I started my journalism career 57 years ago this month, when as a freshman wrote a news story for the college paper. There is a bigger point to this than reminiscing about my college days, so stick with it.
In 1969, Purdue University had a dress code to get into the dinner line at my dorm. Your shirt had to have a collar, shoes had to come with socks, sandals were not allowed, and no slacks with the seam on the outside, which was a clever way of saying no jeans at dinner.
This wasn’t some upscale, urban private school where students own suits; Purdue is an agriculture and engineering school in the middle of Indiana farm country. The dress code seemed as out of place as a veggie burger at a steakhouse.
Since it was the ‘60s and a lot of us at the dorm didn’t see why we had to dress up for dinner to eat corn fritters, cornbread or creamed corn, I figured everyone on campus should know about it. Besides, I was getting tired of heating up canned soup for dinner in the popcorn popper stashed on the windowsill in my dorm room.
So, I went to the office of the college newspaper — called the Exponent,remember it is an engineering school — and volunteered to embark on a newswriting career with a story about the unpopular dress code.
I saw my byline in print for the first time, as did school officials. For that, and admittedly for other infractions deemed contrary to the established rule book of life at the dorm, I was told I would not be allowed back into university housing for my sophomore year.
Regardless of needing to find new housing, I found a new career and lifelong friends with that first newspaper story.
The work and the people I met at the Exponent office filled a lot of gaps in my life. It provided me with a purpose, which was to learn, write and share with the community. It felt good to pound out the words at a manual typewriter, one finger at a time.
It provided me with a new major, journalism, saving me from my freshman enrollment in organic chemistry, of which I was failing.
And it introduced me to colleagues who became friends, dear friends who shared lives for the next six decades. The personal stories that no one else knows.
We also shared a belief that journalism could make a difference. It could right the wrongs of our communities, make people laugh at the fun stories and cry at the sadness, get up and vote and get out and work with their neighbors.
It’s been hard sometimes over the years to convince myself that it’s doing any good, that newspapers make a difference. But among my college friendsI found strength in knowing they were with me.
Then last week, the best editor I had at the Exponent died after losing a fight to cancer. Stephanie Salter taught me it’s about people and their lives and what matters to them.
During her years as a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, she had a city map on the wall in her office. She would throw a dart at the map, randomly, even blindly. Wherever it hit, she would go to that street corner and talk with people, telling their stories.
She never lost interest in talking with people, never lost her curiosity.
Never stopped wanting to make the world better by reporting the news.
That’s why I got into newspapers.
The reasons are the same as they were in 1969
I started my journalism career 57 years ago this month, when as a freshman wrote a news story for the college paper. There is a bigger point to this than reminiscing about my college days, so stick with it.
In 1969, Purdue University had a dress code to get into the dinner line at my dorm. Your shirt had to have a collar, shoes had to come with socks, sandals were not allowed, and no slacks with the seam on the outside, which was a clever way of saying no jeans at dinner.
This wasn’t some upscale, urban private school where students own suits; Purdue is an agriculture and engineering school in the middle of Indiana farm country. The dress code seemed as out of place as a veggie burger at a steakhouse.
Since it was the ‘60s and a lot of us at the dorm didn’t see why we had to dress up for dinner to eat corn fritters, cornbread or creamed corn, I figured everyone on campus should know about it. Besides, I was getting tired of heating up canned soup for dinner in the popcorn popper stashed on the windowsill in my dorm room.
So, I went to the office of the college newspaper — called the Exponent,remember it is an engineering school — and volunteered to embark on a newswriting career with a story about the unpopular dress code.
I saw my byline in print for the first time, as did school officials. For that, and admittedly for other infractions deemed contrary to the established rule book of life at the dorm, I was told I would not be allowed back into university housing for my sophomore year.
Regardless of needing to find new housing, I found a new career and lifelong friends with that first newspaper story.
The work and the people I met at the Exponent office filled a lot of gaps in my life. It provided me with a purpose, which was to learn, write and share with the community. It felt good to pound out the words at a manual typewriter, one finger at a time.
It provided me with a new major, journalism, saving me from my freshman enrollment in organic chemistry, of which I was failing.
And it introduced me to colleagues who became friends, dear friends who shared lives for the next six decades. The personal stories that no one else knows.
We also shared a belief that journalism could make a difference. It could right the wrongs of our communities, make people laugh at the fun stories and cry at the sadness, get up and vote and get out and work with their neighbors.
It’s been hard sometimes over the years to convince myself that it’s doing any good, that newspapers make a difference. But among my college friendsI found strength in knowing they were with me.
Then last week, the best editor I had at the Exponent died after losing a fight to cancer. Stephanie Salter taught me it’s about people and their lives and what matters to them.
During her years as a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, she had a city map on the wall in her office. She would throw a dart at the map, randomly, even blindly. Wherever it hit, she would go to that street corner and talk with people, telling their stories.
She never lost interest in talking with people, never lost her curiosity.
Never stopped wanting to make the world better by reporting the news.
That’s why I got into newspapers.