I log out of the computer, swing my bag across my shoulder, and stride out of the room. The school day’s over now, but there’s still work to do. Walk through the flowing currents of people, out to the busses. Wait in line as the heat exhaust encases me.
“How was your day?” My friend asks me, the same lines we’ve repeated since seventh grade. “Alright,” I say. I look up and smile, waiting. “Just alright?” She asks. “No, it was good,” I say. The bus driver comes then, sporting her usual stone-cold, don’t-even-try-me face. Swaying in step, each foot after the other. She reaches the doors, and prys them open with her long, gold-painted fingernails. We pour on through.
Our seats have been taken this year, and we slide into R9. I always take the window seat in the afternoon. We sit there in silence, and I look out through the glass.
I come home to be greeted by a wailing cat, and the music of my dad’s guitar. Set down my bag only to swing it back upon my shoulder, haul my rusting cruiser down brick steps, and ride on into town.
Just four years ago I stepped into my first journalism class, to find my all-consuming passion. I love it all: the hours of editing videos, meeting new people, photographing events, sitting in on town meetings, reading and writing…
I arrive, and park my bike by the street curb. Walk into the Sanford Herald. “Hey, Aida!” My editor calls out. “Hi!” I reply. “Come on back”.
I walk past people and piles of paper to sit down on the same broken rolly chair as I have for months. It squeaks as I scoot towards the desk. We discuss my recent article on the “Pirates of the Saint Juans Festival,” and the events that I’ll be covering for future issues.
Journalism is my passion. It’s all about the stories, the people. I don’t know where I’ll be a year from now, but I do know that all I want to do is film more videos, write more articles, and photograph more events. Who knows? Maybe someday I will be a National Geographic journalist.
