Wednesday, March 28, 2018 // The Statement
6B
Bill Clinton talked to a chair?
W
ithin the first month of
joining my high school’s
newspaper, I had made
it on the wall. Or rather, my idea for
the Bullseye — Opinion’s spread that
discussed the hottest trends — had.
“Bill Clinton talked to a chair?”
was what I had scribbled onto the
brainstorming sheet.
I
was
referencing
actor
Clint
Eastwood’s iconic speech in 2012 when
he talked to an empty chair as if then-
President Obama were sitting in it, but
at the time knew nothing about the
speech’s contents or apparently, who
said it (I am just now realizing as I
write this piece that Bill Clinton was, in
fact, not the one who talked to a chair).
The Opinion editor thought it was
the funniest thing she had ever seen,
and so she slapped it up on the wall and
told me I was hilarious. She was sweet,
taking the time to talk to me and make
me feel welcome on staff, which at the
time was intimidating and very serious.
Our
newspaper
was
recovering
from a major scandal just a few years
back when all the editors of the staff
quit in protest against the school
administration’s requests for them
to remove controversial articles and
give the names of their anonymous
sources after a series of issues covering
teenage sex, drug
use,
drinking
and
more.
The
Chicago
Tribune
even
covered
the
story and wrote
an editorial about
our
school’s
administration and its “censorship.”
Because of the scandal, the new
editors were trying to rebuild the
newspaper to the Pacemaker-winning
publication it had once been. They
were on the high alert, and though the
principal no longer previewed articles,
it was a tense time.
My class of staffers was the most
removed from the scandal, having been
in middle school when it all happened.
But we could feel the rigidity of the new
newspaper, and while we were trying to
learn AP style and InDesign, we were
also realizing the extent of the damage
that had occurred and the tedium of
rebuilding a newspaper’s reputation.
I had entered the journalism world
dubious from the start. I took the
introductory journalism class solely
because there wasn’t a creative writing
class offered for freshmen, and I
wanted to write. It had always been my
passion, and English had always been
my favorite subject. Journalism had
seemed alright, so after freshman year,
I signed up for the newspaper class,
thinking it could be a way for me to
further my interest.
Yet somewhere along the way, I began
to loathe writing and newspapers.
There were good times—progressive
dinners, a trip to San Antonio and
many inside jokes. But the anxiety and
self-doubt that came from writing for
the newspaper were too much. Our
newspaper was a highly competitive
place, and as someone who had little
experience writing articles and the
inability to differentiate Bill Clinton
from Clint Eastwood, I began to
question myself. Why didn’t I get a good
piece to write? Why am I not allowed
to write an editorial yet? Why am I not
writing about something I really want
to write about?
With each year of high school, the
politics and competition among staffers
increased, and we got yet another new
adviser. I worked tirelessly to improve
my writing skills because I was used to
being a standout writer, and I wanted
to continue to stand out. By the end
of senior year, I was the
co-managing
editor
of production and
had finally written
editorials and a
front-page article,
but
it
wasn’t
enough.
I
felt
more
irritation
than
pride
for
what
I
had
accomplished,
and underappreciated by the paper I
had poured so many hours into. Though
many people would acknowledge the
fantastic job we were doing, I fixated
on all the criticism the paper received
and the errors we made. So, with a fair
amount of teen angst, I decided I’d
never do journalism again after high
school.
My English classes weren’t much
better, as they came with the rigor of
preparing for the AP exam. I had stellar
English teachers, but they couldn’t
make up for the rigidly structured AP
essay requirements we had to meet.
Though my teachers tried hard to
inspire us and make us worry less about
APs and our grades, it still felt like
writing became “insert quote here” or
“insert argument here.” Yes, my writing
improved dramatically, but I resented
the mechanical nature of our work and
the pressure I put on myself. If that was
what majoring in journalism or English
looked like, then I wanted to do neither.
When I came to the University of
Michigan, I stayed away from The
Daily and English classes. I was bitter
about my history with newspapers,
and worried college would be worse
than high school. I knew that secretly,
I still loved writing, but I hid that
away, telling myself that people don’t
really get to write what they truly
want to write because of grades,
expectations and other limitations.
Likewise, pursuing creative writing or
an English major seemed unrealistic
for a person like me, who had always
got caught up in the competition.
No, I thought I’d be better off doing
something safer.
Of course, I had to meet the First-
Year Writing Requirement. I believed
I was signed up for a class on satire,
but in a stereotypical freshman move,
I registered for the wrong section.
Two minutes before class I shakily
checked the course guide and learned
I was instead registered for the topic,
“Who Are You and What Are You Doing
Here?” I stayed in the class, partly
because I didn’t know how to switch
to another one, but also because it was
too ironically perfect to pass up on.
Who was I and what was I doing in that
class?
It was nothing like the other English
classes I had taken, but I still told
myself I couldn’t see English as my
future major. I took a communications
class, and then a creative writing class
sophomore year thinking I would apply
for the Organizational Studies major
and maybe pursue the Creative Writing
minor since it was far enough removed
from pure English.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about
English.
Second
semester,
I
took
English 298 on the tiniest off-chance
that I would like it and awaited the
decision from Organizational Studies.
I ended up obsessively reading and
re-reading James Baldwin’s “Sonny’s
Blues” and revering over my professor’s
eloquent and emotional speeches in
class. Though he had taught many of
the texts at least six times, he spoke
like it was the first time he had ever
encountered them, and I was enamored.
A few weeks before the Organizational
Studies decisions were to be announced,
I found myself daydreaming in English,
thinking that maybe in that gloomy,
windowless room in the basement of
Angell Hall, I had finally found the
place I was supposed to be all along.
One rejection from Organizational
Studies later and I was back where I
started so many years ago — with an
unthinkably tremendous love for words
on a page.
Finally, I declared English, joined
Daily Arts and later got another writing
job.
One night after dinner last semester,
my roommate carefully cut up an
orange and put the slices in one of
our multi-colored plastic bowls while
I washed my dishes. I was hit with a
pang of familiarity; my dad eats an
orange every day after dinner, peeling it
with precision while my mom does the
dishes, and my sister and I lean against
the counter, talking to them.
It felt slightly odd to watch her do
something I had seen for my entire
life, but it also felt comforting — like I
was returning home, like nothing had
changed. No matter what or where
I was, nobody could take away the
soothing sensation of the experience.
I’ve since recognized it’s the same
feeling I get every time I open up a
new Word document and start writing
again.
I’d be nowhere without my long-
winded path to my major and rekindled
passion for journalism and creative
writing. Likewise, I’m grateful for
the
teachers,
professors,
students
and friends who have influenced me
— whether positively or negatively —
and of course, for my family and their
constant encouragement. It’s all taught
me to push past the self-doubt because
I’m incredibly lucky to do what I’ve
always loved.
And no, in case you missed it earlier,
Bill Clinton did not talk to a chair.
BY NITYA GUPTA, DAILY ARTS WRITER
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILY KOFFSKY