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

