In middle school, I decided that I wanted to be a journalist. I wanted to write, and this seemed like the most “practical” approach. I envisioned myself interviewing people, writing under tight deadlines, and working in a frantic office where everyone had had too much coffee. Neither one of my parents drank coffee, so I envisioned it as something that other, more exciting adults did. Something that professional journalists did.
When I entered high school, I signed up to write for the school paper. I was assigned to the features section, and for a while, this suited me just fine. News could be boring, I reasoned. Feature articles would allow me to flex my creative muscles and write about real people and the things that were important to them. I am and always have been a human-interest kind of girl.
Every month, my editor would assign a topic, and at first, I loved it. I wrote about the “fun” stuff, wrote the articles that people would actually read—about Valentine’s Day and beloved childhood toys and the reasons that teenagers spent so much time on the phone.
But after a year or so, I was bored. I wrote my articles during my lunch period, an hour before they were due. I had mastered the features formula: catchy lede, set-up, quote, transition, quote, transition, quote, transition, quote, cute full-circle concluding sentence. And my assigned topics got dumber and more ridiculous. One of the last articles I wrote was about PDA. Public displays of affection. During a free period, I had wandered the halls of my school, interrupting couples mid-grope to ask them why. Why are you touching your girlfriend’s breast in the library?
So, when the newspaper advisor offered me an opportunity to write an op-ed, I jumped at the chance. Maybe this was my true calling! I thought. I would use my words to take a stand, to convince people that I was right and that they were wrong. My articles would have substance!
My assigned topic: homophobia. Was homophobia a problem in our school? The year was 1995: of course homophobia was a problem. I got to work, discussing the topic at length with my friends and teachers. And I listened. I listened as boys called one another “faggots” and passed judgment with “that’s so gay.” I asked my fellow students why they used these expressions and received some interesting answers. I poured my heart into that article, believing that it could open a dialogue and, in some very small way, actually make a difference.
But all of my hard work was for nothing. My advisor had wanted an op-ed that expressed her opinion, one that wouldn’t ruffle any feathers or include the “f” word. Re-write it, she told me, and argue the other side. In other words, my advisor wanted me to lie. Worse, she wanted me to compromise my entire belief system, the very core of my being, the kind of person I aspired to be.
I was enraged. I told her that I quit, and marched into my guidance counselor’s office, demanding that he drop me from the newspaper. I fought back tears as I explained what had happened.
“This is absolutely no problem,” he assured me. “You’re doing the right thing.”
As it so happened, my guidance counselor, in addition to being sympathetic and understanding, was gay.
That night, I told my mom that I had quit the newspaper. She had just walked through the door, and was distracted, sifting through the mail.
“What?” she said, whipping her head up to look at me. “Why?” She knew how important my journalistic aspirations were to me.
I broke down then. I had never quit anything in my life, and this had been my dream. More than anything, though, I was so disappointed. So disillusioned. How could the world work like this? How did people who cared as much as I did even stand a chance?
I cried and cried, and when I stopped, my mom told me that she was proud of me. For quitting? I asked. No, she said. For standing up for what you believe in.
Today is my 31st birthday. It’s much calmer, much more relaxed than 30 was. One might call it anticlimactic, but that implies a let-down of some kind, unfulfilled expectations, and I don’t feel that way. The nice thing about relaxed is that it allows you to contemplate your age, your life, and your accomplishments in a productive way.
I was reminded of the above story this past weekend, and thought that it was a fitting 31st birthday tale. People who have lived through their 30s often tell me that it’s the best decade, that you know yourself so much better and subsequently have an easier time of it, enjoy it more.
I may have given up on a childhood dream when I was 16, but at 31, I am thankful for that experience—and where it led me. I am thankful for the people who have shaped me, shaped my life, made it better.
As I move further and further into adulthood, I hope for many things. But mostly, I hope that I continue to be the kind of person who makes her mother proud.