“Press conference starts in five,” my coworker shouts over the din to the rest of my team. A police chief is about to take to a podium to talk about the boy who’s just shot five students, killing one of them and himself in the process. While the press conference is happening, Twitter starts exploding with news that a high profile case about a missing girl has come to an end because her remains have been found. Half a minute later, there’s alerts that three officers have been shot in California. Some might call this a stressful day. My team calls it Friday.
At the beginning of this year, I concluded my very first year as a crime (and weird news!) editor. I won’t lie to you, I’m not nearly as impressive as my teammates. My job is primarily social media based and my coverage of crime news is wholly useless without them. Many members of my team are reporters who find comfort in the chaos down at crime scenes or in the thick tension of a court room. Others are editors with the uncanny ability to go to most any length to get to the truth of a story. I never intended to work in crime news, certainly not for lack of interest, but rather an egregious lack of awareness.
When I started last January, I was like most people my age when it came to crime news. I knew the big stories – the Amanda Knoxs, Ariel Castros, and the BTKs of the world. But, as is true with most things, you never realize what you’re not seeing until you’re in the thick of it. I had never realized exactly how much of the world’s evil and general insanity that I had shielded myself from until I was all but consumed by it. Every single day I found – and still find – myself talking and reading about murder, rape, school shootings, missing persons, and more than you could ever possibly imagine that falls within and beyond those boundaries. It wasn’t until recently that I had that moment where I said to myself, “Have I really been that oblivious to this all along?”
How did this happen? How did I become this twenty-one year old college graduate? Here I am, this pseudo-adult entering the real world equipped with nothing but a piece of paper and a mountain of debt. It seems so preposterous that this can be the scenario – that I am by social standards ready to be pushed from the nest and willed to fly. But perhaps, it’s not so preposterous that I’m here but rather, how I got here; this is what confounds my mind.
And I know. It’s horribly cliché to reflect on your “college years.” There’s been far too many Facebook status’, dramatic speeches, absurd photos, and Tweets from outside parties that have made this whole reminiscing process wildly redundant, annoying, and utterly nauseating. Yet, despite all of that, I still sit here with my head in my hands – trying to shake these sober spins – thinking of what these past four years really meant.
The seventeen-year old me would have never recognized this girl, (woman? Am I supposed to call myself that now?), that looks back at me through the mirror as I brush my teeth in the morning. And I know that that’s a great thing – change. But no one really prepares your seventeen year-old self for the changes you’ll undergo in college. And I think I love that there are no preparations because it forced me to jump into the lion’s den with no armor. Where high school is awkward, pubescent, and wildly dramatic in all the most humiliating ways, college is raw, emotional, and absolutely incredible in all the most I-want-to-be-young-forever ways.
Posted in Writing
Tagged college, creative writing, essay, FIT, friendships, graduating, graduation, high school, life, love, relationships, writing
As August takes one of its last heaving sighs, it lets out all that heavy air it has left within. It breathes in and out slowly yet methodically, taking in precious hours of daylight and swallowing them up whole, exhaling out the cool breeze that ushers in autumn. Once September arrives, the familiar lush green carpets and skyscrapers of yore leisurely fade to shades of browns, reds, and yellows. Endless days of sunshine turn to crisp windswept mornings and lackadaisical weekend afternoons that smell quintessentially like apples and pumpkins.
We affectionately disregard “Autumn” as the name of this new friend we’re playing with and we call her “Fall.” It is a title better suited for her. It is a moniker that means more than a literal tumble or drop. Such is a time so full of opportunity and double entendres. Students everywhere are falling back into rhythms of books, pencils, and desk chairs. You can almost smell the freshness, the excitement – the fear. Perhaps this will be the year they learn algebra or maybe it will be the year they lose their innocence. Young lovers are tragically falling out of love, the heavy heat gone from both the night air and their slow beating hearts. Conversely, those sidelong glances of mere acquaintances have others falling into love. These hopefuls believe the weeks to come will be as ripe as blackberries awaiting picking, bulbous and patient. Continue reading
Posted in Essays, Life, Writing
Tagged autumn, changes, cool weather, creative nonfiction, creative writing, cuddling, essay, essays, fall, holidays, life, romance, season, seasonal, sweaters, writing
Once a week, I’m going to post an essay on a random topic; it may be fiction or non-fiction. This week, the essay is about a day in the life of a fashion intern.
Wake up at six thirty in the morning. Hop in the shower, excited for the day. Slip into your carefully crafted outfit that functions as both chic and comfortable; you want to be ready for anything but you want to look good doing it. Grab your Metrocard, head for the door, and arrive at your building at a little past eight. You get yourself some coffee and make your way to the elevators. The doors open on your floor and the day begins.
You venture into the office to find racks and racks of luxurious clothes crammed together while other interns and harried assistants run past you. Your jacket gets thrown haphazardly on the nearest desk chair, which is already stacked with look books waiting to be sorted. You trip over several pairs of Louboutins as you get sent back downstairs to get coffee for the editors. What are you doing, fixing your tights? They NEED their coffee NOW.