Jami the Un-Journalist

I've always been a writer, since, I guess, I could write. I've always made up stories just to amuse myself and I do like playing with words. I like getting the sounds just right. So, in high school, when you start to think about what you'll be someday, and you get past the unrealistic stuff, like I'm going to be a famous actress/singer/astronaut and work with children, my thoughts turned to journalism. I like action, I like writing and the school newspaper seemed like it would be a natural fit. I took Journalism 1 and 2 and did fine. However, I learned two important things: 1. They don't like it when you make up the endings (or even middle) to make it a better story and 2. You can't put much of "yourself" into the story, if you know what I mean. Most working journalists who aren't opinion columnists don't get to have a very distinctive style, IMO. Maybe you think I'm wrong and that you can tell just reading the first 'graph who the byline will be, but mostly it's a standard, flair-less pursuit. In high school, I often would be looking for just the right quote to fill out an article and I found a great method. I'd find a friend, explain my story and say "Could I quote you as saying . . . " and miraculously I always got just the quote I needed. I believe this may stretch the boundaries of good journalistic ethics. I do sometimes wonder how I'd have done in the field. Perhaps I'd have found a niche, like sports reporting where you can add some more personality. Or maybe I'd be Dave Barry with a better haircut. Due to some confusion during my Journ 2 class, I didn't get to try my hand at column writing, which probably would have been my best bet. I soured on the whole newsprint thing and went to college to major in the Discipline of Speech Communications, with a Focus on Broadcasting (is what my curriculum was entitled) intent on directing TV news. Along the way, I fell in love with radio, and even though I interned in TV, I stuck with radio for quite a few years after that. My radio work led me to the job I had in software design, a field I surely never considered. Isn't it odd the path life leads you down?

Jami Saw History in Action

It's odd to me how things can trigger a memory you haven't thought about in years. A commercial for my alma mater, the venerable Edinboro University of PA (Official Motto: Yes, we know the spelling is different than the Scottish city), mentioned meeting people from all over the world and instantly I thought of this random memory: My roommate and I had befriended a nice boy named June (spelling was probably different, this was more than 15 years ago) from Czechoslovakia. He was a "second year freshman" mostly due to language barriers. I forget what his major was. Doesn't matter, really. June was visiting, just hanging out and I had the news on. They started talking about the plan created by the Czech government to split the country. Of course, we turned up the TV and watched. He crept closer to the TV, squinting, studying the map. When the story ended, he turned to us and said "I don't know where I'm from." June's family lived on the line the reporter had drawn down the country. He couldn't tell which new country his family would be in. Was his passport still good? Could he go home? What airport would he go to, what if he went to the one in the wrong country? If he left the US, would he be able to get back in? It would have been the middle of the night in Europe and with the cost of international calls, June hadn't talked to his family in several weeks. He'd have to wait until morning to call. What could I say? I certainly couldn't assure him it would all work out - who knew? Couldn't offer advice - I sure haven't been through that. I walked him back down to the lobby because he wanted to go back to his room and wait until he could call his parents. What else could he do? There isn't much more to the story. He got in contact with his family who assured him they were fine and it would all work out. He'd be getting a new passport, he could still come home and go back to school. They told him which country they were in (though I've since forgotten). It did all work out. I learned that night that world events aren't just world changing, they are people changing. Each major news story, no matter how boring or irrelevant it seems to us, effects untold numbers of Junes. You probably already know that, but I saw it that day. And it's always good to be reminded of that.

Jami and That Homeless Guy

Did you ever see something that just stuck with you? I was downtown a few days ago and walked by the park that I used to be able to see from my office window. I immediately flashed back to a day when a coworker and I sat at the window for about 35 minutes and watched a homeless guy walk around that park, luring pigeons. See, we started watching because he was clearly trying to get the pigeons to come to him and it wasn't really working. He'd throw some food at them and then run to where they flocked to eat it. The process was hilarious, and I'd called her over to watch with me. Then, suddenly changing strategy, he sat down and took out handfuls of something (food??) from his coat pockets. He put one arm all the way out and the other about halfway down that arm. And to our utter shock, one of the pigeons landed on his outstretched hand. Faster than you'd believe possible - he closed the other hand on it and had a pigeon. We sat stunned, as he stuffed it into a nearby duffel bag and repeated the procedure. FIVE TIMES. We debated calling someone - who do you call about a homeless man nabbing pigeons?? Is it even illegal? We didn't know and before we could even take action, he picked up his pigeon-laden bag and strolled off. There are too many unanswered questions on that one to even start asking, so I'll just say: every now and then I think about That Homeless Guy. And his 6 captured pigeons. And wonder.

Jami the Firefighter

a random memory I was in my bedroom, and very little: 4, maybe 5 years old. I'd found an uninflated balloon and had been filling it up in the bathroom sink and hosing off the wall next to the door in my room. The balloon, red of course, was my firehose and I was a fireman (at the time, they still weren't saying firefighter.) The entry of my room had bare wood, no carpet, so I wasn't soaking the carpet. I happily "put out the fire" on my wall, dresser, door, floor, and probably a few toys. It was great, really. I think I might have found my calling. Little Jami, Girl Fireman! Until my mom walked in. I believe she went with the standard "What are you DOING??" I knew, even at that tender age, that my best bet here would be lying. Telling her I'd been firefighting would lead to bad things, I just knew it. My tiny brain churned and I blurted out: "I'm cleaning my room! I'm washing the walls!" Brilliant, and what's better? She bought it! My mother, apparently believing the best in me, said "Oh, that's so nice, but next time you want to clean, please let me know and I'll get you the right stuff to clean with." Sorry, Mom. I can only now appreciate what a horrible blessing it is to have a child with a great imagination.

Jami and the Blue Haired Girl

a random memory As a high school freshman (freshperson?) I hung out with a group called "the Freaks" by the other kids. Think of goth-style clothing, but without all the death and creepiness. We wore black, read poetry, liked art and books and (in our estimation, I'm sure) looking dramatic. One of the reasons I loved the Freaks was they embraced all styles and such - you didn't have to wear all black to "fit in"; one girl dressed so preppy that I heard overheard someone say "Why does she hang with the Freaks? She dresses nice enough to be friends with anyone". Tracy, one of the Freaks,was beautiful and had long flowing blue hair that I secretly envied, even knowing it would look wrong on me. I desperately wanted her to like me. Not that she didn't. Tracy's thing was being sort of aloof. Young and trying to be cooler than I felt, I knew the group accepted me, but I still wanted to be Tracy's friend. Heck, I wanted to be Tracy. I thought the kids who made fun of the Freaks didn't pick on her, but more likely, I just didn't see it. Tracy had learned to not give a rat's behind what they thought;I had yet to grasp that important lesson. I truly believed that her ultimate coolness and grace transcended clique lines and even the "in" crowd wouldn't dare bother Tracy. At an assembly, I had unfortunately been seated by two boys who teased me regularly. Adding to the horror, I spotted Tracy's blue hair diagonally in front of me. She'd hear them make fun of me, and not want to associate with such a dork. The boys started in on my clothes (all black, of course) and my nail polish (also black). One jerk said "You must be a devil worshipper if you have black nails. Black nail polish means you worship Satan". Dumb, hunh? But as a young Christian, also sort of devastating. I didn't know how to respond. Tears threatened as I floundered for a cool response. Tracy whipped around, blue hair flying out. "What is wrong with you idiots? I have blue nail polish, does that mean I bite the heads off live chickens? " The boys were silenced; how do you respond to that? "If she wants to wear black nail polish, and even if she does worship Satan, what the hell business is that of yours? Why don't you shut the hell up and mind your own damn business, you (really bad word) jerks!" Their jaws fell. Tracy nodded to me and said "hey" in her usual relaxed manner before turning back around. The assembly started, but I floated on the glory: Tracy stood up for me! She'd shut up the boys I never could. It was better than if she'd stood on the stage and yelled "Jami's cool and I like her." She might have just been sicking of hearing them spout off. She might have felt sorry for me, the pathetic newbie Freak desperately seeking her approval. She might really have liked me. At the time, it didn't matter why, because I just needed it. The ironic end to the story - when I was a senior, I heard that Tracy's sister was a freshman. I sought her out and said "Hi, I'm Jami, I was friends with your sister." The younger sister, carefully dressed in the latest fashions and surrounded by clones said to me quietly, "Don't tell people that. My sister was a total weirdo." I thought of standing up for Tracy, but I knew that while I'd finally learned to not care, this one hadn't yet. I just smiled. "She sure was. Me too."

Jami Shares the Memory

When I'm working, or really, when I'm doing anything sort of mindless, my brain picks a memory and sort of reruns it. I think about how I felt about it then and how I feel about it now. I ponder how it changed me and made me who I am now. Because let's face it, we are, at any given time, partially formed of what we've lived through - good and bad. I don't know if I'm more introspective than others, or if this is something we all do. I wonder if how I look at things now is how I'll look at them in another 5 years, especially if it isn't how I looked at it 5 years ago. I have one friend who says that when he hits "major" birthdays (the 5's, you know - 20, 25, 30, etc) that he looks back and says "Man, I was a jerk then", but at least it's a different kind of jerk each time, right? It's important me to understand myself and my motives. I tell you think because I have some random memory posts in the works and now you'll know why.

Jami, the Coworkers and the Email

a random memory Several years ago, I worked in the engineering department of a software company. One of my coworkers was a young, just-out-of-college, single guy, Ameet. Once a week, Ameet and a group of his friends played some basketball, just friendly pick up games, you know? But on those days, they'd email smack talk back around to each other, and sometimes we'd hear Ameet chuckling and then furiously typing. I don't know where Ameet had his personal email account, but some of them, like Hotmail, limit the number of emails you can send in one day, trying to cut back on spammers. Ameet had exceeded his personal limit for that day, and had to start smack talking from his business account. You might see where this is going. A few minutes after Ameet sent an email along the lines of "Say that to my face and I'll slap you like the b**ch you are" he got an email from a guy in our marketing department. Not your stereotypical outgoing marketing guy, but a shy, quiet guy who worked there for two years and I couldn't even tell you if he was married. The email said "Ameet - I don't think this email is for me. Bob" Yup. Ameet's work email had that auto-complete, so when he typed Bob, it just assumed he meant Bob at work, not Bob who apparently is a little b**ch. In case you are wondering, yes, people of Indian descent can indeed blush. Neither of them ever mentioned it again. Of course the rest of us did. Some days I do miss working.

Jami and Yuki

a random memory in three conversations In college I met Yuki, a nice Japanese girl whose English was a bit weak. The first time I chatted with her, she said "Pardon my English, it is not good." Jami: Oh, your English is fine. It's certainly better than my Japanese. Yuki: You speak Japanese? Jami: (after a long pause) uh, Hi! (if you don't know, "hi" is "yes" in Japanese) Yuki: Oh good! (she rattles off a long stream of what I assume is Japanese) Jami: Um, nope, sorry. That was all the Japanese I knew. Oh, and "Domo Arigato". (in my head I add "Mr. Roboto!") Yuki: You are right. Your Japanese is more not good. A few weeks later, after class: Yuki: Your skin is very white. Jami: Um, yeah. It sure is. Yuki: You'd be very popular in Japan. Girls want to have very white skin. Jami: Really? (I assume it's a trying to look western thing) Yuki: Yes. If you work outside, your skin gets dark. That means your family is poor. So girls want light skin so they look like a good family. You look like you have never worked. Jami: Thanks. I guess. During a class debate, Yuki had trouble defending her position and basically went silent. I took up her fight and did my best. Afterward, she thanked me. Yuki: This is why I like you, Jami. You are a tree. Jami: Did you just call me a tree? Yuki: Yes. Where I am from (Yuki used this expression to mean her hometown, not all of Japan), women are not supposed to be trees. Trees are strong and don't . . . (she swayed to one side, bending at the waist). Women are flowers, they are pretty, but the breeze blows them. Jami: Thanks, Yuki. Yuki: I am trying to be a tree, too. But maybe one that sways a little. And has flowers. Jami: I think you're really wise. Yuki: No, people just say that when they can't understand you. Yuki and I both graduated that fall. I never heard from her. I hope she's having a good life.