some interviews will always be a part of me.
the woman who held church services for former gang members and was involved in the christian rap scene. we sat outside of a coffee shop near campus and she shared her stories and her losses.
the tall, lanky non-profit employee in bolivia who gestured with his hands a lot. we sat in a dark classroom on chairs meant for 5-year-olds and he explained his views on gender roles.
the phone interview in a tiny conference room in the journalism lab with a former student who had been raped while on campus. the quiet as we listened and wrote and heard the unimaginable.
the daughter and her grandparents as we sat in their living room, a gaping hole covered by plastic from where a driver had crashed into their home that morning. their words about chance, circumstance and provision.
the students wearing hijab and discussing religion and high school with me, a stranger in their classroom. their experiences of community, struggle and difference.
being a journalist is about asking questions and collecting facts. it is also about observing, about being present, about taking note of all the things that aren't said, all of the things that happen that aren't put into words or discussions.
there are days where I miss being a journalist in the professional sense. i miss hearing and absorbing the stories and words of people and communities and then telling those stories. i miss digging through stacks of documents and finding a way to share what they say with a larger audience. i miss that moment when you're listening to someone talk and you know what they've just said will tell the story more perfectly than anything you could have ever written.
and then I remember being told to call the police and ask about the possible meth lab found in a dumpster and I don't miss it so much.
i am a journalist who loves feature stories, profiles, covering religion and writing investigative pieces. there's not much in the way of jobs in those possibilities these days.
some days my job here means i get to slip back into my hypothetical journalist trench coat and sit and listen and then arrange the words to tell the stories of what's happening in backyards, parking lots and neighborhoods known more for their violence than their peace.
some days i get to sit and watch people gather for a meal made from a garden.
some days i get to listen to how the stories of days past are enabling the stories of today to keep unfolding with the provision of food to those in need.
some days i am grateful that i get to keep writing, "official" journalist or not.
it doesn't take a press pass to observe a garden growing.
