I did not set out to be a writer. I was forced into it.
Ok, maybe that is a bit strong, but it was not a conscious choice of
mine. As a kid, I loved to read, and then when I was a teenager, I liked
to write poetry and keep a journal, but I didn't want to make a career
out of it. In the back of my mind, I thought
it would be cool to write a book one day, but it was something that
maybe I would get to down the line.
I decided late in my sophomore year in college, I would be a
communications major. To be honest, I didn't know what I wanted to major
in, but I knew I could communicate. That was my story, and I was
sticking to it. As part of the communications class selections,
I signed up for Journalism I. The course was taught by a tried-and-true
newspaper man - old school. He did not pull any punches and was the
perfect person to help a kid hone their writing skills. He was not a
person who would coddle the next generation of
journalists.
The course description included the caveat that students would have the
opportunity to write for the college newspaper, The Advocate. This did not seem like a
mandatory obligation to me. I thought I would learn a thing or two,
tighten up my writing skills, and possibly,
if I chose to, contribute to the campus rag. That is what I thought.
A little back story, I never wrote for my high school newspaper. A good
friend of mine was the editor and she encouraged me to join The Red and
Blue staff, but I just didn't have the time. Marching band was a big
commitment, along with my schoolwork, and various
jobs, as much as I wanted to contribute to the paper, I just couldn't.
College would be my first introduction to writing for print media.
It has been more than 30 years since I was in this journalism class, so
some of the details are fuzzy. I do remember starting out slow and doing
the assignments as they came. I really liked my professor and the class
was engaging. Looking back, it was one of
my favorites of my college career. My roommate and I were inseparable on campus and when Professor Wood saw us, he always referred to us as 'Bishop and Brown'. He never called students by their first names.
It wasn't long before I was working
on a substantial assignment. I had to write an article about race
relations on campus. This was a heavy hitting piece. On a campus that
had a majority white population, this would be an
interesting story to tell. It would be a good read for my professor,
and I wanted to do a good job.
I was able to get interviews from students and one prominent faculty
member. I had some thought-provoking conversations, and the story
started to write itself. I worked hard on this assignment, and I was
proud of what I turned in.
As I expected, my professor
liked the story, in fact he liked it so much, he wanted to put in the
next issue of the campus paper. I told him I didn't want it in the
paper, because none of the people I interviewed were told it was going
to be published. My professor told me I had to go
explain this to everyone I interviewed and find out if they were ok
with this new development. The staff for the campus paper was so small,
students in the journalism classes were needed to help fill the space.
It made sense.
As I expected, some of the people who contributed to my story did not
what their comments printed. My prominent faculty member pulled out of
the story. Some of the students I spoke with were not comfortable
either. My story was falling apart and I was frustrated.
I started to run out of time before the paper was going to press, and I
was trying to track down every last person. There was one person I did
not get to talk to personally; he was a member of the basketball team. I
tried to explain my situation to his teammate
and hoped I smoothed everything over.
The next day, I was shocked at what transpired. My article was on the
front page of the paper. I expected my first printed story to be hidden
in the back pages. I wasn't sure how to feel about it because I knew the
controversial subject matter could upset some people.
The one person who I didn't get a chance to
personally speak with before the article was printed was not happy, and
he and his teammate confronted me in the student union. This was a tough
lesson to learn but it laid the groundwork
for a future reporter.
Through this experience, I learned I needed to be honest and respectful
of my sources. I learned how much I enjoy asking questions and getting
the answers. I also gained an appreciation for the art of constructing a
story. To me, a story is like a puzzle and putting one together has always been something that came easy - the words just flow.
I owe a career in media to my teacher, Professor Lee Wood. It is a
privilege to still be writing today, using the skills he taught me. In fact, he helped me post college as well. After spending time writing for television and radio, two very difference styles from newspaper writing, I sent him a few stories back in 2009 to critique as I was trying to brush up on my skills. Instead of sending them back to me via email, he printed them, marked them up and mailed them to me.
When I have having some challenges with my newspaper job and I reached out to him, back in 2015, he took the time to email a very thoughtful response. "I am happy you are working in the field. Each day adds to your knowledge and status."
Last week, a friend messaged me to let me know Professor Wood passed
away over the summer. His memory will live on in all of the students he
influenced over the years.
I hope I've made him proud. There is a part of him in every single story I write.
*My blog is featured in The Valley Mirror each week in the On My
Mind column. The Valley Mirror Newspaper covers the Steel Valley and
Woodland Hills communities.
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