Notes on High School Newspaper (journal)

I watched carefully and took notes. Janice Dunkin, the high school newspaper editor and writer stood at the front of the class. It was an after school staff meeting and Janice was desperately trying to push articles on to us, a small listless crew at that. I didn’t know any of them just that there was three journalists, two reporters, a sports writer, two photographers, a free lancer and myself. The history teacher, Mr. Tardiff and student advisor/ assistant editor, Demeter Alexopolous quietly looked on.

Janice is a Portuguese-American who has lived in the United States for thirteen years. She is a bright student and devoted to the Randolph High School mind and spirit. However, she is arrogant and speaks condescendingly to others. It is her belief that women are the stronger of the genders and if done properly women can dominate men’s lives. To her, men are second rate and easily manipulatable. Quite a theory for a seventeen year old high school senior.

As she stands alone, talking, using her hands and fingers to emphasize points and clearness of purpose, I wonder if anyone is buying her crap. The young writers listen intently; two or three sort of lean on their hands and stare out the window. Janice stops from her wandering rhetoric and looks at the group with hard stare.

“Now I want you to WRITE something this time,” she said. “I want you to write your articles and have them returned quickly. I don’t want them in late. I want them complete and readable.”

She turns to each writer and listens to what each person will write about. One by one they tell her. Football games. Inerview with Coach Carlson. French club meetings. Teacher biography. Senior profiles. Ask-the-editor column. She turns to me.

“Well what do you have in mind?” she asked, matter of fact.

Now I’m a fairly bright student. I’m modest and reasonable. However, I am uncommitted to the school mind and spirit. I don’t participate in school functions and care even less for senior profiles. I don’t like the football team and reading about the French club is about as exciting as learning about how rocket fuel works.

“Well?”

“I have a couple of poems,” I said.

“Poems?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

           
             God I hate her. I had only met her three times. I’m amazed she even likes doing what she does, grooming all these promising high school articles. This newspaper crap is for the birds. She’s for the birds. All she wants is American pie themes and fun facts. Stupid trivial stuff. She thinks she’s such an expert. I have a bad headache and slept horribly all week. I can’t wait for this meeting to end.
             

I have also written an essay for the paper. I wrote it from anger over an essay Janice wrote, which happened to win the Massachusetts award for best student essay. I mean it was good writing, basic and clear on points. She basically kissed the state’s ass, about how equality and opportunity is there for everyone, (not really Janice), that immigrants can attain their dreams and goals (ahem, maybe if they become legal citizens) and we are all treated with the same fairness that every American deserves (does she not watch the news?). I could go on but I’m not political minded. Maybe I’m just sore she won an award for a fluff piece.

So off I went on a tangent, on an anti Janice campaign. It wasn’t horrible. It pointed out a few things I believe to be true. How equality partly exists, opportunity is not there for all, justice not always served. Of course my grandmother got a hold of my paper and abhorred it. She wrote me a long sensitive letter explaining all the good in America (and I never once put it down by the way and I do love my country) and to please reconsider publishing it. My mother said it was worthless trash and thought it condoned welfare (um No!). And finally, my Humanities teacher, Mr. Pereira, who I greatly respect, said my essay was just as half baked as Janice’s essay.

“I actually have three now if you want them,” I said.

Janice turned to me and held out her arm. I paused a minute. Fuck it, I thought. I got up, handed her my poems and decided to tear up my essay.

 

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Probably written during my last year in high school which was spring 1988. I was involved with the school paper and mostly published poetry and photographs. And like then I am still not too political but I have my moments. You just have to roll with the punches despite the government, corporate and terrorist agendas. Anyway, another thing I typed out on the yellow typewriter paper that my mom used to get from work at the law offices. Again, 80% of this stuff I’m spitting out has never been read before so it’s cool thinking maybe Christopher and Mathew might read all this stuff someday when they have become their own adults. Personally, it’s kind of cool revisiting these old footprints from my journey.