Picking a theme for The Journal’s special edition is a funny thing. You’re expected to choose something most people on campus will enjoy, as well as something your reporters will cling to and the paper’s faculty adviser will love. How do you navigate choosing a topic to please everyone?
Actually, who am I kidding? I asked myself those questions, but the root of the problem goes deeper.
How do you choose a theme as a 19-year-old who, somehow, is now in her first semester as editor-in-chief? Someone who, just two years ago, decided, “I like writing. I guess I’m going to major in journalism.” How do you prove to yourself that you not only made the right choice, but prove to your predecessors they didn’t leave this beloved decades-old publication in the hands of someone who isn’t up to the task?
Last year, I interned at the Webster-Kirkwood Times and, whether it was on purpose or by accident, I became the one who wrote stories about the arts. I spent my summer attending the Webster Arts Fair, sitting in on an AP Art and Design workshop and speaking to a just-published author who had been working on her book for 18 years. While I had written about the arts before, getting to exclusively focus on it fulfilled me in a way I didn’t know was possible.
But I also wondered if my love for writing about the arts made me not a “real” journalist. I used to picture a journalist as a middle-aged coffee drinker with gray hair from working all those deadlines. Every time I’ve told someone older than me that I wanted to become a journalist, they assume I want to be a political or investigative reporter. I’m not saying there’s no chance I become a hard-news reporter; I just know every time I write a story about an artist, I feel like I’ve amplified something beautiful.
In my freshman year here, I found myself at a networking event. My professor knew everyone in the room, so naturally I asked him who he thought I should talk to. He proceeded to say, “Hmm, you’re a feature writer … so, not a real journalist.” It was a joke (I think), but that didn’t stop me from being mad at him. He unknowingly fueled an insecurity I had bubbling up inside of me since my first day at Webster. But he was partly right. “Hard news” scared and saddened me.
A volunteer I spoke with at the art fair told me people who work in the arts are “kinder, more thoughtful – the arts are gentler.” Maybe it’s because of the political landscape I’ve grown up in. Maybe it’s because every scroll on social media causes the ball of anxiety in me to grow bigger and bigger. But reporting on the arts feels like a good deed. For all of the bad news that I will report on – and grow another gray hair because of – in my lifetime, I hope I remind myself of this revelation I discovered quite early on in my journalistic career: I love writing about the arts.
“An Ode to the Arts” is also a reminder for everyone here just how much we need the arts. In a school actively cleaning up its self-inflicted fiscal mess, it’s bound to start cutting programs. In a way, this edition is The Journal’s letter to Chancellor Keane, calling upon him to leave the arts as they are. While no plans are in place to make any changes to the university’s arts programming at this time, the uncertainty gnaws at me.
Plus, there’s a secondary, more selfish reason: No matter what happens in this world, the arts – which has survived centuries of wars, revolutions and most recently, a global pandemic – will be here and always will be. And they will be a soft, gentle place for this so-called “not-a-real-journalist” journalist to land.
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