A Friend of the People

It is wedged into my bones, the fear of failure. I didn’t know it would affect me the way it did. I didn’t realize it had affected me at all until it did.

Last week I was at UNT for my transfer orientation when my heart took over my patience. I was sitting in a computer lab with other transfers listening to the advisor speak about how lucky we are to attend such a university. I agreed. She proceeded to lecture us on the difficulties we would face as journalists and applaud us on our efforts to become such. I smiled. It took a turn when she spoke of the long term goals she had for her students.

“I hope to see most of you in New York City, writing and reporting in such a desirable place. It would be the height of your career to make it there.”

The height of my career.

That’s it then. I guess I’m done. I suppose my one chance at the dream I’ve had since I was ten is behind me now, and for what?

I don’t get angry often, I used to until I decided that it was a waste of my energy. When I start to feel, my face get flushed with all of the heat running through my veins, I usually close my eyes and wait it out. I typically give myself a moment to compose my thoughts and reason with myself. But I didn’t, not this time.

This time I broke. I stood up from my plastic chair and walked out of the classroom, down the hall, and into the restroom. I looked at myself in the mirror to find that my face was soaked in saltwater. I hadn’t cried, like really cried since I left my apartment in the city back in September. I remember when it was all cleaned out, I took a last look at it, everything I built for myself being left to someone new, and breaking down on the hardwood floor.

But I picked myself up, and I eventually walked back in to register for Spring classes after cleaning up. I sat back down in my chair and chose the classes that seemed interesting enough. After I completed my schedule, I picked up a pen and tore a piece of paper from my journal in my purse and began to write.

“A location does not make the journalist, rather their drive to make the community around them aware of their voice is what makes them honorable. If the only journalists were in New York City, the rest of the world would lack a defender, a friend of the people, a voice for the shy.”

I closed my journal and walked out of the building. That couldn’t have been the height of my career, I’m just getting started. You’ll see.