elizabeth franklin

Eighth grade was when I first stepped into a room labeled ‘3000’ — Convergence Journalism — a room with dull, olive green paint and stale-colored carpet. Here I am, nearly four years later — walls now black but the carpet still the same nauseating green — typing this in Room 3000. 

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In the mornings, when I had my first hour free and the lack of sleep clouded my eyes, I could always count on the room to serve as a nap room, the fluorescent lights beaming down on my dozing face. At lunch, when the cafeteria is too unappetizing but I need a break from the monotony of my fifth-hour classroom, the journalism room is always bright with personality and vibrant with inspiration. After school, when I need to extract pictures or talk through a story idea, I can always count on Room 3000 to save me a spot near the window, golden beams of sunlight streaming to rest on my face, irritating yet so achingly familiar. And through it all, I’ve never, ever been turned away. 

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But a room without people is just that — a room. The people of the Pathfinder are the ones who have inked color into the room; turned a classroom with 40-year-old carpet and cracked windows into a haven; and created a second home for me. There have been many memories in this classroom: students huddled around a table as we whittled away at an article past midnight; bright-eyed determination as we debated story ideas and semester goals; deafening cheers as we maintained our streak of awards.

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However, the Pathfinder isn’t just a newspaper; it’s a group of people who continue to become family each year, no matter the people — I’ve seen it happen year after year. Since I have become a part of the Pathfinder, I have been bombarded with texts begging me to edit stories at 11 p.m.; I have irritated both myself and others with my constant need to organize and reorganize; I have become a personified bubble of stress. Yet, I cannot bring myself to mind because, at the Pathfinder, I have been so lucky to be able to find a family and grow as a person, making my own mark in a room that I’d initially thought colorless. We have argued and debated with narrowed eyes and firm, set lips; we have texted each other beyond 2 a.m. about journalism and also anything and everything; we have had each other’s backs in times of strife and in times of accord. We’ve laughed together, cried together, and created pure magic together, from the tips of our typing fingers to the music of our recorded voices. Things are not always perfect, but they rarely are in such a family.

 

When I look around the classroom today, it’s hard not to muse over how much things have changed — yet, they’ve stayed the same. An adviser who, at her heart, loves the students that she teaches and the effort they put toward our publications; students who work tirelessly to create quality content; and Editors-in-Chief who are committed to their craft and the reputation of the Pathfinder. The people who occupy these roles are different from one, two, three years ago; we have different grading systems; and arguably, our content is much, much different than it had been under previous Editors-in-Chief. But it’s both the things that stay the same and the things that change that create a fresh, burgeoning journalism program — one that adapts to its students and staff.

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After all, the program had adapted to me — a student with a chronic illness that I’d been told would most likely go away in my teenage years but instead surged with a vengeance after COVID-19 had sunk its claws into me at the end of my sophomore year. My illness was a constant battle in my life, but I believe that journalism is what encouraged me to keep stepping forward despite the constant opposition of my own body; inspiring me to do what I can, when I can. And I could do a lot more than I thought. I’ve written articles while hooked up to white and green wires in the hospital, the machines beeping softly behind me as I type noisily, hunched over my never-too-far computer. I’ve Facetimed into my journalism class in my bed with a congested, rattling cough and barely enough air in my lungs to keep my eyes open. I’ve interviewed sources while the doctor pressed their stethoscope against my heaving chest, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Journalism helped me learn how to push myself without going beyond my limits because it was something I wanted to do; something that forced out the monotony of staying in bed all day and doctor’s appointments and the general terribleness of being sick.

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The average person wouldn’t know that. Strangely enough, that’s exactly why journalism hooked me — I loved asking questions and digging beneath a surface that no one thought had any depth. My own story is not straightforward, and perhaps that is why I enjoy journalism so much — because journalism is not so straightforward, either. As a journalist, when you talk to so many different people about anything at all, you’ll find that the world is not as straightforward as we like to think it is. There are the go-getters, the bleeding hearts, and the headstrong activists; but there are also the hypocrites and liars and people who have no idea what they’re talking about. Often, the same people we believe fall into the first category also fit into the second category. Perhaps that’s why I continue to seek solace in journalism and utilize my power as a journalist to commit to telling stories that will impact the community around me; human beings are such enigmas, but my curiosity emboldens me to understand human nature and the conditions and forces that mold it. 

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 It feels cliche to say that journalism has changed my life. It feels cliche; yet, I cannot think of any other simple way to put it. After all, writing articles about my community has opened my life up to many opportunities that I don’t believe I would have had otherwise; it opened the doors to my other work in equity and social and cultural equality. Since the first story that I published, I’ve received feedback thanking me for covering topics that have largely gone unwritten in many communities; stories that force people to stop and think about inequities beyond the surface. Journalism has taught me how to effectively research and use words to productively tell stories from various people who all have various personalities, perspectives, and life goals. 

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I’ve always been indecisive about what’s to come after I finish my secondary education. I know that I want to keep writing; I want to keep raising awareness about topics that are important to me; I want to keep close ties with my community. Eventually, I think I may like to become a civil rights attorney and explore many of the topics that I’ve only scratched the surface of the stories I’ve covered. Throughout the past four years, the very essence of journalism has intertwined with my soul, and I believe that there is no doubt that journalism has shaped who I am and who I have yet to become.