Wednesday, October 13, 2010
I still cannot decide if saying she looked like a Betsy is really fair to her. It could always be worse, of course. I could say she looked like a Bernice, and then references of "Bernice Bobs Her Hair" would haunt me for the rest of the day. She may have looked like a Betsy, but she definitely was not a Bernice--Shelley Duvall is a scary woman. Regardless, her unfortunate birthright did not stop her from helping me.
"I hate writing now. But I mostly hate how hard it is to get people to talk to you." I could not stop the ranting even if I had tried.
While this "realization" is not new for me--common sense tells me this problem was going to happen once my audience, and with that, my sources, quadrupled--I needed to vent before I imagined throwing myself from the roof of the science center. The idea might have crossed my mind, but I was too lazy to focus that much energy on the full image. Betsy listed a few people who are the worst. It seemed as if getting quotes was something more akin to natural childbirth. It is enough to make me lose complete patience in the entire practice of journalistic writing.
"It will get better, eventually, once you learn who will and won't talk to you," said Betsy. Not exactly the positivity for which I was hoping, but it gives me little reason to doubt all of humanity; though I am drawing dangerously near. I am still a little surprised, despite everything, I hold humanity to any regard at all, myself included.
A local elementary school took a tour of the campus. Busy young adults were running passed the small children, trying to make class after spending too much time napping or in the coffee line. The kids were trying to stay in some sort of line--though nothing straight about it--while they got to see what we call school. I remember elementary school; the one story, one building with every room and office within convenient feet from each other. I miss not having to fight against the clock and my lack of athletic ability just to achieve anything throughout the course of the day.
When I was younger, life was something one achieved, not something everyone just fell into. What I wanted to be when I grew up was such a distant dream, and I had infinite nights to dream it. I wanted to be so many varying careers and even mediocre jobs. I even considered fame through athletic triumph or stringent instrumental practice. I could be anything. When I got to see new places, everything seemed so big and magnificent. I can only imagine what the kids must have thought when they walked into our English hall and saw the tall ceilings and bright, cathedral-esque windows. The marble floors of the foyer baffled some of their young minds. Many stopped and tip-toed across the floor, gawking at the beautiful patterns in the dark green slabs.
I imagine, to them, everything has a marvelous smell and feeling to it. I used to be able to feel those things when walking into a new place. Unfortunately, sometimes comfortability takes away from the true magnificence of a place. I still adore the English hall, it just does not seem as big as it once did. Two years ago when I took my campus tour, I walked into the hall only to be amazed by it. It was just as I had pictured a building that homed journalism and English to be. Traditional, beautiful, the light subtle, the halls peaceful.
Misery does not just love its company, it breeds despair. I am on the journey to my dreams. I am no longer 7-years old with "my whole life ahead of me." I am going to go into this with high spirits from now on--with the unbreakable faith of a child, and the wisdom (or bit of it I have gathered) of an adult.