Just a Thought

2008-09-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

Alpha! Sigma! Pi! Omega! Yeah!
Alpha! Sigma! Pi! Omega! Yeah!
Alpha! Sigma! Pi! Omega! Yeah!

The cheers, loud and clear filled the University Union at Sacramento State. As the Greek letters were called out, louder and prouder each time, I quietly groaned to myself.

Yet another night of fraternity and sorority pride. Yet another night of tan bodies, glossy lips, and overall fakeness. Or so I thought.

OK, let me go back before I continue on this rant.

Coming into college as a transfer student has allowed me to experience the scene from a different perspective. I missed the insane dorm days when all the little freshman who haven’t already, lose their virginity, then change their majors, then get fat, then cry because they skipped class too much due to hangovers their professors failed them.

I was fortunate, or unfortunate depending on who you talk to, to live with my mother, sheltered for the first two years of college, living a little, and learning a lot.

Did it help me? Maybe, maybe not. The transitional period between high school and college wasn’t as dramatic as it could have been, but it cut me out of a lot of things.

For example, I didn’t realize that fraternities and sororities were such a big deal, or that the students involved in them were so adamant about having pride in their letters.

I thought they were all fake, party lovers, lovers, drama starters, and pretty much just houses full of Barbies and Kens.

Yet, at the start of my semester here, I learned else wise.

After catching eye with a fellow making fun of a professor in a journalism class, I found myself glancing his way the rest of the period. However, two letters on his T-shrit, Sigma, Pi, stood out and I looked away.

He was nothing but trouble. A partier who would probably slip something into my drink and rape me if I didn’t watch out.

Yet, walking out of class that day, a door leading to a stairwell was held for me and another was opened and held at the bottom of the stairs by the blond I underestimated.

A few minutes later I was engrossed in a conversation that went from “hi, my name is …” to the war in Iraq. In just moments, I was transferred from a world of blond bliss to intellectual debate and discussion.

Needless to say, I was a little wrong about sororities and fraternities. I mean I still think many are filled with dumb blonds looking to pay people to be there friends. But as far as categorizing them all in one area of idiotness ( a word that totally fits this situation), I’ll be more careful in my judgments; looking for character among the colorful outfits and brains among the blonds.

The battle (uphill)

2008-07-11T17:56:00.000-07:00

So, today I had an interesting experience and learned that getting in a car accident and having an aching back isn’t so bad after all.
I interviewed a woman today who is going through her second round of treatment for ovarian cancer. However, before I go into too much detail, let me explain.
She was feeling ill one day and went into the doctor. They put her on medication after medication, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, she woke up one morning feeling as if someone were stabbing her.
Crying, she crawled to her bedroom and woke her husband. She was rushed to the hospital where it was determined she had an ulcer. But wait, it wasn’t an ulcer.
When medications doctors prescribed quit working, she went back to the hospital. It was then, everyone knew something more than just a tear in her stomach was occurring.
And low and behold, she was diagnosed with colon cancer. She was later told that she was the second youngest colon cancer patient the office had worked with.
So, the treatment began. Once more, the woman was reduced to crawling around, but this time out of pure exhaustion AND pain.
Her dog became her confidant and best friend. She cried everyday and visited cancer counselors once a week.
Slowly, she began to work her way through chemotherapy treatments. Twelve difficult weeks passed. But the troubles were no where near over.
About halfway through, the woman’s husband was told he had Melanoma Skin Cancer. This devastating the family. They were shocked, hurt, and wondering why the cliché “when it rains it pours” was coming true.
But, there was another cliché about to come through as well: “Bad things come in threes.”
And unfortunately for the family, they had only seen two.
The woman went back to the doctor and found out she had an ovarian cyst in her left ovary.
Speaking out of experience, that can be mighty painful. But after finding out about the cyst, the woman was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.
Apparently, after the colon cancer had been destroyed infected cells remained in her bloodstream. The cells in turn attached themselves to her ovaries and she was in pain once again.
Needless to say the family has gone through hell and is going to go back the other way. Hopefully for the last time.
It’s stories like these that make me realize how lucky I am to be moderately healthy and in good spirits. Think about it. It may stop you from saying “this sucks” next time you get a head cold. Or at least you may say “this sucks but...”

The Bottom Line

2008-07-01T22:54:00.000-07:00

Recently I have been stuck in a sexual harrassment issue. And, it has allowed me to sit back and realize how much of what we do and how much of truth is based on perception.
Without going into detail, let me explain. Essentially, in this case, it is my word against his. What I consider an uncomfortable situation, he may consider friendship. What I consider friendship, he may consider work.
What a way to return a favor, by turning someone in for sexual harrassment. What a way to end my time here with a “he said, she said” argument.
When I was discussing my options, it came down to what I perceived as uncomfortable. This is where law gets tricky and often comes down to whoever filed the complaint will win the disagreement.
From my understanding, whomever is the perceived victim is the victim. It doesn’t matter if someone has a career ahead and behind them. It doesn’t matter how long a person has been working in one place. You make the compaint, you win the case.
Now, that may not be so when the incident goes to court. However, in the preliminary discussion and during the investigation, you, a victim will be able to sway the jury and those involved one way or another.
When you see that person, your heart starts to quiver, your hands begin to tremble, and you fell as if you’ve ruined their life. You feel as if you need something to do. Anything, so long as you don’t have to look them in the eye, tell them you are sorry for what you’ve done.
You feel as if you are a victim yet a perpetrator at the same time. Guilty yet victimized.
Who draws the lines? Who follows the lines? Who is there to prove they were crossed. No one, and THAT my friends is the problem.
Perhaps I was wrong in turning it in. Perhaps he was wrong for starting it. But the bottom line is what has happened has happened and there is no turning back, no forgivness, no forgetting. Because doing either of these would just hurt way too bad.

What we would know

2008-07-01T22:52:00.000-07:00

Do I want to see you again?
Would I make the same mistake?
I listened to the wind when it called my name,
but the gentle breeze soon turned gusty.
I yearn to say the wonderful words,
but now I question their authenticity.
Was it the moment we shared,
or is it truly what we say?
These questions fog my mind
swirling like the mist, choking like the smoke.
Where would we be, had we not stopped?
Where would we be, had we stopped before it began?
Hurt and afraid but knowing it’s right,
I ask you these things.
The hurt and the shame turned me from God
But the hurt and the shame turned me from you,
so I looked to Him.
Yearning, crying, believing He could help,
but wishing He didn’t have to.
I knew it was wrong,
I pushed it anyway.
You knew it was wrong,
you accepted it anyway.
Can we grow from this,
can we still see the future?
Or should we give up and know?
Know that we loved but for reasons left unspoken,
know that we had a love that couldn’t be broken,
know it was wrong and for all the wrong reasons
Or know we can carry on,
and know who we are.

My life is a newsroom

2008-06-06T21:15:00.000-07:00

And that’s not really a problem. After all,, where are you going to hear about people trying to shove their heads into ovens over a scratchy scanner or the latest sports updates. So, my obsession with work is not without reason. Therefore, I have taken each section of the newsroom and with the eye of an intern soaking in every bit of information, have chronicled daily tid-bits and observations to give you, my readers, an inside look.
Let’s start with Marty: Who wouldn’t want to work for a publisher who during the rainy season climbs up on the roof of the building to see the damage? Minutes after, he’s down walking through the building, shoes off, comfortable in what might as well be his home away from home. Always willing to listen to your side of any story whether it be a crackpot theory about the newspaper business or a retelling of weekend events, he is always willing to lend an ear.
Mr. Weybret: Ah Mr. Weybret, the charming grandfatherly (yes I know that’s an adverb Andrew) man who plodded down to the newsroom to ask Andrew who Miley Cyrus is and why the News-Sentinel ran a provocative photo of her. Granted, he didn’t realize Miley Cyrus is a celebrity and the photo was in Vogue (we ran a Street Scene question about it), it was still a heartfelt moment. When he came by looking for Ross’s desk, he reached the right one, but turned around after seeing the mess and asked “where’s Ross’s desk?”. Well Mr. Weybret, right there, under all the papers, steno pads, and old empty water bottles.
Onward to the next part of the room, Machelle: ah Machelle, taking every request, no matter how crazy it may seem and fulfilling it. ‘Tis why we love you!
And then there is Pam, so immersed in the elders of our community that one may begin to wonder if it will not predispose her to age. But anyone who knows her would disagree, she’ll just know where to go and what to do when she reaches retirement which is a LONG ways away.
Back to Ross. Or rather Ross’s desk, wherever that may be hidden. When I did my first free-lance story for the paper, I joined Ross’s desk of mess. Fond memories indeed. At least he wouldn’t notice had a moved a few things-although, it could be organized chaos, only he would know. Whether Ro
Ah, Amanda, she has been waiting for a blog just about her for some time now, hopefully through wit and words, I can do her justice. On first impression, Amanda may pass under the cynical radar. But after time, her sarcasm not only is apparent, it is contagious. Who else would tell me my jail name is “Pokey Boardwalk” or try to get me to say the “F” word by telling me to say “Fu” and then “ck” because is a type of Thai food. The memories are endless, happy Amanda? Probably not, but oh well, you’re the one who threw the book “Don’t Say Yes When You Want To Say No” at me when I spilled that I rarely say no to anyone.
Me, well, as a lowly intern all I can really say is thanks. There are no words in the English vocabulary to describe the gratitude of someone not even out of college working as a full-time summer intern AND GETTING PAID for my efforts.
Chris, without Chris, softball wouldn’t be. First base wouldn’t be. Lodi’s awareness of public transportation wouldn’t be. Chris is a fantastic reporter willing to get out there and hit the pavement and do the dirty work, for the sake of a story.
Oh, and Ted, Ted, Ted, Teddy boy as Peter calls you. When you made your announcement of the big move to Brooklyn, the room felt the pain. Your smile will be missed, your outfield skills will be missed (though I must say, your and Andrew’s spectacle recently was quite a finale-well done for the last game), and of course, Insanity, I’ll have to actually learn how to hit with another bat. Oh well, the 12 hours of cornfields in Nebraska may need a baseball player, or at least a sports reporter. Good luck in New York.
And Scott, “The Wall”, always willing to get out and go, Scott is the Sports Editor any reporter would kill to have. Working nights, weekends, whatever it takes to deliver the best sports section our paper could offer.
Back to the photo room (momentarily skipping over Andrew), ah Brian, my commuter buddy ... well, you’ve edited through my shaky videos, my fuzzy photos, run my photos with a lady whose eyes are close (oh page one mind you) and driven me pretty much all over Lodi and Galt. Now, though, we know not to go to Chevron for gas if paying with a credit card right?
Jen, Chief, we know you aren’t anymore, but in our heads you still are (mine and Whitney’s head that is). Let me tell you about Jen, when you need a laugh, a chat, or a buck, Jen’s always there. We came to realize the Chocoholics doesn’t give samples to the media together, we stuck our tongues out at Andrew (behind our hands of course-sorry Andrew, but it was funny), and I can’t wait for whatever crazy thing you cook up next.
Ok, Andrew. Well, you put up with all my stylistic errors that’s for sure. My list of all your reminders grows longer each day. But hey, what more could an intern ask for? An alumnus from my dream school, ever patient when it comes to those passive verbs, and ready to joke about my “flair” when hitting a softball. At least I’m not afraid to talk to you anymore, whether that’s a good thing or bad (especially when I say something stupid) is a matter of opinion.
Rich, a man of talent and compassion. A man who wanted to take me to coffee in gratitude as if a byline wasn’t enough compensation for letting me try my hand at writing.
Layla (Tazer), properly named for voluntarily getting zapped by one, jumping out of a plane, getting attacked by a police dog, and oh so much more. The criminals in Lodi are much better off because of you. Even if their families are so upset they kick the intern out of gunshops.
Lauren, keeping the newsroom hydrated has got to be one of the most rewarding aspects of working here. After all, without you, who would we turn to for e-mails demanding money for the “water fund”? Who would throw pink flamingos over the cubicles at Amanda so I could have my first quote in Layla’s file: “Watch out Lauren’s flamingo might come back over!”
And then the night staff, without you guys my work wouldn’t get in, without you, there would be no paper, no bylines, no reporter pride.
So, if you’ve made it this far in my crazy blog about why I choose newsrooms over men, well not always, but anyway ... if you’ve made it this far, you either work with me or have too much time on your hands. Let me know what you think, leave a comment, let’s get this communication started.

The World in Which We Live

2008-05-07T18:04:00.000-07:00

Blogger's note: It has come to my attention that there are many issues with the Yearning for Zion compound in Texas that have not been addressed in the following blog. However, this is merely in response to an article and editorial cartoon my instructor brought to my attention that poked fun at the women's clothing and hair. Therefore, it in no way is an indication that I feel what is happening is correct, I just merely wanted readers to be aware that we have to right to judge these women's appearance.

With the recent raid of the Yearning for Zion sect in Texas, my cognitive wheels started turning.
Those women and children have drown up knowing on way of life and authorities have been making a major deal about it.
But don't we all in a way, just know one way of life? I know I don't know how to survive on the streets of some large city. I mean for Pete's sake, I just learned how a taxi system works and God forbid I ever try to learn or use a bus system.
Yet, others who may thrive on subways and city parks don't know you can find the end of a gopher tunnel by dropping a spoke bomb down one end and wait for the little guy to pop out before you shoot him down.
How many city dwellers know that if you plant a row of almond trees a different variety every five rows, you will yield a greater crop?
I guess what I"m trying to say is that these women lead different lives than many of us, but who are we to judge them? How is never cutting your hair and wearing ankle-length dresses any more peculiar than shaving a Mohawk, dying it pink, and gauging your ears big enough to loop thumbs through?
Here in America, we tend to think about here in America. Though that isn't necessarily a bad thing especially when it comes to home land security, if we didn't think that way, we wouldn't be here. We'd be off trying to give Africa clean water and Iraqi women the right to vote.
We all grow up in separate worlds. IN school these worlds mesh and create a microcosm of innocence and bliss. From there we form relationships that turn into love and marriage.
Perhaps this is why so many relationships fail. It's easy to see we all are different, it's just a little harder to accept these differences and enhance the similarities.
If we can start seeing people as individuals perhaps this cutting apart from the rest of society wouldn't be such an issue.
Whether someone lives in Zimbabwe, Lodi, or a polygamist sect in Texas doesn't make them any different of a person. They just function in either a slightly or largely different way.
Once again, who are we to judge others' ways of life?
For we too know one way of life. This isn't a communist country. We didn't all grow into adulthood eating the same foods, facing the same struggles.
But the fact of the matter is, though we may have our own sub-worlds or microcosms if you wish, the fact is, we all share a few things in common.
But, the most important is we all are born on this earth and die on this earth, so we better start figuring things out.

The package

2008-04-30T19:10:00.000-07:00

"We have a Southwest movement of the package," the scratchy voice calls out.

"The package keeps moving," it calls in a different voice moments later.

"The package has stopped moving," the voice says after awhile.

Phones ring, stories are being finished and deadlines are being met. All the while, a package is moving across Stockton, last seen near Hammer Lane in Neville Ct.

There has been a bank robbery at the Bank of America on Kettleman Lane and the teller managed to give the culprit a tracking device along with the cash. Sucks for him...gives us in the newsroom a twisted form of entertainment.

Brian and Amanda are off to find students at Galt High who have been or not been accepted to the universities they've applied to...well, that is, they were.

Amanda is sent to talk to witnesses, Brian to find the best shot, to tell the best story.

"Uh, the suspect is gone," Layla says over the phone call to the reporters on the scene.

Ten minutes later, after what seems like eternity, Stockton PD takes on the call and is looking for the suspect as well. (Way to go Stockton, with 300+ cops, it STILL takes Lodi PD to tell you what to do?)

The sheriff's department has sent out the helicopter, oh boy, this dude's dead...

Except, wait, it's been 45 minutes, with three different departments, and the scanner is still going...with the STARS update.

"Oh boy, the STARS update, we gotta make sure the old people are still ticking," Layla jokes.

"This is STARS, we have a code 4." Oh good, Layla, your old folks are safe, for now.

Oh boy, there is a parameter is being set around the suspect, we've got him now.

Not to make farce out of a serious situation such as a bank robbery, but when you have three departments chasing after a package that moves,a black male aged somewhere between 30-50 (I guess they figure they're more likely to get his age if they have a 20 year range), wearing a multi-colored windbreaker, it can add a lot to a day.

Suddenly, an editor, a reporter, and an intern are cracking jokes and following a package. What comaraderie, who could ask for more?

The Sentinel has offered more than I could have ever asked for. When I would rather be at work (mind you where I don't get paid) than at school or at my job that does pay, that tells you something.

I realize that not all newsrooms are quite like ours, afterall, the Bee and the Times don't have super-cool photographers like Brian, Jen, and Dan or great softball coaches like Chris, Ted, and Paul, let alone teams. They are lacking in the "excellent education/Starbucks guard" category, the "Pam the Pano gal", and all the other countless reporters, editors, and newsroom assistants that make each day a pure joy, each traveling package the joke of the day. Sure those guys in Sacto and LA are probably great, in fact, I know they are, but it isn't the same.

The small town atmosphere Lodi is famous for (or infamous depending on who you talk to) carries over to the newsroom.

Besides where else would you be asked for drugs, if Brian weren't in the back going crazy? Well, I guess the street of Stockton would work, or even the parking lot of Lodi High at lunch, but that's beside the point.

So, aside from having no ordinary, 19-year-old social life, I'm doing okay. I'll trade my peers for newsie comrades any day for it is with them, I get... "the whole package."

~For those of you not involved in journalism, a package is the greatest thing. Featuring all aspects of a story, it adds elements like graphs and mugs with opinions, etc. Check them out, we're famous for them: www.lodinews.com.

Updates: An inside look

2008-04-09T15:18:00.000-07:00

The scanner buzzes, voices fill the air, and a photographer grabs her keys.
The victim is a female, shot multiple time, lying face down in a driveway, emergency personnel are advised to take Highway 88 to Sierra.
A man, white, wearing a black shirt was last seen running towards the Lockeford Bluffs, a development where just months ago I walked my siblings up and down saying “trick or treat.” But this time, there is
no treat. There has been a shooting in Lockeford and the situation looks deadly.
This is what I live for, the thrill of the newsroom just seconds after Layla jumps up saying “I think we have a shooting in Lockeford,” while Andrew responds, “Oh, shit” (typical editor resonse I suppose), sends adrenaline cursing through my blood like a drug.
I don’t think of the stories I should be doing for a fast-approaching deadline, I have my mind thinking of lights whirring, sirens blaring, and sobbing family members.
How can I get them to talk? What will they have to say? What would be my lede?
Call me cold-hearted if you wish, but this is the life I am striving for. Everday is an adventure and everyday in the newsroom is a hair raising, adrenaline pumping adventure.
Thousands of questions go through my head and I try to focus on my story, hold a conversation, and listen to the scanner for updates as well.
Update: the victim was brought via land vehicle was brought to Lodi Memorial.
Who cares I am writing about fat pets, chocolate factories, and antique shops? Who cares my byline is “special to the News-Sentinel” not “News-Sentinel staff writer? I am still there, plugging around with the rest of them, pumping out stories like the best.
Sure, they sometimes come back with more red than black and white but I still smell the ink walking into the mailroom, I still sit in on budget meetings once a week, writer’s session once a week, I still break stories before The Record (Della Condon.)
Update: There are two victims, the photo chief walked in from lunch, “we had a shooting in Lockeford” Andrew says. “Oh shit, I would have gone there” Brian responds.
The room is tense, each reporter rushing to beat deadlines, busting their butts trying to get their individual stories done so they can “feed the daily beast” as Andrew says.
My story is almost done, but my mind keeps wandering. I wonder how many neighbors witnessed the shooting, was the woman screaming, who is the second victim, and why were they chosen?
I have decided to start a profession where job security is scarce, work is overloaded, and pay is minimal. Yet I take pride in pulling into the News-Sentinel parking lot, knowing I am not just reading the news, but participating in the making of it.
I have the ability to educate, entertain, inspire, create debate, and persuade. My opinions, though generally kept out of news stories can be seen in columns, blogs, and quick comments.
The newsroom, though it may be dying, is still a place of wonder. The newspaper, though more digitized than ever, is still strong, still read, still loved. Editors, though tough on the young guy, make you who you can be. Co-reporters, though competative offer a strong sense of community and laugh right along side you knowing they’ve made mistakes too.
Without the newsroom, I honestly can’t say what I would be. Who wouldn’t want to get paid to go out, talk to people, and then write down what they say?
Final update: Deputies are looking into the causes of the shooting (this could take awhile), no names or ages have been released but the
victim at Lodi Memorial is in critical condition.
Actually though I have left the newsroom to my tedious, though ocasionally interesting circulation job, my mind still wanders. I check the site www.lodinews.com constantly and keep my mind split: focusing on the crime and my records.
Additional update: No longer sure what condition the woman is in, the man is dead. Authorities are calling the man's self-inflicted. This could get interesting, I guess the Subway shopping center isn't quite as safe as one once thought.

Lights Out?

2008-04-08T14:04:00.000-07:00

As a child, I always enjoyed watching the Olympics. The warrior-like ferocity, the athletes competed with, intrigued and inspired me. I longed to train hard enough and long enough to one day become one of them. But more fascinating than the actual games was the torching ceremony and the traveling of the light around the world.

I always wondered how the light stayed lit throughout numerous countries and always enjoyed seeing the celebrations that met the torch upon it’s arrival.

My love for the games has carried into adulthood and though I no longer yearn to participate, I still love the pre-game prep, the traveling torch, and the opening ceremonies.

So, needless to say, when I turn on the radio, TV, or computer and hear of all the protests meeting the torch and it’s bearers along the journey, I am quite dissapointed. And, to top it all, there is talk about stopping the ceremony for future olympic games as well.

How did a tradition designed by the ancient greeks to bring unity and peace to the world through sports turn into an ugly beast? Or, has the ugly beast just been hiding all these years and is just starting to rear it’s head? How is it that the amazing flame, lit at all times through the journey has literally been snuffed over and over again?

No longer are we united around it’s light, we are united in our attempts to put it out.

Since the torch was lit, March 24, in Greece, the protestors came together in countries such as Greece, England, France, Australia, Nepal, Switzerland and just today, San Francisco.

The fight over the light has been tied to the decision to hold the 2008 summer olympics in Bejing China.

According to an article from MSNBC in March, Tibetans have seen an increase in Chinese violence, however, the Tibetans aren’t without fault. They are just as responsible for recent deaths as the Chinese. No one is forcing them to retaliate violently, much like the Chinese are not being forced to crack down on the Tibetans.

The only problem is, with both sides feeling they have been wronged, it basically comes down to a fight over who can get the most media coverage.

Right now, since the protestors are mainly in favor of stopping the Olympics from coming to China because of their treatment to Tibetans, they are receiving the press.

One who may not have the time, research, or interest in the subject will often only hear one side, in this case, the Tibetan side.

What kind of objective journalism is that?

Sure, the Chinese communist government has some issues. They have had numerous citizens killed on the streets, they have been responsible for much of the world’s pollution, but what county doesn’t have their problems?

The United States is responsible for thousands upons thousands of people losing their lives yet, if the games were being held here, would the treatment be the same?
I doubt it.

The Olympics were designed to bring the peoples of all nations together regardless of what “track records” (no pun intended) they may hold against one another.

Yet, this year, it is pulling us apart. Dividing not just country against country in the name of sports, but family against family, brother against brother, in the name of protest.