Then my Ella came

Then my Ella came

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Today at 7:18pm | Edit Note | Delete

Today I took my lunch break in Orono. I'd just finished talking with a goat farmer for a few hours for a story and was already in town. I called my sandwich in as I drove my 97 Saturn down the pothole speckled dirt Bennoch Road.

"An Ella on basil focaccia if you have it, hot."

"It will be 15 minutes."

I broke for the red light at the intersection of Bennoch and Main. I smelled the smoke of wood fire and smiled. I love that smell. I then remembered that on July 2 it wasn't the smell of someone's wood stove, it was the three-story home that burnt down a few weeks ago, displacing 30. Mostly people I'd gone to school with.

I picked a parking spot across from the Ampersand and climbed the three steps to harvest Moon and took a bar stood at a shiny, varnished wood table. I looked over. There were no white paper-packaged sandwiches waiting on the metal shelf. My sandwich must not be ready. Under the shelf five grease-soaked orders hung. I needed to think of a lead for this goat story while it's still fresh. Despite filling my entire, brand new reporter's notebook on one side in the last three hours, I pulled my pen out and pushed it between my fingers which had red sore spots from writing already.

I sat back thinking that I must have the best life.

Then my Ella came.

The thing I pulled out of my car

The thing I ripped out of my car ...

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Sunday, June 7, 2009 at 4:13pm | Edit Note | Delete

So Friday night I was driving back from Stella's in Castine. It is the best non-Bangor restaurant in Maine. All was well until CLUNK. Followed by CLUNKCLUNKCLUNKCLUNK. I pull over, put my flashers on and tell the man in the car that something is wrong. Men are supposed to know why things clunk, something about testosterone.

No ideas.

So I clunkclunkclunk back to Orono, freaked. I do not call my father. That would be the wrong thing for a 21-year-old woman who just graduated from college and is trying to prove her independence to do.

I silently freak, and drive to work Sunday. I watch kids play baseball in Glenburn for my story. When they are done, I get back into Ms. Clunker and bumble over the dirt road. Then, when my 1997 Saturn SL2 and I meet the tar it's gone. No clunking.

I am pumped. I don't have to turn my stereo up anymore -- this is good as I hate loud noises.

Then.

Clunk.

CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK.

OK, car, now you've pissed me off.

So I pull over in IGA. A woman is sitting in a car across from me. NH license plates and a pink baseball cap. She watches as I get down in my polo and bermuda shorts and start poking.

I notice something rusty moves when I touch it. I don't know much about cars, and that's an understatement, but I do know that things shouldn't move. It's supposed to be solid.

So I yank it out.

I look at the lady in the car with the flat, rusted plate in my blackened hands and shrug my shoulders. She shrugs back. I throw the plate in my car through the back window and go to buy a head of cabbage to fry later for dinner.

I come back, the engine turns over -- sans clunk.

So I'll attach a picture of how I fixed my car. My friends tell me it is a plate that houses my brakes.

The deterioration of culture - a rant

The deterioration of culture - a rant

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Thursday, June 4, 2009 at 6:06pm | Edit Note | Delete

My agenda was simple. Get out of work, deposit my check, buy the opera Carmen on CD, buy The Eames Era's CD and buy the Oxford English Dictionary.

I started at Bull Moose per a style writers suggestion. "Do you have The Eames Era?" I asked after shuffling through a few rows of CDs. "No, that's a little under our radar." He said the band popped up on his computer screen and that I should buy it from the band's Myspace. Not only do I not have a myspace, but I could get it off Amazon for $5.

"OK, what about opera? Do you have a section for that?" The guy showed me a dismal rack of their opera selection. No Carmen.

On to Borders, where I had a 25 percent off coupon. After pursing for my Eames, to no avail, I went onto find Carmen. They didn't have it. I guess Borders just couldn't fit one of the best operas of all time onto their shelves, which were instead crammed full of Nickleback. Frustrated, I went downstairs to find the OED.

On the shelves of reference Webster dominated. All types of Webster. I have nothing against the guy, I own at least two of his reference books, but I need an OED -- it's one of those writer things.

"The Concise Oxford English Dictionary." I pick it up. This might do. I look up "excoriate." Yup. "Melee?" Yup. One more to test it, an easy one so I may move on with my life and a $20 book (with my coupon would be $15 plus tax). Easy, "Deterge." NO. I can't own a dictionary that fails my vocabulary test.

No deterge? Well then, my too concise book, I must deterge my hands of you -- not that you know what that means.

On my way out, as I shift along the shelves near the checkout, waiting for someone who looks polite who I can pass my coupon off to - as I won't be needing it - I find a 2 foot by 3 foot book of Ansel Adams' work on the bargain shelf. $19.99 + coupon. Perfect Father's Day present -- we have a shared love of Adams.

I go home to Main Street, Orono and start my reduced fat kielbasa dinner with potatoes and onions. My roommate walks in. He owns many stolen copies of classical music CDs.

"Hey Michael, do you have Carmen?"
"What?"
"Carmen. Oh never mind," I say.
"Is that some sort of food additive?" he asked.
"No, it's an opera."

Amazon it is.

Little fish

The little fish

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Monday, June 1, 2009 at 12:19pm | Edit Note | Delete

After two years of having the freedom to assign myself only what I deemed the most important articles for the UMaine student newspaper, I've been thrown back to the "little fish" status and do not have the luxury of gracing page A1 on a twice-weekly basis.

Now I'm either buried in the state section or making the cover of a weekly. In that, I get the lowly, just above intern-status assignments. Super local. I no longer choose my assignments. Instead of rushing to Augusta for a 21-hour workday watching a legislative session debating gay rights, I talk to kids at skate parks, speak with the elderly and children with autism. The small stuff.

What I'm reminded of is how easy it can be to take 20 plus hours of substantive information and throw a story on page one. What isn't as easy is making a couple doxen kids in skinny jeans who gathered to rally against drugs interesting.

What's more is that I'm reminded how much more difficult, and satisfying, it can be to be given a crappy assignment and come out with something decent -- opposed to being given something wonderful and come out with something decent. It's oddly gratifying.

The crank

The crank

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Thursday, May 28, 2009 at 1:41pm | Edit Note | Delete

In the depths of the Bangor Daily News office, in the far corner beyond sports, news and even the copy desk is a corner office. My corner office. ... OK, Roxanne, Ardeana and my corner office. Behind me, lurking is Ardeana. She has barricaded herself behind two large desks, peering out into the newsroom, but not to be seen by reporters. The most peculiar thing by far about the weaker of the two desk-barricades is the crank. It's a small crank, attached to the top of the two-level desk. It's black and sleek. The top, where a hand would grab, is shaped like a hot air balloon, forever stuck. "What does the crank do?" I asked her. I hoped with all my strength that the answer would be something evil and cunning. A crank that started a device Edgar Poe wrote about in Pit and the Pendelum. Something that would trigger more cranks that would yank at ropes in the basement -- a basement filled with old press machines -- yank at ropes attached to human limbs to rip them apart. "It raises this part of my desk for ergonomics."
Stupid question.

Today I saw a firetruck

Today I saw a firetruck

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Thursday, May 28, 2009 at 12:16pm | Edit Note | Delete

The scream ricocheted off my building, swam -- as if chased by a shark -- through the parking garage across the street. The firetruck three stories below bellowed hard and pushed past the stoplight, its yell echoing, trapped inside the tunnel the two buildings created. Sound bouncing between, like a fly caught between two panes of glass in a window.

Mistakes were made - cooking

Mistakes were made - cooking

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Thursday, May 21, 2009 at 7:18pm | Edit Note | Delete

I'm not sure what went wrong. I'm not a cook.

So I buy an ear of corn (well two, but one will not be eaten, read on) from Hannaford.

Then I let it sit on my counter for a week.

Then I take the husks off and put the ears in tinfoil in the fridge.

I then boil them for 4 minutes.

And take a bite.

Raw.

So I throw it back in the water for 40 minutes.

And take a bite.

I didn't know corn could taste bad. Vile. Like the cacti of corn.

I'm sure mistakes were made.

Anyway, I need cooking lessons. Offers?

A lasting leaving lesson

Today I was in a wedding. Usually, this means you get your hair done, get in a dress, assist the bride and eat cake. I did these things. For me though, it meant I had to push aside news for the day. This was as fatal a mistake you can make as an editor.

I'm graduating so I've been training a new news editor for a while now. He's watched me over the last year, more. He knows I use no fewer than three sources an article and fact checking is about 80 percent of my job.

Today, while I was gone, he posted an article to the Web that libeled two women. It accused them of something, and in the end we could have gotten sued and lost the paper had I not seen it soon after it was posted.

It makes me think I focused too much on my perceptions of perfection for my section instead of investing more time into training the future section leader. At the same time, everyone has to learn the hard way.

Freedom v. Safety

Here's the dilemma, it's always the same: safety versus freedom.

As a libertarian (and I must say that loosely, as I don't hold to all of the party's ideals.), the choice is always freedom. That's the point of the philosophy. And it's what I choose when I vote. It's what I expect politicians to choose.

But now it's my choice.

I expect to get offered a job. It's what everyone expects of me. Go from college to one of the state newspapers and move up from there.

Or I could move to Baltimore, the city I would like to live in and just try to make it. Live off my savings and freelance my way into the Examiner or Baltimore Sun, somewhere I'd rather be. It's a big risk and I'll probably end up making lattes for a while; but it's freedom.

I don't know what I'll choose yet. There are a lot of what ifs. Maybe this will test my politics on the smallest, most important level.

A not so sad goodbye

Today is the last real day that I will be the news editor of The Maine Campus. I say "real" because we must compile the Year in Review edition Wednesday.

I thought about it for a while. Knew it was coming. I anticipated being sentimental, ready to cry. I'm not. I'm ready to be done, graduate, get a job and fly away from my protected little student newsroom. 

It has taught me a lot. I've learned everything I know about journalism here. Everything that was taught by theory in classrooms was either reinforced or practiced here. The SPJ code of ethics became not a theory, but a practical guide. It's where controversy, stress, breaking news, deadlines, deaths, argument and office politics pile up into one environment and break you into a better editor. 

I will never regret taking this job. I feel like I'm part of something big. I run into people and they recognize my name, tell me about the times when they were the editor. I love the stories, the communities and, mostly, my coworkers. But now I'm ready. I grew up here. This was my college experience: Not classrooms and socializing on quads, but yelling loudly about awful  leads, good headlines, and ridiculous wordplay. I gained connections, clips, experience that brought me to jobs and internships that will propel me further.

But it's time to go. I've outgrown my pond; learned what I could and must go out into a much faster, crueler, more politically correct work environment and start working my way up there.

I'm ready for what comes. Bye Maine Campus, I love you.

What a day

At 4:30 a.m. I got a call asking if I planned to bring an extra shirt.

At 5:30 a.m. the caller and I were on the road.

Will is a driver with a death wish. His 1993 Chevy, which already has a dent that extends from the driver-side headlight passed the edges of the door and is inches deep, blasted through the rain, over the slippery road (I-95) at 90 mph — 80 mph when he sent e-mails from his Blackberry (to who at 5:30 a.m.? I don't know either.)

I accepted that I would die before the student newspaper's Web editor and I arrived at the gay marriage debate in Augusta, Maine. This made the ride much easier.

Until the glam rock.

Here is a snippet of the lyrical value I weathered for the 2-hour ride, made 50-minute ride.

"You know honey, honey

That it's so funny, funny

That you mean so much to me."

Now imagine a man in glittery platform heels singing it. OK? Now repeat the above lyrics 20 times. OK. Will sang along cheerily  — cheerily; at 5:45 a.m. Thankfully, I was just coming into consciousness as Dunkin Donuts' medium hazelnut with cream and sugar eased its way through me.

Separate from Will and me, our copy editor turned video helper Kaley rode a bus down. Her assignment: Write a feature about riding the bus with UMaine gay, student activists.

It doesn't take the B- I got in calculus to figure this one out. Kaley's bus left UMaine at 5 a.m. 

Will and I left campus at 5:30 a.m.

The ride was approximately 95 miles.

Will passed the bus 70 miles into the drive.

Before reluctantly passing the bus — not "reluctantly" because he was worried about crashing into another car while going 90 mph down a wet highway and having his 16 year old Chevy burst into flames which would sizzle in the drizzle — no. He needed to say hello. To Kaley. In the bus. To achieve this, which he didn't, he stayed parallel to the bus for a good two miles. This held up the other one car on I-95 that morning.

We got there though. We got there where I reported on the debate on gay marriage in Maine for 12 hours, not including the drive, set up and break down of all the equipment. We then got back and edited a newspaper. All in a day's work.

Story weaving

Today I thought about how the stories I tell show people. They are their stories of their lives. When they die people can still know them, find them.

I also thought how no one will write about me — probably. It's good because I'd just correct his/her grammar anyway.

But then I thought what if these people's stories that I tell are part of my own maybe these people's stories make up my story. I can look through the three three-ring binders I filled in the past few years of other people's stories. Hypothetically, you could track where I was any given week in my college career — summers included.

I am an individualist. Independent. But maybe it is true that everyone's stories are intertwined. I'm lucky to be one of the spiders spinning the complex story webs.

Here is the zone where I will express my thought, "freely"

By creating "Free speech zones" the government takes the "free" out of speech.

There is nothing criminal about peaceably assembling or petitioning the government. It makes me sick that on Wednesday — the day for debate on legalizing gay marriage in Maine — this will (probably) happen. 

Dead again

Two students dead.

Stifling grief. Shoved it in my gut.

Will come back to it later, first: this news.

AdvOKate?

I'm considering a job that everyone who I've told thinks is perfect for me. It's in disaster news. Breaking, disaster, death/destruction news.

The thing about it is, it is not-for-profit. The organization takes donations. They strive to raise awareness of victims of natural disasters, etc. 

The number one thing about journalism (for the purpose of this post) is that you aren't anyone's "advocate." That isn't the job. The job is to tell all sides of the story.

On the other hand, according to SPJ ethics we're also supposed to give a voice to the voiceless and tell the magnitude and diversity of the human experience. In this way, journalism is advocacy. 

I'm confused, and tempted.

Alarm clock

My alarm clock failed me.

I wore it through.

I'm pretty sure it and my poetry professor plotted against me.

The snooze button broke.

The piece of shit fell into the body of the screaming plastic shell of a beast.

It won't shut up.

Please shut up.

I try to fish out the plastic piece of shit.

I didn't like Operation as a child

I do not like it now.

Shut up.

For Christ sake, shut up.

No use.

I start pressing the organs.

Hard, metal organs.

Shut up.

Shut off.

I will miss it here -- coffee

I'm graduating soon. It's sad, true.

When I came here as a freshman I knew I loved it, even though it didn't love me. 

Everyone else seemed to come with their high school friends and had cliques pre-planned. I was from out of state and alone.

Since then I've become editor of my paper, executive news producer of two news TV shows, worked as an RA, fought off policemen in self defense classes, tamed a race horse for the school, went to plenty of hockey games, wrote lots of stories, etc. I've lived and grown up a bit.

And today I realized it. 

My friends make fun of me sometimes for being famous. I'm not. But on campus I do know a lot of people. When I go to meetings and someone says "Hi, Heather" I get a response from the person next to me "Are you Heather Steeves?" I'm getting used to saying "no." now, as it tends to keep me out of trouble. But I get that at least once a week.

Anyway. Today between classes I headed for my usual: an amoretto cream latte from the Oakes Room. 

"Hey Heather," my roommate Seth said.

"Hi."

Behind him I spotted Erik. He was someone I missed seeing ever since our creative nonfiction class ended. I went over to talk to him.

Ashley and Corey were sitting at the next table. They got up.

"I have to go. They're in my class," I told Erik. 

"Oh, you're going to walk with them?"

"No," I said, probably snootily. "But it means I have to go soon."

I started to traverse the backpacks, laptop chords and Odwalla wrappers to the exit.

Then I saw Matt Mac. 

"Hey Matt."

"Hey Heather."

Almost out Jeff Hake ran at me. I do mean ran at me. He kept blocking my way out, like a scrawny football player. I weaved passed him and ran into Danielle, who hit me with a stack of papers as a sort of "hello."

I literally ran out of the room and into the much safer, less populated atrium. 

I made it to class caffeinated, on time and knowing I've made some sort of impact here.

I make her cringe

Abby Goodnough, the Boston bureau chief of the New York Times chatted with me last week. See the article:

http://media.www.mainecampus.com/media/storage/paper322/news/2009/04/02/news/new-york.times.boston.bureau.chief.visits.university-3693756.shtml

On Monday I attended a luncheon where she spoke. I was producing a live stream for Mobile Maine News for it and reporting for The Maine Campus. I then walked her over to The Campus office so she could speak with my coworkers. We chatted on the way over, and I asked her more questions at the office. I told her I was writing about her.

By Tuesday we were well acquainted. It came to public affairs reporting class time. Nagle made it clear: ask, ask, ask, do not have a pause, do not waste time. We were to interrogate the woman.

My classmates had some questions at first, but they lost steam. So I started asking my questions. I asked about FOIA, ethics, "what do you look back on now that makes you cringe?" has she ever cried in front of a source, etc.

When class ended Abby and I staggered to get up. I put my coat on.

"Heather?"

"Yeah"

"You asked what makes me cringe. I take it back. You make me cringe."

I think it's a pretty high compliment from a fellow reporter. 

A follow up

Earlier I wrote "no one teaches you how to be an editor," which was me being a bit whiney about my responsibilities. As a follow up, here's what happened.

I woke up determined. Instead of slamming my already-broken snooze button, which is literally worn through the plastic, I was instantly ... determined. I knew it was coming. This was the day I wrote about. The day I'd set myself up for the question: could I do it -- make a news section with nearly nothing.

I put on heels. This was an amazing first step. Pardon the pun. Then the fedora -- complete with a feather on one side, "NEWS" label on the other. I needed inspiration, and -- if nothing else -- to look the part.

I made it through 9 a.m. psych 100. Somehow. Then Public Administration class. To say "I did not want to go" is a severe understatement. I don't know why, but my heels led my unwilling legs to second floor Neville. I sat with my New York Times waiting for another boring, "duh" lecture.

"What is a leader?" my teacher started. She's a tiny little thing who has probably been behind a town office's desk for the last 50 years.

I sigh. Oh. Good. Another hour of my production day wasted. I need to go pull four stories out of my ass, not learn definitions of "government" and "leader."

She goes on.

"Roosevelt said a good leader leads in times of crisis -- and succeeds."

It hit me. I wrote it down. I listened more intently to the next 49 minutes than I can remember listening to any lecture.

I've gone to church. I've gone to a few Al Anon meetings. Sometimes it's a zero. Other times, particularly I find, in times of need, it's there. Whatever it is. Whatever you need to hear most.

I learned about this in journalism camp. When that story just isn't working, you're tired and down to that last cigarette and you go out to smoke it and there is the story. Falls right into your lap. Most seasoned journalists get this at one time or another.

An argument is to be made. It might always have been there, whatever "it" is. The butterfly, they called it at camp. I can't remember the story, except that a man needed beauty and one day when he reached out to his windowsill there was a butterfly. The butterfly may have always been there. Every day at that same time; it's when you need it that you notice.

So maybe my butterfly was always there, just sitting. Perhaps lecturer Mary always spews wisdom that I just don't need. But today I got it.

I went into the office. Stories came in, as they tend to. I edited, fact checked, reported, wrote, copy edited, etc.

And everything was OK.

Maybe that means I'm a good leader. Or maybe it was always there.

No one ever teaches you how to be an editor

I love my job. It is the best job I could ask for; and soon, I will have to give it up. In return, I get a cap and gown.

I'd toot my own horn, it would be a familiar sound. But not today.

See, through the journalism program -- and I've been through all of broadcast and print -- you learn to be a production assistant, reporter, copy editor, writer, intern, janitor, etc. but no one ever teaches you how to be an editor.

It's just one of those things.

I'm not complaining. I don't expect my undergraduate courses -- in which some kids struggle to learn news values -- to teach me the complexities of knowing how to handle 60+ reporters, constant deadlines, coworkers, production/photography. It doesn't fit into a four-year curriculum.

So when deadline comes, and all the assignments given have fallen through, no one ever teaches you what to do. Nothing I've read tells me how to magically fill five pages with meaningful content, when given 150 words of student senate beat. It's not something I'm going to find in my text books. Strunk and White say I'm SOL, and AP is laughing at me.

I guess these are the times that test journalists to see how creative they can get.

Did I pass/fail? You decide: Thursday's Maine Campus news section.

Family

Through my anthropology course and spring break, I've been forced to think about family. ANT 102 says that in America, family means you have a blood or marriage connection to someone — everyone else is a friend. Fair enough.

My parents were divorced last month. Tonight, my first night at my father's (previously "parents'") house for spring break, I found something curious. Near my bed I saw a pink gimp-and-bead necklace next to a pink doily. First of all, I did not grow up in this house. Secondly, if I did there certainly would not be necklaces or doilies — maybe model horses, Tonka trucks and shelves of books.

So, I've come to the conclusion that my dad is dating someone with a child. A small, girl child. I wonder if this means I may have to expand my views of family. Or does it even count this late? Can I get a new sister at 21? A child that I probably could have given birth to had I been a more mischievous teenager? 

The zombies are after me

Death is following me. You might want to stand back.

Sunday I got a call that a kid died. A UMaine student, I found out. His name is Dylan. I had to get the story, talk to his friends, family and police. I had to knock on the door and ask about Dylan. Ask how he smashed his skull into the basement floor after his drunken fall down the stairs. His friends put him in a bed down there and let him sleep it off. Police found him the next morning in the bed, skull fractured, body laying in a pool of vomit. This has not been published yet.

Then I was forced, via homework, to read story upon story about death.

Going to bed last night I had nightmares. I haven't had nightmares for years. I was trapped in a basement. A killer upstairs. I was with another girl, I had to kill her to be released. In a separate dream I killed people and they came after me as a mob of zombies.

When I woke up I went to English class. I got there late, but I knew. I could feel the death again. Somber. I interrupted it. After class I asked my friend Lisa what would, any other day, have seemed like an odd question. "Lisa, I got to class late. Did someone die?" She explained to me that the professor's father had a stroke and his mother was in some state of dying.

I don't know what's going on, but I'm getting tired of making people cry.

JuicyCampus

Stolen from mainecampus.com (by me, of course):

For those of you who don't know what JuicyCampus.com is, it's a Web site that allows students to be completely anonymous and gossip freely. These posts usually discuss who is the hottest in each fraternity, who slept with whom, or which Student Government employee was a douche bag this week. I couldn't believe it either.

Let's put this in a historical perspective. Every communication device, for the most part, was intended to help citizens become informed and engaged in their world. Each of these failed. The TV allows us to watch "True Life" and "Sex and the City;" films are now a vehicle for "Dumb and Dumber." The Internet has - well, we have JuicyCampus.

The University of Maine has its own JuicyCampus page. I'd say ours leads the pack, as it has a "who is the best teacher?" thread ... followed by three different threads, all with the same subject: "Sluts."

It's a revolting site, that's for sure. It is like roadkill - really bloody, still crawling while its tail and hind legs are smushed to the ground by tire treads - you can't not look. It's disgusting and terrible. What's worse is you're probably on it, and your angry ex probably detailed the exact inflammations of your last three herpes outbreaks. But, JuicyCampus has its place.

Is this an issue of free speech? JuicyCampus thinks so. The "About us" section states that its mission is to enable "online anonymous free speech on college campuses." It adds, "today it is a forum where college students discuss the topics that interest them most, and in the manner that they deem most appropriate."

Is it libelous? Of course. People are listed by full name and campus with the juicy gossip attached. Unless every bit of information is true, which is tough to prove in the case of "douche bags," it's absolutely defamatory. I could not find one lawsuit against the site or any of its anonymous posters - though the site could be subpoenaed and forced to give the IP addresses of specific posters. The free speech argument is difficult or impossible to make when the speech is pure libel.

JuicyCampus is not the most useful outlet for desirable information. The information is undesirable. But if people think it is so terrible, and if they do not want the outlet to exist, why do they keep looking?

The real issue is common decency. As the mission states, "in the manner [students] deem most appropriate." It's easy to say that the site is unfair to its victims and encourages pure malice among peers. And of course, it is. The main tab says "gossip" - the purpose isn't hidden. What it comes down to is, people should be acting like humans, and not bashing others to a bloody pulp ... like roadkill.

Heather Steeves is news editor for The Maine Campus.

Government's intimidating nature detracts from democracy

The environment of government is intimidating to citizens. Although America, arguably, has a strong, cemented structure, it's this rigidness that can be disconcerting to curious laypeople whom otherwise might like to be more politically active. Two years of being the editor of a college newspaper and a myriad of public affairs reporting experiences from a slew of newspapers and television stations has made this abundantly clear to me.

When I am assigned a new town government to cover, it is not easy to get started. The first thing I do is try to buddy up with the last reporter to get my bearings. Towering court houses and stuffy town halls full of men in suits are not exactly a fresh-baked-pie atmosphere for us non-elected folk.

If there is no other reporter to help me, I am alone. I drift through the empty halls of the public buildings where I can hear my heels click with every step until I stumble across a clerk. Clerks are angels sent from heaven with public records and the knowings of everyone and everything. She — as the clerk is, in my experience, always a she — is friendly, but skeptical of new observers.

I feel that my experiences of being forced to attend many public meetings and digging through many public documents have taught me a lot about the structure of government and its environment. Most people do not have this experience. They do not know where to get an agenda, what a resolution is, when they are allowed to speak and ask questions, etc. This is intimidating for outsiders. This is supposed to be the "people's" government, yet, through both apathy and a lack of understanding and education, most people can't find their way through a court house — or know that they are allowed to be there. This is sad.

I feel that American government has a strong structure. This strong structure does lead to delays in policy passing, but at the local level we can be directly involved in how policy, laws, regulations are made. I think people do not take advantage of this because of the unwelcoming environment that comes with the intimidating hierarchy and lack of outreach on the part of our government to solicit views from constituents — whom they are supposed to represent.
Government, of course, is not solely to blame. Apathy about government is overwhelming in the United States. This is not the 1970s when students would protest on malls across the nation. Rarely do we see any uprising at Maine's statehouse or at the local level. CSPAN's ratings don't compare to those of MTV's. But what happens behind the doors in Washington, D.C., and even in Town Hall chambers affects each citizen every day of his or her life. Taxes, medical care, public transit, where you can build a house — all the things that impact citizens seem foreign to them.

When a new reporter comes in and wants to become my Student Government beat reporter I give them a schpeel. "It isn't fun. It's a lot of hard work and many boring meetings — but, as you work on it, it will become the most interesting, inflammatory subject ..." etcetera. But each one of them is always terrified to sit through a meeting. The structure of most governmental meetings is that all the elected officials sit at one table and are observed by the media and citizens who have opinions they wish to be shared. These people too are usually shaking. They are unsure when to speak, what they can and can not say and where to sit. This may seem arbitrary, but when citizens do not know how to partake in a democracy, except to get their information second-hand and to vote every four years, this is not effective. I blame the hostile environment of government.

Update

The Columbia test was great. Reading the almanac and studying world maps was completely unnecessary. Mostly, I got to show off my writing and word choice. 

Getting busy, sorry, will write more later.

Irony ... creatively

Tomorrow Columbia will administer a test to me that will help them decide if I'm worthy of giving them thousands of dollars. For this, I have set myself an academic diet of regular almanac and world map digestion. This has been difficult to do. Not because of my attention span; I love reading the almanac. No, my lack of focus comes from inspiration. 

When I start to try to study, I get suddenly inspired. I want to write down all my news ideas and e-mail my writer to do a story on the thing I'm reading about, I want to blog about it, I want to write a poem, etc.

Such happened today in my public management course. My teacher was giving me the quick and dirty on American politics. This information would probably have helped me tomorrow ... had I been at all able to pay attention to the poor woman. I wasn't. Again, inspiration hit. Her appearance alone caused my pen to erupt on the left, usually blank, side of my notebook.

*

Her cheeks sag around her cleft lip which seems to deepen the fissures that define her chin, carved from the rest of her face; like a canyon -- not water: age.

Her gold-framed glasses reflect the fluorescent light, protecting the boil under her right eye from scrutiny. A bubble of skin bumping into her bright, blue pupil.

She was exactly whom I would want to teach Public Management. She looked like every lady in Orono's town office. Her short, orange-blonde ruffled mane looked like it was trying to escape her forehead. This was most likely a side effect of wearing a green cap of a winter hat that clashed against the pair of bright red gloves laying underneath the olive rumple beside her podium.

Her rings, nail polish, necklace and large, solid, circular earrings carefully chosen -- probably the night before. Her cardigan sweater the exact color of her sea-wash eyes. A yellow turtleneck beneath.

Her name is Marie. Marie probably did not have a doctorate. She used not-words including "irregardless." This one in particular made my itch all over. She wrote her name on the board with chalk -- in cursive -- something that is no longer taught in grade schools. Next to her perfectly curved name, she listed her home phone number. This said something. First, she was old. She did not have a cell phone. 

*

It is not finished, it was just a blurb my pen spouted in class as she lectured about the Articles of Confederation. I couldn't help it.

Which makes me wonder: Columbia, what would you want? Someone who pays attention to American politics, world affairs and geography; or someone so inspired by the mundane that she can not keep the words in her hand anymore, they must pour onto the page or risk being pent up with the unborn ideas, projects, dreams? 

I'm a writer. It's what I need, and the only thin I can do to be fulfilled, and if this is not enough for a school, thats OK because it always will be for me.

Deadlines must be met (if they exist, that is.)

I'm a skeptic of most everything, and this includes the University of Maine. College professors can make or break an experience. Some professors reign students in tight, work them to the bone and get a lot from them. Others let their students go with little instruction and let them find their own paths. Some don't do much for students at all and lecture the yawns out of them.

Today I found a professor who wanted to reign us in, but was more of the "find your own path" sort of guy.

I read through the syllabus before allowing him to explain its stipulations. 

"Late work is not accepted," it states under "Assignments." "You can not pass the course without completing every assignment," it states under "Grading."

OK, I thought, this guy is serious.

Then I flip to the back, where the schedule for the semester is. Each reading is given its own Tuesday or Thursday. "We don't have to do it in this order," the professor explained. "It's pretty flexible."

At a closer examination, he has no deadline for any of the seven, what look to be difficult, assignments and research projects. "I'm not sure what I want you to do yet," he explained. "And projects never finished, they are unending."

So, from what I learned today, late work is not accepted, but don't worry because there are no deadlines and there never will be because research never ends.

This is life at a liberal arts college.

Cut the cuts

I keep reading about Obama's tax cuts. In the past, I've, for the most part, been a fan. But once several banks started to fail, the American auto industry sputtered and the rest of the world's economy fell, I started thinking differently. 

I've been listening to some financial news, researching past efforts, and thinking a lot on this subject. My conclusion is that, although tax cuts are nice, they are not the answer to this problem. Here is my idea of what tax cuts do. 

Give people some extra money to give to banks/auto industry/whatever>People, in turn, go to Walmart> The money the U.S. government gave to help resurge American companies, is now (at least partly) invested in Honduran sweatshops>Now, the U.S. government has less money (because of the tax break, and in turn, now in other countries) to give to invest in other means to strengthen our economy.

What has worked: job creation. During the Great Depression, America went into what is called the "New Deal Era." During this time, Roosevelt made new jobs (a lot which had to do with the environment) to lower the unemployment rate. Today, America is in a similar situation where most unemployed citizens want to, but can not find work. Here is where the government could help.

Building a wind farm, for instance, takes a lot of people. We need the people to dig holes, people to build the different parts of machinery, people to erect them, people to maintain them, etc. If we kept this work in the U.S., not only would this boost our workforce, but it would have the added benefit of reducing our dependance on other countries. 

Currently, the United States is not a country that can stand on its own. If every other country cut us off from trade, we would not be able to survive. Maybe this could be a goal to work toward to keep employment, and therefore our spending (both governmental and personal) in house.

Semester off

On surveys "some college" is usually an option for "level of education." This leads me to believe that many people start, and do not complete college. I know, I'm very smart, hold your applause. 

Recently, my friend told me she would be taking next semester off. Not because she could not afford it, but because it was too much stress. This friend has been dreaming to be a lawyer for a long time, in her second year of college, she is far from law school.

Taking time off. Can it be helpful? Or is it a sign that maybe you are not cut out for a job as intense as a lawyer's? I'm honestly curious. College, compared to the "real world," to me, seems like a break in itself. An investment of youth in exchange for an economically easier future.

On the other hand, maybe people sometimes need to slow down and breathe before finishing their academic marathons. I mean, people who finish college are in it for 17 years plus pre school. Maybe these people come back refreshed, rejuvenated and ready to work.

Perhaps it's my skeptical nature, but working 50 hours per week at Taco Bell to pay rent/gas/insurance/electric is not a "break" or any less stressful, it's a new, different stress that has no investment in a degree-required career.

I'd love to get comments on this. Has it worked? Does it? Do people come back, and if they do, is it the same? My curiosity has stemmed me to assign this topic for a news story in the paper next semester. 

But for now, I'm on break.

Are you sure this isn't a penalty?

I like news. I've acted in many positions in the business: editor, assistant editor, reporter, features writer, photographer, copy editor, producer, director, technical director, floor director, audio, anchor, teleprompter, cameraman, weather person, etc. Point is, I love it -- all of it.

Until today. Today I learned the one news job I hope to never repeat. Hockey still photographer.

Knowing the sports editor of the school paper was working and unable to attend the game, I volunteered myself to photog, and found a writer. Great. I've taken plenty of photos before, including working as a photographer for a Maine paper last summer. No problem.

Wrong.

I got a ticket and hit the main stretch of concrete where fans can watch the game on their ways to get fries and pizza slices. From there I could see everything and get clear shots without anyone in front of me. Suddenly, a jolt. A man had grabbed my jacket and pulled me back. He had a much fancier camera than I. I apologized, assuming I blocked his shot. 

"Who are you with?" I asked.

"The AP," he said haughtily. 

"Oh, I write for them."

No response. 

I wandered up the nearby stairs to get a different angle. 

"Look," he says to me, "if you keep blocking people's views you're going to get us both in trouble. You will be gone and I will still be pulled, pushed and yelled at. K?"

"OK, sorry."

I had not known I was blocking anyone's way. I stayed in the zones he deemed safe. Until I got yelled at again. "Keep moving," said a woman in a yellow jacket, indicating that she was event staff. "I don't care if you stand here, but keep moving."

If you've never worked with a still camera in hopes to produce publishable content, it is relatively difficult to do at even the slowest of walks.

Finally, I found a quiet spot behind the crowd, but in front of a wall. I would be blocking only the wall's view. It had seen enough games, and it was taller than me, I figured. I was correct ... until UMaine scored one of its four goals. Then, for a third time, I got tugged. This time out of the way of the naked students who make a lap on the concrete after every goal.

By this time, I was sick of being pulled about. I could not find my reporter, and to top it off, my camera was a shitty loan from the library, as the newspaper office was inaccessible. I decide to take a breather. I dig my ticket out from the depths of my pocket. Section D, Aisle 8, Seat 4. I find it.

Best seat ever. From there I took great pictures. It was the top row so no one was in my way. It was in the center (but a bit closer to the Maine side) so I could get shots of both team's goals.

It's something I don't plan to repeat. Newspapers: save the crowd, staff, police, naked men and photographers time and hassle and buy your photog a great seat.

Almanac observances

With Columbia Journalism School's test quickly approaching, I have begun to read the 2009 almanac. I'm not sure how much this has prepared me for my international affairs section of the test, however I'm amused by the knowledge I've gained. For instance, since 1970 the U.S.'s consumption of broccoli has increased by 1,040 percent. These facts have begun to annoy my roommate. 

This is good to know and makes me feel a little brighter, but I learned one fact that I found disagreeable. According to the Department of Commerce 0.6 percent of an American's income is disposable. This compares to 10 percent in 1980. The average Joe makes approximately $500 per week, if paid hourly (also according to my almanac). This means Joe can spend $3.00 on himself each week, $12 per month. 

People why so many people have credit card debt.