Slainte
3:53 PM |
1 comments
This time, two years ago, 4 in the afternoon. We waited out in the cold for ages, shifting weight from sore foot to sore foot, checking cell phone texts. “A. is coming in about 20,” I announced to my fellow freezing revelers waiting to get into the bar.
Staying at home wasn’t an option. It wasn’t on our radar screens at all. It’s St. Paddy’s Day, which means you go to an Irish pub wearing green to drink Guinness and Murphy’s. Naturally.
The wait should not be underestimated, and was as much a part of the festivities as the bar itself. It was long. Often over three hours waiting in a wraparound line to get inside where the barron is beating and the fiddle is screeching. People pass flasks, we cheer at the horn-hitting cars as they drive by, a flag propped out the window or a fella with his body painted green, orange and white.
The moment of truth: Will we pass the door man’s inspection? Will we find a spot to lay our coats?
Girls holding hands as we squeeze through the crowd. Find a spot to hide our purses under coats in the range of splashed beer and sticky bar residue. It didn’t matter. By the end of the night, we would be too.
Run to the bar, get started. Feet tapping unconsciously in time with the ballads we remember from years before. I pretend my name is Bridget O’Shaughnessy and people kiss my cheeks. Boyfriend finds a goofy green wig and wears it, even though we’ve no idea where it’s come from.
We crack pints against each others, and spill some down our arms. I recognize songs, like Barrett’s Privateers, and sing them at the top of my lungs. No one expects you to have a voice after St. Paddy’s Day.
"What's in your hair?" "I can't feel my feet!" "She totally made out with the bartender!"
The hours spent in the bar turn into blurry memories of bathroom trips, linking arms and dancing and a hilarious stumble home. It’s not so cold on the walk home, and high-pitched shrieks and messy laughs are the soundtrack for the end of the night across town.
This year is markedly different, not boring, but different. There are no Irish pubs in Whitehorse and I actually forgot to wear green today. I’ll cover city council’s meeting tonight and go home to a meal of chicken and yam fries with broccoli. At least my plate will be of traditional Irish colours. Points?
It’s a mark of how my life has changed. A natural progression whether I was here or at home? Maybe. I know I can’t scream my lungs out at bars on a regular basis like I did in school.
Nope, tonight’ll be a quiet one. My former roommate will no doubt earn tons of money working at our favourite Irish bar, and my friends who remain in Ottawa will probably go for a drink or two (not having to wait in line anymore, thank goodness, having connections with staff). I suspect they will call it an early night and will probably not paint shamrocks on their cheeks.
I ask myself: Are we growing up or growing boring? Do I cease to carpe diem because I do not celebrate it from start to finish? I tend to believe I am lame because I currently sit an an office desk counting down till quitting time, and that is certainly not seizing the day.
Best friend K and I decided it’s not boring--just different. Not living hour-to-hour with drinks and thumping bass and Facebook-intended photos and random things to recollect tomorrow as we all wake up in various states of comfort in an apartment built for one or two. Finding cherished happiness in sunset walks, food that tastes better because I made it, finding a passage that is written beautifully, interviewing a man who’s lost his house in a fire, that is what makes me days memorable now.
Not boring, different.
Labels: growing up, life on the other side
Oh, the places you’ll go
10:55 AM |
2 comments
When I had just finished my second year of university, my two best friends and I flew to Santorini in the Greek Cyclades islands. For two weeks, we swam on black sand beaches, ate saganaki and spanakopita, rode donkeys, hiked a volcano, toured an ancient city, went to a baptism, and visited Oia and Athens. At the time, I remember thinking the experience was enjoyable and exciting, but maybe not life-changing. The people were great, we walked everywhere and the food was delicious. I’m not sure what experience I was looking for that would be life changing. I thought maybe the peak of a 20 year old’s life-changing experience is the time she tries absinthe.
Now that I have had the subsequent time to reflect on my trip and what it meant to me, I realize the life-changing experience was the journey. The dedication to explore, broaden my understanding, add a new platform from which to view the world.
Greece was beautiful and I have since explored bits of Jamaica, Turks and Caicos, and now, a far corner of my own country.
This isn’t a vacation, which is a difference, but northern living sure is life-changing. When we were getting ready to move, I was really excited to see what kind of person Id become in the Yukon. More confidant? Relaxed? Appreciative? All those are revealing themselves as true, and it is exciting to reflect upon what imprint a different lifestyle can leave on your person.
I am still me pre-exploration, minus the teen angst of course. The chance to discover more about myself and what it means to be a part of the decision-making world population is a continually life-changing experience. I don’t doubt the same thing could happened had I stayed home in the comfort of my home surroundings. But I am sure it would not occur to the degree it is now. Removing myself from my comfort zone and finding joy in somewhere far away and different provides a new comfort: That happiness come from experience, not shoes, and that no matter where I am it;s things like sunset walks and cuddling on the couch that make my days worth living.
Labels: life on the other side, travel, Yukon
Asking Questions Like It's My Job...oh, wait
2:17 PM |
1 comments
They say to ask and ye shall receive. This is something so basic and simple, I’ll chalk it up to accidental overlooking when people don’t ask. I listen to people whine, “Why won’t he do that?”, “Why won’t they promote me?”, “Where did mum put my socks?”, until I cannot bite my tongue.
"Why don’t you ask?" and then I repeat the old saying, old complete with the word ‘ye’ even.
It’s done me well so far in my (albeit short) journalism career. When colleagues kindly (it really is well-intentioned) advise me not to bother trying to get some info, trying to talk to some particularly difficult source, I often tell them I’ll try anyway. Nine times out of ten it works. Maybe it’s my blond hair, maybe it’s because I asked nicely. Either way, I have found that asking has got me answers. A simple prerogative, yet effective in reporting.
But what about beyond us? Woah. Getting existential, I know. But seriously, what about asking for what we want? Asking God or the universe or whatever force you may or may not believe in that oversees our existence. My Catholic school called it prayer, but I don’t want to use that word here because to me, prayer has been taught to me to be something like this:
“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit” (fearing that if I didn’t “dial in” to God correctly, he wouldn’t pick up the line)
“I pray that you can please forgive me for being a big fat sinner so that I may go to heaven when I die. Amen” (Religious click as I put down the prayer phone)
At least that’s the take I got.
I probably lost faith in the power of asking God for stuff when he didn’t deliver on my eighth grade requests.
“Please let Nick really like me back and make him want to go out with me forever.” Nick being Nick Carter. It never happened, and so I stomped off angrily, pissed off like teenagers get.
But now that I have resolved that I don’t really want to marry Nick Carter (man, he got fat and ugly) I have returned to the idea that maybe I can ask for stuff, and maybe, by virtue of asking, I will get it.
This hit me yesterday when I returned to swimming laps. (I thought it was so easy. 40 laps and I was laughing. Until about an hour later, when my legs gave out and I was comatose) I thought, maybe instead of asking for things like patience and courage and stuff, I could ask for specifics, so God wouldn’t get confused and give me patience while sleeping or courage when peeing. You know, couldn’t hurt to clarify.
So I thought I’d ask to become closer with my mum. We’re close, and having a blast planning the wedding, but there’s been an unexplained awkwardness on my part when talking to her. I have no idea why. She has even asked me what’s wrong. So I put it out there.
“Look, I have no reason to be all awkward. She’s my mum, she’s let me puke on her. She’s seen me embarrassed beyond belief. Can you make me less awkward when I talk to her so we get get past said barriers and get closer? Thanks.”
I also asked for more opportunities to meet friends here. Between work, the drive, and home, I haven’t met too many people, and I’d really like to have something more to do on a FRiday than hang out with Goober watching “Monster-In-Law.” I asked for a friend or two, people to call here when fun things happen, to gossip with about American’s Next Top Model, and to go OUT with on weekends. Thanks.
I’ll let you know if I receive. For my part, I will be consciously trying to push these things along too. Cuz I know God has like a bajillion people to answer to.
I wonder what Nick Carter asks for...
"Why don’t you ask?" and then I repeat the old saying, old complete with the word ‘ye’ even.
It’s done me well so far in my (albeit short) journalism career. When colleagues kindly (it really is well-intentioned) advise me not to bother trying to get some info, trying to talk to some particularly difficult source, I often tell them I’ll try anyway. Nine times out of ten it works. Maybe it’s my blond hair, maybe it’s because I asked nicely. Either way, I have found that asking has got me answers. A simple prerogative, yet effective in reporting.
But what about beyond us? Woah. Getting existential, I know. But seriously, what about asking for what we want? Asking God or the universe or whatever force you may or may not believe in that oversees our existence. My Catholic school called it prayer, but I don’t want to use that word here because to me, prayer has been taught to me to be something like this:
“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit” (fearing that if I didn’t “dial in” to God correctly, he wouldn’t pick up the line)
“I pray that you can please forgive me for being a big fat sinner so that I may go to heaven when I die. Amen” (Religious click as I put down the prayer phone)
At least that’s the take I got.
I probably lost faith in the power of asking God for stuff when he didn’t deliver on my eighth grade requests.
“Please let Nick really like me back and make him want to go out with me forever.” Nick being Nick Carter. It never happened, and so I stomped off angrily, pissed off like teenagers get.
But now that I have resolved that I don’t really want to marry Nick Carter (man, he got fat and ugly) I have returned to the idea that maybe I can ask for stuff, and maybe, by virtue of asking, I will get it.
This hit me yesterday when I returned to swimming laps. (I thought it was so easy. 40 laps and I was laughing. Until about an hour later, when my legs gave out and I was comatose) I thought, maybe instead of asking for things like patience and courage and stuff, I could ask for specifics, so God wouldn’t get confused and give me patience while sleeping or courage when peeing. You know, couldn’t hurt to clarify.
So I thought I’d ask to become closer with my mum. We’re close, and having a blast planning the wedding, but there’s been an unexplained awkwardness on my part when talking to her. I have no idea why. She has even asked me what’s wrong. So I put it out there.
“Look, I have no reason to be all awkward. She’s my mum, she’s let me puke on her. She’s seen me embarrassed beyond belief. Can you make me less awkward when I talk to her so we get get past said barriers and get closer? Thanks.”
I also asked for more opportunities to meet friends here. Between work, the drive, and home, I haven’t met too many people, and I’d really like to have something more to do on a FRiday than hang out with Goober watching “Monster-In-Law.” I asked for a friend or two, people to call here when fun things happen, to gossip with about American’s Next Top Model, and to go OUT with on weekends. Thanks.
I’ll let you know if I receive. For my part, I will be consciously trying to push these things along too. Cuz I know God has like a bajillion people to answer to.
I wonder what Nick Carter asks for...
Labels: journalism, life on the other side, Whitehorse
What journalism school is really like
12:13 PM |
4 comments
It struck me today that we have never been formally introduced. We know names and places, but what comes next in the standard procedure introduction.
“What do you do, are you in school?”
“Yes, actually I just finished my journalism degree last week and I graduate this spring.”
“Well, congratulations, was that at Carleton?”
“Yes it was.”
“Wow, that’s a tough program to get into, and they’re quite well known for their journalism aren’t they?”
“Yes, and it’s every bit as tough as it’s cracked up to be.”
But now that we’ve gone through what every relative, coworker and acquaintance and I have gone through, let me tell you what journalism school is really like.
First of all, many of the reporters you see on TV and whose byline you read in print do not have journalism degrees. I agree: you totally don’t need one. Today’s college programs and one’s independently acquired journalistic aptitude are fine tools to be equipped with when harassing a news agency for a job. My brain is best suited to learning in an academic environment, so I chose to go the university route to learn more about law, history and alcohol consumption en masse.
My journalism class started with something like 250 avid note-taking, newspaper reading keeners who scored some of the top grades in their high school. At our graduation ceremony this spring, something like 75 will receive journalism degrees. Many dropped out, many more were kicked out for not maintaining the requisite grade cutoffs. We went through news quizzes that ask questions like, “What is the name of the Colombian government rep in town this week?” and “Who is the Sens’ goalie?”
Reading newspapers and watching newscasts was a requirement, we were told at the beginning of every semester.
“Read six papers a day, listen to CBC radio every morning, memorize the CP style guide like it’s the Bible.”
This never happens. Yes, I read the news online and sometimes put on the 24 news channel. But it wasn’t until I developed and honed a curiosity, a need to have my questions answered, that I was motivated to meet my prescribed news absorbing quota. (The New York Times and BBC online are my favourites)
I did something different than many of my fellow J-Schoolers. I worked in media. I interned at the Hill newspaper and developed a love affair with federal politics, Hill gossip and poll results. I freelanced to city papers and earned a few dollars. More importantly, I learned how many more people were willing to answer questions when you prefaced them with, “I’m from the Sun,” as opposed to, “I’m calling from Carleton journalism school…” (Which inevitably leaves one ready to poke one’s eyes out when no one calls back and a deadline is looming.)
I got national coverage for stories, I informed people, I became a mini-expert in a few topics for short periods of time. When discussing current events with older family members, I gloriously became the authority who could say, “Well, I was there and…” or “Actually, I talked to the former prime minister, and he said…”
I went to journalism class with confidence to know not just how to make phone calls but how to make phone calls that reach the right people and warrant interview results.
Some of my classmates competitively clawed their way to the top. I was too happy to stay in the middle, make friends, cooperate, ask questions when I didn’t understand, because it meant I didn’t want to shoot myself with stress overloads. There was enough inherent stress in the program’s tight deadline structure and balancing requirements with other classes and real jobs to meet my personal quota, thankyouverymuch.
Now, I’m on the other side of the program, done the degree. I found passion in writing about seemingly mundane things. I have developed a trained eye for the engaging and the ultra boring stories. I genuinely am thrilled to tell people about what I find out via my exclusive pass as a reporter, and appreciate the responsibility inherent in said pass for explaining things fully and without my own two cents stuck in there.
This program has given me an appreciation for what can be done in a compressed amount of time, what I can possibly learn about an issue when I actively seek out the information for myself, a complex about proper grammar use bordering on insanity, and the pride at looking back at what I can achieve when I work really, really hard.
“So what are you going to do now?”
This question is attacking all of us journalism graduates from all fronts. For part II of this conversation, hold tight, I’m still working on my answer to that one.
“What do you do, are you in school?”
“Yes, actually I just finished my journalism degree last week and I graduate this spring.”
“Well, congratulations, was that at Carleton?”
“Yes it was.”
“Wow, that’s a tough program to get into, and they’re quite well known for their journalism aren’t they?”
“Yes, and it’s every bit as tough as it’s cracked up to be.”
But now that we’ve gone through what every relative, coworker and acquaintance and I have gone through, let me tell you what journalism school is really like.
First of all, many of the reporters you see on TV and whose byline you read in print do not have journalism degrees. I agree: you totally don’t need one. Today’s college programs and one’s independently acquired journalistic aptitude are fine tools to be equipped with when harassing a news agency for a job. My brain is best suited to learning in an academic environment, so I chose to go the university route to learn more about law, history and alcohol consumption en masse.
My journalism class started with something like 250 avid note-taking, newspaper reading keeners who scored some of the top grades in their high school. At our graduation ceremony this spring, something like 75 will receive journalism degrees. Many dropped out, many more were kicked out for not maintaining the requisite grade cutoffs. We went through news quizzes that ask questions like, “What is the name of the Colombian government rep in town this week?” and “Who is the Sens’ goalie?”
Reading newspapers and watching newscasts was a requirement, we were told at the beginning of every semester.
“Read six papers a day, listen to CBC radio every morning, memorize the CP style guide like it’s the Bible.”
This never happens. Yes, I read the news online and sometimes put on the 24 news channel. But it wasn’t until I developed and honed a curiosity, a need to have my questions answered, that I was motivated to meet my prescribed news absorbing quota. (The New York Times and BBC online are my favourites)
I did something different than many of my fellow J-Schoolers. I worked in media. I interned at the Hill newspaper and developed a love affair with federal politics, Hill gossip and poll results. I freelanced to city papers and earned a few dollars. More importantly, I learned how many more people were willing to answer questions when you prefaced them with, “I’m from the Sun,” as opposed to, “I’m calling from Carleton journalism school…” (Which inevitably leaves one ready to poke one’s eyes out when no one calls back and a deadline is looming.)
I got national coverage for stories, I informed people, I became a mini-expert in a few topics for short periods of time. When discussing current events with older family members, I gloriously became the authority who could say, “Well, I was there and…” or “Actually, I talked to the former prime minister, and he said…”
I went to journalism class with confidence to know not just how to make phone calls but how to make phone calls that reach the right people and warrant interview results.
Some of my classmates competitively clawed their way to the top. I was too happy to stay in the middle, make friends, cooperate, ask questions when I didn’t understand, because it meant I didn’t want to shoot myself with stress overloads. There was enough inherent stress in the program’s tight deadline structure and balancing requirements with other classes and real jobs to meet my personal quota, thankyouverymuch.
Now, I’m on the other side of the program, done the degree. I found passion in writing about seemingly mundane things. I have developed a trained eye for the engaging and the ultra boring stories. I genuinely am thrilled to tell people about what I find out via my exclusive pass as a reporter, and appreciate the responsibility inherent in said pass for explaining things fully and without my own two cents stuck in there.
This program has given me an appreciation for what can be done in a compressed amount of time, what I can possibly learn about an issue when I actively seek out the information for myself, a complex about proper grammar use bordering on insanity, and the pride at looking back at what I can achieve when I work really, really hard.
“So what are you going to do now?”
This question is attacking all of us journalism graduates from all fronts. For part II of this conversation, hold tight, I’m still working on my answer to that one.
Labels: Journalism School, life on the other side, work in media