Journalism: Year 1.

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This is Maddie; I took this photo of her on an afternoon spent watching the LCC Gymnastics Team compete for two hours while trying to get a photo worthy on being printed for others… She had just finished performing an, from what I could tell, amazing floor routine in front of a judge, her team, and bleachers where people where scattered throughout.

This is Maddie in her reign, doing what she is passionate about.

I think about passions a lot. More specifically, the fact that I’m not passionate about anything anymore. I used to be; I used to dance competitively, earn various belts in MMA, leave school only to sit in another class to study and practice art–all of which simultaneously kept be busy for six years. I don’t do any of those things anymore and I honestly don’t know why that is, I wish I did. I wish I was passionate about something again.

I like to think that every has -ism’s; when you think of someone, their -ism’s are often the first thing that come to mind. See, this makes me sad because I swear–or, swore–that I no longer have an -ism. I’m not a “dancer”, a “MMA fighter”, or an “artist”. I’m just Nataly.

I don’t know if that’s necessarily a bad thing, I just long for a passion and, unfortunately, that doesn’t happen over night. It does, however, happen through the course of a year in journalism.

On the same afternoon that Maddie and the rest of her teammates competed, I stood to the side of the mat with my finger hovering over a button on the camera gripped tightly in my hand. If you had post me this in the beginning of the school year, I wouldn’t believe you. Nataly, who enrolled in journalism for writing purposes and, admitted, on a whim, would not believe you. Now I do. Now that I am here, reminding myself of all the times someone has told me “I saw you taking pictures today,”–of my -ism, I do.

Maddie does flips and I capture it; she is the gymnast, I am the photographer, and we are both passionate about what we do.

Stepping aside from what I’ve discussed, I want to talk about how happy I am–I’m not quite sure this is how formatting works but this is my blog and I’m a mess so why not let it mirror me.

Journalism has made me so happy! I mean, honestly. I’ve made so many new friends and acquaintances that I am about 112% sure I would have never interacted with otherwise. It’s kind of strange to picture myself talking to all of these different people and actually enjoying it–I know that sounds slightly bad but I swear it’s not what it seems. Just hear me out for a second:

I’ve met all of these completely different types of people, and have formed genuine bonds with many of them, all because we had one single common interest. I can smile at familiar faces when they walk past because they like journalism; because I like journalism.

I think this class has made me grow in more ways that I ever could’ve imagined and that just makes me so happy; that is all.

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The Time I Grew Up a Little

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While I’ve attended multiple LGBTQ events in the past, as I’m a proud supporter, this was my first time walking in a parade; the 2016 Encinitas Holiday Parade, that is. When I got there, I remember being too excited to worry about my step-mom screaming her head off about the traffic. I don’t get that. Traffic really isn’t as malevolent as the way everyone makes it out to be. I mean, if you’re running late then I totally understand but, if you’re simply stuck in traffic, then it’s almost relaxing. I’m serious; every second of our day moves so incredibly quick that we can’t even enjoy it. Traffic forces us to slow down, whether we want to or not, so it’s better to just enjoy it versus instantly growing frustrated. So, of course, I drowned out the yelling and focused on the people bundled up in beanies and blankets. There were way too many people, if you ask me. That’s only because I’m scared of big crowds–most people are.

My step-mom dropped us off and we got off the car and to start walking down the street. I grabbed my stepsister’s hand so that I wouldn’t lose her in the crowd. I brought her with me so that she couldn’t cry about me not inviting her later; she’s like that. After sending a few texts, we managed to find our way to our group–the North County LGBTQ Resource Center–by 7pm. I really only knew a handful of people there but, with just my luck, my school had set up right in front of us. Jacob, a guy in the band, called me over and I said hi to him and a few others; if I’m being honest, I made conversations out of nothing just to make sure that I wouldn’t have to go back to my group and talk to new people. I don’t know why I do that, it’s pretty inane if I’m being real with myself. I expect to make new friends without being friendly… What kind of logic is that? None, I guess. I also managed to sneak by to say hi to my English teacher who I may have accidentally agreed spoke ‘way too much.’ I swear I didn’t mean it, I just didn’t want there to be a pause in the conversation because that’s always brutal and I had stuttered out a “yeah” before realizing what I was actually “yeah”-ing to. Thankfully, she laughed it off (a clear example of why I like her as much as I do.) At some point I realized that I would stop doing dumb things if I just went back to my section; it sort of worked.

After what seemed like forever, it was time to share our pride–yes, that means waving around colorful flags. I swear each flag actually means something even if it doesn’t look like it. I mean, I would assume that a pink, blue, and white flag was just a flag with pretty colors. Not that that’s not true, but it’s supposed to symbolize the transgender community. Transgenders are pretty too though, if not more, so I guess it works out that way. That’s the flag my stepsister held. She’s not a transgender but she supports them. People never seem to understand that and I can’t wrap my head around why that is. It’s really like wearing a sports team merchandise if you think about it. People wear Broncos gear but that doesn’t mean they’re a football player. They just support them. My stepsister can carry a transgender encouraged flag without being transgender. She just supports them.

Our colorful group started walking and our leader called out something rather exciting: “If we spread out enough, we can cover 60ft.”

I don’t know. It sounds kind of foolish that that is what got me excited but it truly did. I think it was the pure idea of everyone sitting alongside the curbs would see 60ft of a community and message that I believe in. It doesn’t sound like much but you really have to be passionate about something to get that feeling. That makes me happy too; having something to be passionate about. It makes me feel like I have something to live for–and no, that wasn’t intended to sound sepulchral in the slightest. It’s a good thing, really. I live to be able to express and enjoy what I’m passionate about. If I didn’t feel this way about something, I don’t know what I would be living for.

So, my vivacious 60ft of pride started down the street. I made sure to stand on the side so that I would be able to give people high-fives along the way; the people who did that in parades were always my favorite and I wanted to be my own favorite. Self-indulged? Maybe just a bit. Anyways, I did just that by high-fiving every hand that reached out to me. Each hand was fairly small considering that mostly children partook in this unsaid parade tradition. While walking, a hand attached to a pink-sweatered arm reached out and waved until I got close enough to seal the deal. This arm belonged to an unarguably cute girl with sleek black hair and bangs. She was probably around 8 years old because her endearing grin was made up with a few gaps where teeth would eventually grow in permanently. Once our hands touched, we made eye contact and it was so incredibly heartwarming. Every interaction was heartwarming, of course, but this girl was more than happy to reach her hand out and share a happy moment of her evening with me even if it only lasted for two seconds.

That is, two seconds until her mother pulled her back by her pink hood. I kept looking at the girl and her mother since the occurrence only did so much as to confuse me. And then, it came out: the words that made me grow up a little the second I saw the gapped-smile fade.

“Don’t touch those kind of people, they’re dirty.”

To this day, I don’t know if the lady was referring to the color of my skin or what my group stood for when she used the word ‘dirty’. That really irks me, but either way, it doesn’t make anything better. It’s not that I was oblivious to people who are indifferent, it was just the first time I had seem something of that sort firsthand. I really wish I never had. It was shocking but not in the sense that I didn’t know things like this occurred–it’s hard to explain, honestly.  The thought of pure, happy kids being taught otherwise makes me doleful. In a way, it knocked me off a few pegs. I realized that, despite what little difference I could ever try to make, our social system will never really reach edification because beliefs are heirlooms. Whether you inherit them or not is your choice, but a parent only feeds their children what they want them to believe. That small child, full of innocence I’m sure, thought nothing other than sharing something as simple as a high-five with someone like her. It’s her mother, who’s going to make her divide the people she once saw equal to her into tiers. Don’t get me wrong, to each their own but I can’t fathom the idea of regression. It kills my ambition.

I hate to break it to you, but my fantasy of a perfect world full of rainbows and unicorns died a lot time ago. I don’t think I was ever not faced with the reality and I have no doubt that it took away from my childhood. Seriously, I want the girl wrapped in a pink sweater to have a childhood for as long as possible. I wish I could tell her that; I’ll always wish that. Except, wishes don’t usually come true and I still had to finish walking down the street with a smile on my face and high-five other little kids while the idea of their parents teaching them ‘right from wrong’ haunted me in the process.

I finished the parade alright; it went by a lot faster than I thought too. To be frank, I was worried about the walk in it’s entirety but that’s only because I’m the laziest person you could ever meet. I swear, I could probably break a record for being lazy if I really tried to. Despite it being rather late by the time my step-mom rolled around, it wasn’t all that cold. I thought it would be worse, but I guess I didn’t pay enough attention to the temperature. It’s weird how things like that happen: I usually shiver in 80 degree weather, yet, my clouded mind made me forget about the clouded weather.

I still think about that little girl–probably more than I can take. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s simply a lot to manage and consider. It makes me feel like I can’t sit around and expect things to happen out of nothing–that’s not how life works. I feel responsible for, not just her, but anyone that could ever possibly be under my influence in that sense. It’s actually a terrifying thought if you want to know the truth.  I hope her and her smile are doing okay.

A Quotidian of Effort

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I am shocked. Completely shocked. Entering this cycle, I was overwhelmed with worries: from working with new people to producing quick-paced stories;I’m pretty sure it would even be safe to say I was on the verge of being the next 2007 Britney once assigned to work on web. With this rotation, however,  learned a lot more about myself and my work ethic in a more than positive way. I most definitely got to work outside of my comfort zone, talk/interview so many people on campus, and began to write in news format for the first time.

I found myself talking to people in my section much quicker the second time around; I thank working in photo beforehand for this – as my character grew gregarious from the experience. This attitude also applied to my interviews.

Walking into my first interview, 2007 Britney suddenly became more intriguing. Considering that web stories ranged from twenty minute conversations to asking students simple, quick questions around campus, I’d like to believe that I won’t be shaving my head anytime soon. If anything, interviews have become one of my favorite parts of journalism.

Once again, I am shocked. Completely shocked.

My next cycle choice, however, is not much of a shock: Opinion.

Considering that I have yet to write for print, I think the process would be rather interesting; will my 2007 Britney phase return? Most likely. Writing for print and opinion, however, has seemed to be my main goal for journalism; either way, I’m more than happy with my development in journalism as a whole.

Driving Solo

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Where one might grow up admiring their father from between their arms, Aracely Ruiz saw her father through bars on Easter between 11am to 3pm; the visitation hours of the prison nearby.

Upon being released from his strenuous sentence, Ruiz was under the impression of starting a strong relationship with her father. As time passed, however, Ruiz came to the realization that this would not be the case.

“October 18, 2014 was the day I thought things would change. It was the first time in ten years that I had seem [my dad] in something other than grey sweats and a tank top. He got a job and everything was looking up for me,” Ruiz said. “Until he found himself a girlfriend – a new family. It was as if he forgot he had kids of his own; she became the only priority in his life.”

Ruiz found that, as time passed, her father only became more distant and less of a dad.

“He would flip out if I even asked for five dollars to buy a Coaster ticket,” Ruiz said. “It was like I still didn’t have a dad in my life… again.”

At this time, Ruiz began to resent her father for the endless neglection she felt.

“He didn’t care about me so I wantes nothing to do with him,” Ruiz said. “I still don’t and that’s really sad to realize.”

Ruiz knew that to help herself cope, being doleful was not the answer. This conclusion allowed Ruiz to push herself to do something that would better her confidence.

“I always said I wanted my own car; but it’s really so much more that,” Ruiz said. “I wanted to do something for myself, to show that I didn’t need a father to do things for me.”

Where most find themselves alongside their parents once entering the world of adulthood, Ruiz found herself proud of the life she has laid out for herself.

“I’m only 18 years old and I provide myself with what I need all on my own,” Ruiz said. “I have my own job now and am enrolled in college; both of which I drive myself to in my own lil’ PT Cruiser… purchased without my father’s paycheck.”

Ruiz explains that one should not be dependant on someone else for their own success.

“No one but yourself should determine how far you go in life. If you want to make something out of yourself, you need to be the one to do it. You. You are strong enough to rely on yourself,” Ruiz said. “God knows I am.”

What’s to Come

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For the upcoming cycle, I would like to get the experience of writing. While typically refraining from allowing eyes to view my words, I hope that journalism will disseminate a sense of confidence in terms of what I write. Perhaps, as stated before, I would like to work with opinion. I feel that, if not fully engrossed in a topic, writing can be viewed as more of an assignment over an enjoyable outlet; I believe that the freedom of writing for opinion will ensure said joy.

Of course, I think of myself as fairly opinionated. Based off my character, however, I tend to keep said opinions to myself. Writing is a way to amplify my voice without using my voice – at least, that is how I prefer to perceive it.

I believe that opinon would be a solid choice to help me flourish; imagine what it would be like to break out of your cocoon.