Over the past ten years I’ve listened to journalism as we once knew it collapse over the phone.
My dad has been a local newspaper editor for thirty plus years. Once upon a time the company printed weekly papers for a host of small towns in central New Jersey. When I was in elementary school I loved that Take Your Daughter to Work Day was a chance to visit the enormous printing presses in the back of the office, inhaling the smells of ink and paper and oil. In high school I would come to the office late at night before printing and read the next day’s copy, silently noting typos, as my dad tried to extract himself from the publication frenzy.
Nearly as soon as I started (at an expensive private) college things started to turn. The content of our Sunday night phone calls was peppered with sighs. “We’re just not selling any advertising,” Was a constant fixture in his check ins. I could envision his hands running through the voluminous grey hair he’s had as long as I can remember–It’s his physical expression of any and all stress. The more fretful the situation, the faster it gets–Every spring when I called to talk about my summer plans he’d mention his salary had been cut by another 10, 20, 30 percent.
After a couple years of back and forth, what’s left of the paper was sold. Now the conversations, phone calls from the streets of DC as I run errands or walk from work to happy hour, are distressing and stressful. “Last week they let most of our leadership go without any notice. I have no idea when that might happen to me. I’m hoping I can at least hold on until August. If they let me go right at the start of the month I could spend a whole month at the lake.” Was his attempt to find a silver lining weeks ago. In our last conversation he was frustrated that the company was bouncing checks to junior staff. It’s hard to listen to. My heart breaks for him, and I see a door closing for me.
Sophomore year, home on spring break, he was the first adult I told about my decision to double major in English and sociology because I wanted to read and write forever. We were bathed in the red glow of a stoplight on the way home from hockey, as we’d been so many times during my twelve year career. He said loudly, “that sounds good Iz. I’m glad you know what you want.” And then, more quietly, “Just make sure you also get some real skills while you’re there.”
I took that quiet direction to heart, along with the recession and a summer spent living at home after graduating without a job (I was privileged enough not to realize that you employment wasn’t a guarantee), and tried taking “practical” classes in economics and statistics (along with some super classic liberal arts classes. Music and Social Movements, anyone?). I got a professional, practical masters degree in public policy and landed myself a fellowship, then series of jobs in education. But it hasn’t been enough.
I’ve been scared to say it because I see the risks play out in front of me every day. It’s a hard thing to vocalize when you look up and watch a profession at once democratizing and crumbling. But the thing is, I want to be a writer. I want to be a creator. I want to use writing to make sense of the world both for myself and others. This is the thing that makes my mind buzz and my heart expand.
The fact is that I may never be more than a personal blogger, but I’m going to try anyhow. Because creativity is like breathing, and I’ve got to fill my lungs (credit to The Oatmeal for this bit of eloquence). Plus, this dinky personal blog holds no risk whatsoever. If no one ever reads it but me, I’ll just be a happier nobody, doing what she loves in the privacy of her studio apartment.
So, here is my dedication. I am going to write this blog for me, and I’m going to do it at least once a week. I’ll write about whatever inspires me, whatever strikes me, whatever is funny or serious or of the moment–no restrictions. Writing lets me practice being mindful and also reminds me of how insightful I can be, so I my goal is that this blog will make me more confident, less anxious and a little most peaceful.
I do want more, too. I hope you, dear reader, and others like you take something away from my posts and that you tell your friends about this blog. I hope that eventually I’ll have a chance to grow and write more publicly. I hope I get disciplined enough at acting on my inspiration to write a book or two. It would be so wonderful if this practice leads to a more creative career.
But for now, just writing for me will be enough.
the loneliest baguette 
Love Received, Love Sent
This morning I was sitting in the grass in Logan Circle enjoying the feeling of a strong summer breeze on my skin, the sight of fluttering green leaves changing color under the sun, a good book (The BFG, hence the above quote) and a good coffee when I was overwhelmed by gratefulness for my place in such a beautiful world. Strung out on too much sun, too little water, and the imminent threat of my period, I fought back tears, happy to have a life where I get to enjoy and revel in such simple, beautiful moments.
A minute later I checked my phone and saw a Facebook notification that an old coworker had checked in as safe in Orlando. Chills went trough me. Something terrible had happened. As we do in this digital age, I took to the internet for answers to read about a devastating shooting in a nightclub. Tears, again, this time of sadness and rage. Horrified, I read that it was the deadliest shooting in US history. Over 100 people shot, over at least 50 dead. What’s more, it was a gay club, where hundreds of members of Orlando’s LBGTQ community had come for a night of revelry, of dancing, and of safety. But you know all this.
I haven’t come here to write some think piece about gun violence or acceptance/hate or terrorism. Those things are being written ad nauseum around the world (I think I can hear the keys of bloggers all across DC as they race to get their opinions into the tubes of the internet). Instead, on Pride Weekend in DC and in the face of a grave tragedy, I want to give thanks to the LGBTQ community.
It hit me today that in every hard, sad, or dangerous moment in my life, my Queer friends have always been the first responders; the ones to rescue me, to lift me up, or just to provide some moral support. My network of queer friends are the most kind, loving and generous people I know. They are the people whose relationships I look up to, whose capacity for love I simultaneously aspire to and envy. Here are just a few stories:
In college, on a night when an attempt to drown my depression in keg stands led to me sitting on a curb threatening to kill myself, a lesbian teammate got me back to my room safely and listened to me incoherently confess to being sexually assaulted as a freshman. She called my dad, whom I had rung in the night to say goodbye, and let him know I was safe.
The most caring and generous manager I’ve ever worked with is a gay man. He was endlessly patient with me, treated me like a peer (even as an intern) and provided me constant opportunities to learn and grow. To this day he still goes out of his way to give advice and to help me advance professionally.
Three months ago, I broke my arm. Two lesbian women from my hockey team brought me groceries (separately), asking for nothing in return. The same women constantly feed me, drive me places without asking for gas money, listen to me bitch about my trivial little life, and offer me so much incredible advice on it.
In these, and so many other individual moments with so many other queer friends, sexual orientation or gender identity was not a factor at all. I single it out now to say there is a clear pattern here. Over and over again, my queer friends put judgement aside and practice being loving, vulnerable and generous first.
From what I’ve read, Pulse, the nightclub where the shooting took place was another exemplar of the same practice:
I see so much opportunity for those of us who sit in privilege in our society to learn from the LGBTQ community. Perhaps the upside of being marginalized, shut out and shown the ugly face of hate by so many is that it makes you that much more aware of the value of unabashed, unconditional love, of community building, of respect for the humanity of those around us. On this dark, dark day, I want to say thank you to my LGBTQ friends, and to all those I don’t know. I love you, and I admire you. I honor your commitment to loving publicly, living authentically and building community. I aspire to do as you do, bringing a little more light and optimism into the world.
After so many of you are done praying, let’s act to ensure that we create a light that overpowers darkness and hate, starting with lobbying our elected officials for policy change around guns and firearms.
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Filed under Commentary, Uncategorized
Tagged as LGBTQ, Love, Orlando, Pride, PulseShooting