it service learning instead of just service.

Food and Friends is an organization in Washington, DC that feeds specialized, nutritious meals and groceries to people living with life-challenging illnesses such as HIV/AIDS, cancer and diabetes. The services are free of charge.

First thought? I have to be up with the roosters. Second thought? Wait, there’s a shuttle?

This place is impressive. Every aspect of this organization from the punctuality of the staff, to the accessibility of transportation, to everyday tasks works better than clockwork. 

At first the tasks appeared routine and gave me as much of a rush as any assembly line could. Then I looked up and began reading all of the thank you letters written and illustrated by children and the children of individuals who rely on the service Food and Friends provide.  Blown up pictures of chefs who dedicated their time to cooking massive amounts of specialized food, volunteers working hard day in and day out and people actually receiving the food, hung from the ceiling.

Goosebumps.

My initial feeling was ashamed. I was entirely too focused on getting the “experience” that I was missing the impact of what I was doing. Just because I’m not listening to the testimonials of the people we are affecting doesn’t mean they don’t exist. After all seeing isn’t always believing right?

The next place of service learning I found in the urban Southeast of DC at a place called Cornerstone School. This day I was prepared with a real understanding of true service and a mindset to make a difference no matter how mundane the tasks may be.

But things never go according to plan—a lesson I keep forgetting along with the lesson that things aren’t always what they seem. These clichés are sadly the best way to convey what I gathered from my time at Cornerstone.

Pumped and metro card in hand we boarded the bus. On our way off the bus an unfortunate misstep caused my shoe to ripe clean apart rendering it impossible to wear functionally.