I was supposed to write about Student Press Freedom Day for this editorial. It was yesterday, Feb. 26, and I was supposed to write about the importance of student journalism and reflect on the Society of Professional Journalists’ theme of “Resilience in Action.”
I’m supposed to tell you yet again how important student newspapers are — how much they do for every community they’re in. I know they’re important, and I know I’ve told you through almost ten editorials now just how imperative they are. I don’t know how much more I can say right now without sounding like a broken record.
So instead, I want to focus on a bit of the good. I came to Trinity wanting to be a novelist, and recently, I’ve been missing poetry. I miss Rita Dove, and John Berryman and Wendy Cope. I’ve been reading a lot of poetry, and I realized that I’ve been so caught up in the stress of job applications and journalism that I haven’t done what poetry does best: slow down.
On Feb. 14, I went on a late-night date with my boyfriend for Valentine’s Day. We sat in the Pearl’s center for a moment afterward, and though I hate the fact that the Pearl uses turf, it’s a great spot for people-watching.
I was engrossed in the conversation with my boyfriend, but when he stepped away for a moment, I got the chance to observe. Those small moments — the same ones poets write about — surrounded us. I remember three of them, in particular:
My favorite was one couple to my right. She was wearing this gorgeous pink floral hijab, and he had on a cream-colored button-up. It looked expensive. They were facing toward the turf, and he had his arm around her shoulders. At one point, they took a selfie. They were talking non-stop and took no notice of me creepily staring at them. Despite the darkness, I could see how wide her smile was. I could tell that her eyes were a deep shade of brown.
Another was a bike, leaned against one of the balconies in the apartments surrounding the Pearl. The balcony was decorated with plants and a small, blue fold-up chair to the right of the bike. There was no lock on the bike. The lights inside the apartment were off, blinds closed.
The third was a set of parents — somehow still awake at 10:30 p.m. — chasing their toddler around the quad. They had a half-eaten cake on the table, and a dog with them. It was a terrier of sorts, I think, who was sitting patiently by the family’s table, waiting for them to tire themselves out.
When my boyfriend came back, I couldn’t stop telling him how much I loved seeing these still-lifes. There’s something inexplicably special about being witness to an intimate moment in someone’s life. To know that while I was living my own life, someone was living theirs: talking to a cute guy in an expensive button-up, leaning their bike against a balcony fence, running around a dimly lit area with their toddler.
There’s an insatiable curiosity to fill in the gaps. That’s why I started writing in the first place. I loved making up stories about the people that worked and lived alongside me. But with the Trinitonian, I didn’t have to make them up anymore.
I knew that at some point. I remember the Trinitonian being about connection. In the four years since, though, I’ve lost that. Journalism is, of course, about finding the truth. It’s about holding people accountable and keeping people informed. But it’s also, maybe selfishly, about being a part of lives that I wouldn’t get to be a part of otherwise.
It’s about being able to celebrate the ridiculous number of successes that Trinity students have. It’s about being able to mourn alongside them. About knowing where that couple went on a date, or what adventure that bike owner went on or what that dog’s name was.
It’s about sitting across from a source, and having to ask them to wait up afterward to hear more about their opinion. It’s about laughing when they go on a tangent about their friend’s inebriated shenanigans. Or softly telling them that they don’t have to be sorry for crying.
The reason I do this is for the connection. I love having the gaps filled in for me and filling in those gaps for others. I had forgotten that, for a while, but I’m slowing down and slowly remembering: It’s about you.
