the fearless.

I haven’t blogged in quite a bit. I could waste time updating you on life and why there’s been a lack of words – but I choose to move on.

I have an article to write but all I want to do is jump on my bed while listening to music loudly, mark the days off my calendar as I countdown to the weekend I visit Nashville and read my book about aliens.

Today, today I feel eight. And it feels great.

But I have to write straight lines of words detailing what I’ve learned in the past month or so. Ah, but how can you write about a subject when it feels impossible to learn it all? I feel like I’ve only skimmed the informational top.

The street I take to Cicero has taught me to be aggressive. I used to be a cautious driver, afraid of being sideswiped or rear-ended. I’d suspiciously eye those around me with a hand poised to honk when needed.

But this street, you have to drive like a mad man on this street because everyone around you lost their minds years ago. Homeless men stand in the middle of lanes begging for spare change, pedestrians dodge in and out of traffic like strays and cars wander into the other lane in an attempt to bypass a stopped bus.

I don’t have time to be afraid on this street. Fear would cause me more harm than good, instead I join willingly in the weaving, suddenly stopping without my heart catching in my throat.

If only I could overcome fear this easily in my day-to-day life. What am I scared of? What am I not scared of would be a better question. But I’ve lately realized I’m not alone in this constant state of fear. We’re all afraid of rejection, loneliness, abandonment or failure. Fear makes us hesitate. Fear stops me in my tracks. I doubt myself. It makes my life much more difficult than it should be.

I am so tired of being afraid.

Which is why tonight I am eight.

Because only an eight year old can write a thousand words about a subject that she cannot even begin to understand. Only an eight year old has the audacity to imagine changing the world through her words. This 22 year old is contemplating giving up the idea of a future doing what she loves and settling for something safe. The eight year old shakes her head in confusion with disappointment in her eyes. She believes that the best feeling comes from riding a swing so high your feet touch the sky. She knows that dreams are meant to be dreamt and believes your heart can’t be permanently broken.

I’m an eight year old. A man shook my hand and thanked me for writing a story I’ve yet to begin. A teenager told me she feels she doesn’t belong. A woman fed me and introduced me to her family. Only an eight year old can provide a voice to such beautiful people who are usually ignored.

I think we all need to channel our eight-year-old selves more often. Fear often holds us back. Sure, eight year olds don’t have to worry about bills, employment or debt to the government. But remember what you were worried about when you were eight? Boys. I was mainly concerned about boys. Unfortunately, I’m still slightly concerned about boys. But I don’t worry so much anymore about math, winning at freeze tag or impressing the older kids. Our fears look so much smaller when we realize the world won’t end.

This article won’t write itself. Sure, I may not be the best person to compose it, but I sure am not going to be too scared to at least try.

(Photo credit)

mess.

My life is a hot mess.

Papers, books, magazines, bills, week old newspapers, an entire past forest litters my living room. Interspersed between all of the fallen trees are half empty cups, snacks and hair ties.

My bed is an assortment as well. I shove over the interview notes for today’s story, my laptop, rejected outfits to pull my grandmother’s quilt over me for a quick nap.

The sun is still peeking through my tightly closed shades but I can ignore it for the present.

I am sick.

Again.

This seems to be the year for sickness. No family members anywhere near.

My body has finally rejected the late nights, worrisome hours and long days at the newsroom and has quit. Or perhaps it’s only gone on strike asking for additional vacation days and better working conditions.

 

Fine.

But I’m not cleaning my apartment.

Right now, five and a half hours away, there are two women settling into a hotel room for the night. My mother and grandmother are on their way here. Just knowing that they are less than a day’s drive away already makes me feel better. Healthier. Like my old self.

Mom McClane (as we’ll call her here) is the woman who calls me and demands I eat. She demands vacations, rest and relaxation for this tired body of mine. Let’s just call her the union rep.

And apparently, she’s had enough.

It was that or the panicked call I put in late Monday afternoon – so very tired of another doctor’s visit and more tests to run.

My life is a hot mess.

My apartment is only a bit cleaner. At least, there are only two dishes in the sink and I threw out those bad grapes.

Sometimes we need our bodies to shut down. Demand a day off to remember what the sunshine feels like, how pages of books feel between the fingers and why again we live.

I love the newsroom.

But I love life better.

tuesday.

I’m supposed to be editing a video that I’m filing tomorrow.

Instead, I’m sitting here, the silence broken by an occasional car passing outside my open window and the sound of Ben Rector’s “When she comes around.”
Not a bad Tuesday night.

The apartment is clean, the carpet an empty canvas waiting for the shoes, papers and books that will slowly begin to accumulate on it’s surface through the week.
A flame bounces in the corner, passing the smell of vanilla.
It’s cold outside, but in my little apartment it’s the perfect temperature for a blanket to snuggle with.

Now that I’ve gone all Steinbeck on you and described in detail my location, I can tell you – I have no idea what to write.

All I know is, it’s Tuesday. There are certain songs I cannot stop playing, the current soundtrack to my life. The Metra train is like a relaxing Six Flags ride to downtown that makes me feel as if I’m Eva Marie Saint waiting for my Cary Grant. Chicago is my own personal Lego city in the spring, stacks and stacks of buildings.

Others are being adorned with a ring on a finger, beginning a new career, exploring a new home, making life decisions or even buying a puppy.

My life consists of immigration issues, what to make for dinner and the unsuccessful battle with the ever piling dishes in my kitchen sink.

I don’t have much to say tonight.
Except that for tonight, of all nights, it is beautiful.
Perhaps it’s just this song.
Maybe it’s the weather getting warmer.

Although my life may seem like an endless cycle of story after story after story, it’s also a time for learning. For learning about what’s actually important in life (it’s not getting good grades or work), that you can get along with anyone if you just try and that previous heartbreak shouldn’t hold you back from the present.

Medill attempts to teach me inside a newsroom how to be a better journalist. But the truth is that a good journalist needs an open mind, listening ear and a bit of empathy for the fellow man. And that’s about all you need to be a good human as well.

And when all else fails, listen to these songs: “When she comes around,” Ben Rector; “Tell her this,” Del Amitri; “Can’t take my eyes off of you,” Lauryn Hill; “Hank,” Ben Rector; “Voices,” Matt Wertz

comfort.

I took the tortillas out of my kitchen cabinets, pressed the plastic bag against my nose and took a deep breath.

I wasn’t attempting to suffocate myself in plastic and the smell of doughy goodness, instead, I was attempting to capture that memory of handmade tortillas with a Shirley Temple in front of me at our favorite restaurant in San Antonio. I was a little girl again, my feet kicking in the air as I ate my sopapillas, licking my honey-coated fingers, never dreaming that one day I’d live miles and miles away from home.

Someone should’ve told that girl: hold tight, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Yesterday was, well, how do I put this? Hard. It was a hard day. I’d go into the semantics but no one cares that much and it would require a confusing description of journalism grad school and all that entails. Let’s just say, I was kind of in charge and I had no idea what I was doing. My pride cannot handle that.

The beautiful thing about my graduate program is that we’ve all seen each other cry. If we haven’t, we’ve at least admitted that there have been private sobbing sessions in the bathroom stall before emerging with a forced look of confidence.

It wouldn’t be journalism if it wasn’t stressful.

Sobbing quietly behind my “Oxford American” magazine, I counted the subway stops until I was finally home. I didn’t want that home. I wanted my home. I wanted the south. I wanted a front porch, my parents, my sisters, comfort food and warm nights.

I had to settle for comfort food and new friends.

Two pots were removed from the cupboard and loaded down with chopped potatoes. I’ve become an expert at mashed potatoes. It’s a feeling, no recipe necessary. Add butter, milk, salt, pepper and garlic salt to taste. How long to boil the potatoes? You just know.

I’m a southern girl, through and through. Comfort food and sharing, that’s what we do.

I made a batch of mashed potatoes then shared with my two friends, Jordan and Alex. It’s rare to meet a friend you’re willing to show weakness in front of. My weakness is viewable to everyone. Luckily, I have friends to whom I can show this weakness without fear.

A viewing of “101 Dalmatians” and multiple servings of creamy, salty mashed potatoes later; I captured my second small piece of home with a phone call to my mom.

We all need our mommies sometime. But when mom isn’t available, a bag of brown potatoes can remind us of who we are.

The next stressful day will result in homemade fries. Then there will be okra, enchiladas, Cajun green beans, biscuits, breakfast tacos, steak…

paragraphs.

The snow is melted away and the sun blinds commuters as it bounces playfully off towers of glass and metal.

It’s spring.
The baseball field on my commuter route is a dark shade of green & uniformed individuals can be seen taking their position on the short, fresh carpet.

I don’t believe it for a second.
77 degrees means nothing to me but I keep a skeptical eye to the sky waiting for some unexpected snowfall or a sudden gust of chilly wind.

This is the windy city, they say.
They say beautiful weather isn’t supposed to come until May, even June.
So I don’t trust these bright blue days one bit.

My dreams of weather have taken a sabbatical, now I dream of the new quarter we began this week but these dreams are usually filled with fear rather than longing.
I’d like to go back to my dreams of rain, sunshine & heatwaves.

The self-doubt has already begun & it’s only Wednesday. How is this possible, you ask. Well, I think we all have a little bit of self-doubt now & then, I just give into mine & let it overtake me like a huge tsunami wave washing away my tiny occupied houses of joy.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I know I’m talking too much already. And no, I will not delete unnecessary words. Let’s keep the second-guessing of my writing skills restricted to the newsroom.

Here, in this tiny little blog world, I’ll sprinkle my commas around sporadically, use as many syllables as possible in one sentence & (if we’re lucky) I may even have my paragraphs as unorganized as the thoughts bumping up against one another in my head.

If I’m not careful, I’ll lose my voice.
And I’m quite positive that some great writer at some time or another said something very clever about how writers have to maintain their voice, their style. Unfortunately, this writer has a bad case of carpal tunnel thanks to her diligence to research and toning her upper arms so no additional research will occur today.

Instead, I’ll sit here on my Styrofoam-filled coach as my toes soak in the golden sun filtering through my living room window & I’ll just say this – sometimes, i get so wrapped up in pleasing others that i forget about my love of writing.

This quarter, I’ll be covering immigration issues in Chicago (we can get together later to squeal about how excited I am about this beat). I discovered as I sat in class this morning listening to my professor tell me what he does & doesn’t like in an article right after telling us to write as we want – that I’m not writing for him. Though he is a very nice man, at the end of the day, writing a story to please him wouldn’t make me happy.

And com’on now - my main goal in life is happiness.
What would make me happy? Writing an article for myself & for my readers. I write stories for the sources, the people who give me the time of day to talk. I write for myself, to produce a piece I’m proud to put my name on. And heck, I write for the readers, because we all need to learn a little something new, become a little inspired and maybe a smidge entertained.

I'm a better writer when I'm not worried so much about pleasing others.

This one’s for you guys.

(pssst...the photo's from squidoo.com)

beats.

I’ve fallen out of touch with friends back home. The phone doesn’t ring quite as much as it used to and e-mails have gotten shorter.

I’ve been swallowed whole by words, sentences and paragraphs. They grow larger and larger in my dreams and seem to encompass my thoughts and wishes.

I wish for tighter sentences, correct word usage and the perfect quotes.

I’ve been fully devoured.

Life consists of stories. Even when I have a day off (i.e. I force myself to take a day off) the stories still flutter around in the back of my subconscious. What’s the current unemployment rate? How are homeless shelters and their resources affected? Will that source ever call me back by Wednesday’s deadline?

Being a journalist is a full-time job.

Being a journalism graduate student is also a full-time job.

But as I sit here and ponder whether or not “full time” has a hyphen in it, my Lean Cuisine has finished cooking and the microwave beeps unceasingly, demanding that I recognize it’s hard work and eat the unfrozen meal it has prepared.

Even with all the work I have to do, I have to remember to take a break or I may just lose it. For this, I’ve picked up the guitar again, there’s a book by my bedside that I read for five minutes before I pass out and I haven’t missed an episode of “Lost.”

For those who are missing the sound of my voice, feel free to call.

I’m going to warn you though, my poor mother had to feign interest when I discussed Evanston’s budget deficit and the budget cuts of social services. Sure, she said it was interesting, but she’s my mom, she has to say that.

This weekend I’ll try to venture out into the cold to explore the Lincoln Park Zoo. Tonight, it’s a meeting for me and audio editing after that.

bookman's.

I discovered a new place to love today.

Today was a Brianna kind of day.
We all have those days when we need to take a moment, decide what exactly it is we want to do & then do it.
The kind of of day where you can either be alone or choose the moments & the people to spend it with.
Needless to say, it was a beautiful day.

A sign on the side of a building promises piles of books, "Bookman's Alley" can be found down a snow-crusted street. Two squat buildings face each other, encompassed by the retail shops hiding them from street view. I stepped from a sugary white world to a warm, dusty substitute of home.

Bookman's Alley smells of pages, moth balls and wood (at least, it smells like wood according to a 5-year-old visitor).
A bespectacled gray-headed man greets me silently behind a desk piled with stacks of books. He's wrapped in cocoon of words so I return the silent greeting with a quick nod & smile of my own.

A quick surmise of the room tells me this is the kind of place I'll return to often. Books line the walls with comfortable couches found in a grandmother's home interspersed.
Then I realize the this small building magically expands into three large rooms. I wonder if I'm still in Evanston or have somehow wandered through a magical portal where tiny buildings expand and old gentlemen guard the entryway to knowledge.


Architecture, history of the Sioux, Churchill biographies & waterfowl directories - these straight lines of thought capsules provide a glimpse of structure in a chaotic life.
Ah.

childish.

Sickness reverts you back to childhood.

Suddenly you have cups of water by your bed, you climb into pajamas as if they were your mother’s arms, bedtimes become earlier and loneliness creeps in. The need to be loved increases. Someone needs to take care of me, but I am all alone.

I call my mother with updates. Today I couldn’t stop sneezing. Tomorrow I am going to the doctor. The doctor prescribed this medicine to me. Yes, I am staying warm. No, I don’t want to eat any more soup.

Long distance love.

It sustains us. It keeps us warm, healthy and sane. Love feels so far and yet just on the other side of this bedroom wall. I feel alone wrapped in my great-grandmother’s quilt next to the stuffed animal I’ve owned since I was 4. I feel alone in my mother’s hand-me down robe. I am alone as I hang family portraits on my apartment walls.

Yet I know the love I so miss is closer than I can imagine. All it takes is one phone call and my sister is there telling me about her day at work, I can hear the concern in my best friend’s voice as she offers advice and I know my father misses me when he sends text messages demanding a phone call.

Love, love, love.

Times are tough. I am overwhelmed, stressed, sick and tired. I don’t want to climb out of bed tomorrow and into the inches of snow that will crust my boots. No, I want to stay in bed and act like I am home in Texas. Pull the sheets over my head and pretend my mother will call me for breakfast soon. But I know this is not possible. By placing that bare foot and then the next on the standard-issue carpet, I step back into adulthood, shedding the child self I become when sniffles and sickness arrive.

But that is tomorrow.
Tonight I will wrap myself in my quilt, family photos on the nightstand, and pretend that outside is my barren Texas waiting with friends and family who take care of me. In this small bedroom I will listen to songs that remind me of home, write words that take away the loneliness and dream.

faith video.

one of our class projects was to interview a fellow student. one of my friends/classmates interviewed me about faith. she did a great job, i told my mom who wanted to see it and so now here it is.

change.

I’ve heard a few journalists say we shouldn’t worry about changing the world, because we can’t.

Call me a dreamer, a wisher, a magic-bean-buyer, but I don’t want to do anything if I don’t think it’ll change the world (no matter how minute that change may be).

A recent example of a journalist doing his bit to change the world would be Anderson Cooper and his helping an injured Haitian child. (I use this example because majority of people have seen it & because I am slightly biased towards the man himself).

Another example of a journalist changing the world is any writer who takes a story that normally would not be heard and makes it front-page news. They tug at heartstrings, not to sell papers, but to remind humans of the need for humanity. They compose words that take a reader from the comfort of their kitchen and morning coffee to the front lines of a war. A journalist changes the world by making you care. Unfortunately, humans often need to be reminded to care.

If I can make one reader care about a country they couldn’t previously place on a map, then I have changed the world. If I can weave the story of a family living on the streets because their house was foreclosed, I have changed the world. If I can open a reader’s eyes to the world around them, then I have successfully changed the world.

Heck, if I can explain to you how increasing taxes, school violence and political elections influence you – then I’ve changed the world through education.

This might seem like a lofty goal, even pretentious.

Who do I think I am, believing it’s my responsibility to make the world a better place?

Well, love, it’s all of our responsibilities. This is just the only way I know how to do it.

So I will ignore the journalists who say we can’t change the world. It’s often these same journalists who tell us the future of journalism is up to us.

Well, in my future journalism career, I plan to change the world.

(photo above from: http://tinyurl.com/yhxdqw5 <-- go here to read about an interesting journalist).

deadline.

i’m on deadline.

i have sat on every flat surface in this bedroom – which consists of floor, bed & a single chair. i can’t seem to get comfortable, i can’t focus.

six o’clock is fast approaching and what do i do? Put aside the fighting words of the GOP and the DNC and open a clean word document to type my own words.

i update twitter, refresh facebook every 20 minutes, check my e-mail and organize my itunes.
oh yes, i am on deadline and it shows.
i sit on the bed, move to the floor, perch on the desk – no position seems to work. I look at the clock: 2 hours til deadline and only about 200 words short.
time to focus, clean it up and get it sent.

music to focus?
well, I tried.
but sometimes when you put your music on “shuffle” the first song it picks is “the girl all the bad guys want” (by bowling for soup song <- a band from texas). there’s nothing like going from discussing health care reform to a song reminding you of your childhood.

journalism is an interesting profession.
there are times when you write a story that you really aren’t interested in but is important to write. there’s no drive, no desire to finish the product because you can barely begin it. what does that mean for me?
it means i have to take an essential story and make it interesting.
it means i sit and stare at my computer and think “why is this important?”
and sometimes all i can think – “it just is.”
which is not a good enough answer.
i ask again, “why is this important? why should anyone care?”

a difficult task.
you have to remove bias, repetition, wordiness, speculation and other items that tend to sneak into stories. you have to check facts, check quotes, check names, check word count, check the spelling of your own name (i’ve actually misspelled my own name before on a story).

i had a friend ask me if i don’t get tired of writing.
well, i’m sure there will be moments when I can’t pick out a word, my hands are cramping from gripping a pen and i don’t want to interview a stranger. but it’s what i do.
it’s like asking a doctor if he gets tired of surgery. let’s hope he doesn’t or his work would become sloppy and then all the people who trusted in him would be let down.
all i can do is try, hope, to never let anyone down.

read. reread. rewrite. read again. read outloud. rewrite. done. email to teachers and hope they appreciate what i've scratched out for them today.

asphalt.

update: this blog was written on the road on sunday but not posted til today when i finally found wifi hence the confusing dates.

my resolution for 2010:
blog twice a week.

not sure who will read this site twice a week but eh, it’ll give me practice & keep all of you up to date.

so we begin this journey of 2010 on the road.

we left friday night after i rang in the new year at a youth lock-in at my parent’s church. it was a blast but meant i only caught about 20 winks. which led to my eventual crashing.
on the floor.
in my hallway.
my mom found me snoring blissfully & ordered me to bed where i caught about 40 more winks before waking up in a panic realizing that i was moving & still had much to pack.

we meant to leave at 4 & very probably could’ve except for a front tire losing air fast thanks to an embedded nail. after a pit stop at the local friendly wal-mart, we were on the road.

the mishaps didn’t stop there.

somewhere in oklahoma my mom received a call from the security company saying an alarm at the church had gone off. long story short - nothing was stolen. thankfully we don’t have any money to steal & they didn’t have enough time to steal the flat screen although they tried.

we made it to springfield, missouri for the night & checked into a motel. a legit motel.
located along route 66, the motel boasted two '50s cars & numerous pieces of memorabilia. we checked into a suite that contained one king sized bed & a separate room with bunk bed. truc slept for her first night ever on the top of a bunk bed (poor, deprived child).

the next day consisted of dad realizing that the trunk handle to my grandmother’s SUV had broken. not too much of an inconvenience except that items had to be rearranged & unpacking will require some maneuvering. a stop had to be made at the first ever bass pro shop where we introduced truc to the glory of it all (we’re educating her).

our goal to reach st. louis around noon did not occur.
a small rock hit the windshield & left the evidence of a small ding. not a big deal, except that we’re in my grandmother’s car & this small crack could spread in the cold & result in us presenting her with a new windshield. we scurried around searching for someone to patch the glass only to find everything closed for the holidays.

a google search on my handy-dandy iPhone (apple, i expect payment for this advertisement) led us to a man’s house in some small town in missouri.

my father knocked on the front door & woke the man from his holiday stupor. after waiting for about 10 minutes for him to put on pants, we were informed that he didn’t have the needed tools & we couldn’t do much but wait til monday.

lunch was a protein-filled affair in the little town of rolla, missouri at the sirloin stockade’s steak buffet.

st. louis was reached with the arch lit by sunset.
i love st. louis.
we weren’t there for long but i saw brick buildings, bridges & a plethora of photographical locations. perfect. the arch was cold or at least walking to the arch was cold. the tour was sold out so we settled for examination of the museum & gift shops.

our final goal for the night was springfield, illinois- the location of abraham lincoln’s home & tomb.

the next morning was continental breakfast (all continental breakfasts look the same to me at this point) & then a self-guided tour of springfield. we saw lincoln’s home, his presidential library, law office & tomb. lincolned out - we headed out to our final destination: evanston, illinois.

it’s been an eventful trip thus far.

all we can say is that every time we turn on the car we breath a word of thankfulness that it least it’s still working.

snow has become a consistent part of the landscape since entering illinois along with single digit temperature. it just reached 10 degrees at 1:30pm, time to get out the tanning lotion & bikini.

i kid.
we’re freezing but have already learned so much about cold weather.
for example: it is possible for the inside of your car windows to ice over.
also, they sell lamb wool-lined socks at bass pro shop.

i’m currently in the car again surrounded by pillows & coats.
i’ll post this blog when the car is unpacked, internet is found & i’m happily settled in my new home.
miss you all.