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.