Clerking from the Sports Desk

To Natalie.

Four years and one week after starting at The Sacramento Bee, on July 25, 2010, I finally moved upstairs - and by upstairs, Imean from the packaging center to the newsroom. It was the most exciting week of mylifeup until that point. For four years, I worked in the loudest, largest and most labor-intensive department atThe Bee, all the while planning my escape of sorts - and while getting paper cuts, cardboard cuts and playing chicken with pallet jacks and forklifts.

When I finally got the transfer, my coworkers and friends were more happy and relieved than jealous and angry. A lot of them recognized my potential almost from the moment we met, and my experience working for two college newspapers set the stage for my eventual move.

I finally made it upstairs :-) I told all my friends that I plan to move upstairs and get my name in the paper one day. Working "at" The Bee was an enjoyable and humbling experience. Since July 25, I could now say I work "for" The Bee ... As a sports clerk. Yes, I know I'm not the biggest sports fan most of you know, and truth be told, I was actually offered this job once before about three years ago. Stupid me turned it down at the time, but I digress.

It feels humbling being able to walk into the newsroom each evening during my shifts and NOT feel out of place. Even when I shadowed the copy editing staff last year, I felt like I was the factory worker checking out "how the otherhalf lived." In my former department, we did not even have our own e-mail addresses. Now, not only do I have one of my own, I also have one of these:

It was a big change in more ways than one. My new position was a night job, involves working at a computer for a great deal of time and fielding calls from readers about sports scores, complaints and the occasional correction. I would soon learn from my coworkers that people call for "other" reasons aswell.

I thought I would have a tough time up here because all the people I knew were very high on the totem pole. As it turns out, almost everyone in the sports department has been very nice to me, and willing to lend a helping had if I did not know what to do or was looking for help (which, during the first few weeks, I desperatelyneeded). Listening to the copy editors and page designers chat and BS amongst themselves makes every night entertaining to some degree.

Among my first duties was to learn how to use Hermes, the newsroom computer system for article and page editing. My partner, Dennis Hansen, taught me the ropes and showed me a great deal of shortcuts and tricks on how to make life on theagate, or scoreboard pages, and pain-free as possible. Our first three weeks together were training sessions, complete with learning code, searching for stories on the AP wires and rewriting code so what we drop on the page will actually fit.

My main page - the scoreboard. Every night I'm here, this puppy's a clean slate. From 5 until just after 10 p.m., my job is to fill in this page as much as possible. Our budget list includes what items to put on the scoreboard, and what items to put with their respective sports. On Sundays (for Monday publication), I put all the NFL stats and box scores on the football page. On Mondays (for Tuesday publication), the NBA standings and scores go where they need to be.

Fridays (particularly this time of year) are the craziest. On those nights, not only do Dennis and I get to work together, we also have half a dozen interns working alongside us, taking calls from coaches and recording those scores. On those nights, I deal mainly with the agate while Dennis coordinates with the interns.

Ironically, uploading articles to the Sac Bee website was the position I was aiming for. I still do the upload - just only for the sports section as part of my clerk duties. When I told Tom Negrete, the Bee's online managing editor and one of my newsroom contacts, about my planned move in July, he steered me in the sports-clerk direction. He believed, however, that my chances of getting this job were slim to none because they already had their eyes on two prospects (I later learned that BOTH prospects had dropped out of consideration and another just said "no").

"When you try to kick Elmo's ass, you better bring a lunchbox because it's gonna be an all-day affair," Jeff Caraska, Sacramento Bee Copy Editor.

The Unrealized Life of Ben Schilter

This is an essay I originally wrote for my English 1C, an autobiographical incident, blended with "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty"

"We’re going through!" The commander's voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye.

"We can't make it, sir. It's spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me."

"I'm not asking you, Lt. Berg," the commander said. "Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8500! We're going through!"

The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials.

"Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" he shouted.

"Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" repeated Lt. Berg.

"Full strength in No. 3 turret!" the commander shouted.

"Full strength in No. 3 turret!" The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engine Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned.

"The Old Man'll get us through," they said to one another. "The Old Man ain't afraid of hell!" . . .

Flying through a storm was exactly how I felt as I walked down the hall to my counselor’s office that day. Each turn was an evasive maneuver – whether it was to steer clear of a fellow schoolmate, since I did not quite feel like dealing with him or her right then, or make sure I did not walk into any doors, something I was famous for back in middle school. The only thing on my mind at the time was all that English homework I had to finish before I could graduate. I told myself everything was going to be all right – despite the fact I had six weeks of English 11 work to complete in only two days. If only I could have wrapped my mind around the fact I could complete those assignments and maintain a level of self-control, I just might have been able to keep from self-destructing. No matter how hard I tried, however, I just could not seem to keep my mind on my work. I kept drifting off losing large blocks of time because of my daydreams. In the case of my English work, I kept imagining I was somehow mentally able to finish my work. By just waving my hand over those 15-plus page packets, they would fill themselves in. Right now, all I was focusing on was getting to that office.

Imaginative (adj.): of or pertaining to the imagination; proceeding from, or characterized by, imagination

When we were 1 or 2 years old we had what we might visualize as a 360-degree personality. Energy radiated out from all parts of our body and all parts of our psyche. A child running is a living globe of energy. We had a ball of energy, all right; but one day we noticed that our parents didn’t like certain parts of that ball. (Bly 20)

So we are a happy family and we have no secrets from one another. If we are unhappy, we are to keep it a secret and we are unhappy that we have to keep it a secret and unhappy that we have to keep secret the fact that we have to keep it a secret and that we are keeping all that secret. But since we are a happy family as you can see this difficulty does not arise. (Goleman 176)

Happy families are anything but happy, I thought after reading that passage. What all parties perceive as normal routine could very well be attempts at suppressing something about those parties involved. In the case of me personally, I have a hard time talking to anyone about my personal problems, since I try to convince myself I have no personal problems. Yet I seem so adamant to talk about otherworldly things – things that are not related to what I’m going through at all, but things that help me forget (or at the very least, keep my mind off of) the fact that I have been going through turbulent times. As a result, I find myself talking to counselors – or even social workers, very often.

“Not so fast! You’re driving too fast!” said Mrs. Mitty. “What are you driving so fast for?”

“I have a tendency to imagine things a lot. Sometimes, I get so caught up in my imaginations I don’t realize what I’m actually doing half the time, and as a result, I tend to get in trouble.”

My counselor looked at me intuitively and said: “Please, continue.”

“Hmm?” said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd.

“You were up to 55,” she said. “You know I don’t like to go more than 40. You were up to 55.”

Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in 20 years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind.

“You’re tensed up again,” Mrs. Mitty said. “It’s one of your days. I wish you’d let Dr. Renshaw look you over.”

We spend our life until we’re 20 deciding what parts of ourself to put into the bag, and we spend the rest of our lives trying to get them out again. Sometimes retrieving them feels impossible, as if the bag were sealed … but the substance of the bag takes on a personality of its own; it can’t be ignored. (Bly 21)

Shadow (n): hidden, disowned, or unrealized aspects of a person.

The term “the shadow,” as a psychological concept, refers to the dark, feared, unwanted side of our personality. In developing a conscious personality we all seek to embody in ourselves a certain image of what we want to be like. Those qualities that could have become a part of this conscious personality, but are not in accord with the person we want to be, are rejected and constitute the shadow personality. (Sanford 49)

“So tell me, Mr. Schilter. What are some things that you enjoy doing? Do you feel as if your hobbies give you solace from having to deal with all of your difficulties by making you feel in control of a situation?”

In the operating room there were whispered introductions: "Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty. Dr. Pritchard-Mitford, Dr. Mitty." … A huge, complicated machine, connected to the operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

"The new anesthetizer is giving away!" shouted an intern. "There is no one in the East who knows how to fix it!"

"Quiet, man!" said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang to the machine, which was now going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep. He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials.

"Give me a fountain pen!" he snapped.

Someone handed him a fountain pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its place.

"That will hold for ten minutes," he said. "Get on with the operation.”

A nurse hurried over and whispered to Renshaw, and Mitty saw the man turn pale.

"Coreopsis has set in," Renshaw said nervously. "If you would take over, Dr. Mitty?"

Mitty looked at him and at the craven figure of Benbow, who drank, and at the grave, uncertain faces of the two great specialists.

"If you wish," he said.

They slipped a white gown on him, he adjusted a mask and drew on thin gloves; nurses handed him shining…

Humble (adj.): modest or unassuming in attitude or behavior

“I would have to say I’ve always liked working with computers.” I replied. “I’ve been working on computers since I started middle school. I was introduced to the program by a good friend of my sister. Much of what I learned about computers helped me deal with life, so to speak.”

When a programming problem arises, I’m usually one of the first people called upon to fix it. I was a student assistant at my former middle school since I was a sophomore in high school. I always liked the sense of freedom and authority I had there; it was not much, but I had enough to get the computers working. I enjoyed the fact I was able to spend much of my time working with computers while at the same time slowly but surely getting through high school. Day in and day out I would learn many different tricks as to how to get different computers working in record time. As time went by I found myself using similar tricks to get through more than just computer problems. I did not really seek recognition for performing my duties; I just did them to the premise of, “a handshake, a pat on the back, and an, ‘Oh, Ben, there’s something else.’”

“That sounds good, Ben, but let’s talk about what we both know you are here for. Are you OK with that?” My counselor looked at me.

“I suppose … depends on what you plan on bringing up, but honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about” I replied.

scapegoat (n.): someone who is unjustly blamed for causing upset or distress by another person who is unwilling or unable to take personal responsibility for his or her actions — Or in this case, directing the blame towards oneself; whether aware of the fact or not

. . . "Perhaps this will refresh your memory." The District Attorney suddenly thrust a heavy automatic at the quiet figure on the witness stand. "Have you ever seen this before?''

Walter Mitty took the gun and examined it expertly.

"This is my Webley-Vickers 50.80," ho said calmly.

An excited buzz ran around the courtroom. The judge rapped for order.

"You are a crack shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?" said the District Attorney, insinuatingly.

"Objection!" Mitty's attorney shouted. "We have shown that the defendant could not have fired the shot. We have shown that he wore his right arm in a sling on the night of the 14th of July."

Walter Mitty raised his hand briefly and the bickering attorneys were stilled.

"With any known make of gun," he said evenly, "I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at 300 feet with my left hand…"

“And is there anything else you want to know about that incident? You already have the information; why do you want me to repeat it?”

By that point, I was not happy with the direction this conversation had taken. In effect, he wanted me to talk about something I had tried very hard to forget for years.

“To get that giant weight off your chest …” was what he had told me. All the memories resurfaced the moment he showed me that picture – a drawing of a wall painting I made with two names on it: one of them mine. That picture caused me so much grief during middle school that I refused to own up to it. I even went through a mild depression as a result of that picture being discovered.

Selfless (n.): having no regard for oneself; altruistic; regard for, and devotion to, the interest of others.

. . . "The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir," the sergeant said. Captain Mitty looked up at him through tousled hair.

"Get him to bed," he said wearily, "with the others. I'll fly alone."

"But you can't, sir," said the sergeant anxiously. "It takes two men to handle that bomber and the Archies are pounding hell out of the air. Von Richtman's circus is between here and Saulier."

"Somebody's got to get that ammunition dump," Mitty said. "I'm going over. Spot of brandy?"

He poured a drink for the sergeant and one for himself. War thundered and whined around the dugout and battered at the door. There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room.

"A bit of a near thing," Capt. Mitty said carelessly.

“The box barrage is closing in," said the sergeant.

"We only live once, Sergeant," Mitty said, with his faint, fleeting smile. "Or do we?"

He poured another brandy and tossed it off…

"It's 40 kilometers through hell, sir," said the sergeant.

Mitty finished one last brandy.

"After all," he said softly, "what isn't?"…

Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming "Aupres de Ma Blonde." He turned and waved to the sergeant.

"Cheerio!" he said. . . .

inquisitive (adj.): disposed to ask questions; improperly curious—or in this case, the way my counselor’s been acting all afternoon.

At the time it was a hell of a coincidence that a school shooting had occurred almost a year ago at the time; my drawing was in commemoration of two people killed in a fictitious shooting at my own school – myself, and another person who (for the sake of my sanity) will remain unnamed. I thought it was an innocent picture to be used for a math project. I could not have been more wrong or more stupid. Next thing I know, the entire school administration was informed of my drawing and I was facing two weeks of suspension with possible expulsion from school if I did not explain myself. I eventually admitted the drawing to be a serious mistake and reassured the staff that I had no intention of carrying out a school shooting – something they had most feared since my math teacher turned in the picture to the vice principals. By that time, the damage had been done. I had alienated my closest friends, my teachers viewed me with contempt for the rest of the school year and the other person featured in the drawing had transferred out of school during the affair, a fact that my math teacher would make very clear to me when I was insubordinate in class. Most of all, I never forgave myself for putting everyone through such an unnecessary hardship.

I cannot understand my own behavior. I fail to carry out the things I want to do, and find myself doing the very things I hate. When I act against my own will, that means I have a self that acknowledges that the law is good, and so the thing behaving in that way is not myself but sin living in me … with the result that instead of doing the good things I want to do, I carry out the sinful things I do not want. (Sanford 58)

During that time I felt as if the entire world was caving in on me. That drawing created so many problems for me that I wanted to die rather than face that harsh reality. I had trouble accepting that this situation turned out to be such a fiasco. It got to the point where on some evenings while waiting under a light post, I pictured myself standing atop a gallows. I imagined telling the men standing with me to put the burlap sack over my face before anyone saw me. I tried to come to grips with reality and lost – now I just wanted to put all of this behind me. I stood at attention as the tribunal counted down. The last thing I remembered was the floor falling out from under me before a friend called out my name from the distance.

"I've been looking all over this hotel for you," said Mrs. Mitty. "Why do you have to hide in this old chair? How did you expect me to find you?"

"Things close in," said Walter Mitty vaguely.

"What?" Mrs. Mitty said. "Did you get the ‘what's-its-name’? The puppy biscuit? What's in that box?"

"Overshoes," Mitty said.

"Couldn't you have put them on in the store?"

“I was thinking," said Walter Mitty. "Does it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?"

She looked at him.

"I'm going to take your temperature when I get you home," she said.

fleeting (adj): passing quickly; ephemeral

When we understand how an unassimilated shadow personality can be projected with such socially disturbing effects, we can begin to appreciate that this matter of the Shadow is of the greatest concern and can see how closely connected this psychological problem is to the problem of evil … How a person comes to recognize his or her Shadow is difficult to describe in general terms because it must always come about individually … There are also slips of the tongue, unconscious forgetting, and our fantasies. (Jung 61)

inscrutable (adj.): incapable of being searched into and understood; enigmatic, incomprehensible

After my appointment, I went out through the double doors that made a faintly derisive whistling sound when pushed. It was two blocks to the parking lot.

At the store on the corner Mitty’s wife said, "Wait here for me. I forgot something. I won't be a minute."

She was more than a minute. As I approached Walter Mitty, he lighted a cigarette. It began to rain, rain with sleet in it. Walter and I stood up against the wall of the drugstore, smoking … We put our shoulders back and clicked our heels together.

He looked to me and said "To hell with the handkerchief."

He took one last drag on his cigarette and passed it to me. After I took a drag, I snapped it away. Then, with those faint, fleeting smiles playing about our lips, he and I faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty and Ben Schilter the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.

Ben. (Prop. N.): imaginative, humble, inquisitive; hesitant, self-imposed scapegoat, unwitting, inscrutable; candid; human.

Be nice to me; I gave blood today

Those eight words mean a great deal to me, and not just because I did a good deed. In one fell swoop, I learned the importance of blood donation - and the effects of losing a decent amount of blood in a short time.

I must say that I experienced no apprehension going in to the blood drive. It seemed simple enough: fill out a couple forms, certify that I am not infected with any diseases or otherwise sick, and sit in a room for a few minutes while filling a bag with potentially lifesaving serum. I wanted to experience donating blood, but I had no idea what was in store for me.

So, with Marcy by my side, I went to the blood drive. I was impressed by the large amount of people willing to donate, and the efficiency by which this operation was organized. There were sections for sign-up, sections for filling out the surveys, a screening area, waiting areas, and finally, the main donation areas and refreshments counters. I thought I would be just fine with the big breakfast I had at 8 this morning - problem was, that was more than five hours before I donated.

My first stop: the screening table. This is where they check to see if you have enough iron in your blood to make a donation. The rule is 15 seconds or less; if it takes any longer for your sample to reach the bottom of the beaker, I'm not sure what would happen. My sample dropped like a rock - this was good. After the test, the nurse checked my blood pressure. The verdict: 98/52, somewhat low but still acceptable.

I still felt no adverse apprehension; I thought a subconscious fear of blood would suddenly make me freak out, or that a hidden fear of needles would make me bicker like a high school girl. The finger prick did not hurt in the least, and the main needle for the donation wasn't much of a bother either (though it could be because the nurse drawing my blood was rubbing some sort of numbing agent over my vein; it was more annoying than anything).

When it finally came time for me to donate, I took one look at the needle and said, "That thing is huge." I did not want to see it going in. I was given some rubber object to squeeze, but I soon asked for a plush ball because the rubber was getting harder to manipulate. I soon felt why.

As I was filling the bag, I started getting very hot, my vision started to fade and the room was beginning to spin; I also started sweating profusely. It was at that point I started to feel a bit scared. My nurse, Stacy, put a compress on my head and tilted my chair back so my feet were in the air. She said this was to better promote circulation. She also wanted me to move my feet as if I were pedaling a bike. All while this was happening, the ball was getting harder to squeeze and I was becoming slightly delirious.

Is this what it's like to lose a lot of blood? I wondered to myself. Could this feeling be why blood donation is so important?

I felt better while I was in the reclined position, albeit still on the brink of fainting. My vision started to return and it was getting slightly easier to manipulate the plush ball.

"Halfway there," Stacy told me.

My condition stabilized at head-spinning; I did not feel an urge to throw up, though I wanted SO bad to take a nap right then and there. Looking across the way, I could see that Marcy had to switch arms for donating, and was eventually on a roll. She was seated after I was, yet was able to get up and walk away before I regained my bearings.

"Three quarters of the way there; almost at the finish line," Stacy told me. What the heck was taking so long? She drew four more beakers from me, and we were done.

The rule was to stay in the room for 15 minutes after donating in order to recover. I used every second of those 15 minutes, plus more. The nurses put more compresses on my head and neck and I stayed in the reclined position after my donation was done. When Stacy asked if I wanted to sit up, I said yes.

Bad idea.

Barely a few seconds after sitting up, my head spun and I lost most of my sight again. I asked Stacy to set me back and she went to get me a drink. After a regimen of goldfish crackers and a powerade, Stacy set me back up and passed me off to another nurse. The second nurse removed my compresses and asked how I was feeling. I was dizzy but not nauseous. Apparently that was good, and to be expected from someone donating for the first time.

I never thought a peanut butter cookie would taste so good. After I was finally able to set up without a major dizzy fit, I walked over to the refreshments table where I once again ran into Marcy. I told her about my experience and she said that's what happens to first-timers, or to people who lie about their weight to donate blood. At that point, I felt more like I woke up to a hangover. Ironically, one of the donating rules is to not have alcohol for 24 hours - or go to a hot tub or jacuzzi - or to engage in strenuous activity - and to eat a hearty meal as soon as possible.

One year ago this month, I signed up to be on the national bone marrow registry. This past summer, I signed up to be an organ donor. Today, I donated blood. What those experiences taught me is that we all have the capability and the willpower to make a difference in someone else's life.

Seeing so many of my fellow students selflessly donating blood - even if for a competition with another university, made me think to myself if people are willing to donate blood, why are they then so skittish about donating their organs - or even their bone marrow. We have nothing to fear by sharing a piece of fabric from our being with another human being. We shouldn't have anything to fear by giving a part of ourselves so someone's daughter or son can make it to their own graduation day. We're all on the same path in this life, and sometimes we need to help each other along the way.

Yes, we really do save lives.

Feathered Cap

This is a creative writing assignment I had back in high school that told the story of my high school graduation - from my mortarboard's perspective. I recently rewrote it to tell the story of my upcoming graduation from Sacramento State - once again, from my mortarboard's perspective.

Please enjoy!

As I fluttered in the air savoring the evening breeze, gazing through the sky as my friends joined me in this orchestra of flight, I looked back to the day when this all started … back to the day that made this all possible. I led a far simpler life, peering through the window of a small shop. I was the featured showcase of the local shop. This time of year the school kids would be looking at me and for me. Younger children would gaze upon me and imagine the day they would cross that final checkpoint to the rest of their lives. The college kids would also look upon me, and reminisce when they witnessed their brothers or sisters don me and the looks upon their faces would make my tenure at the window worth it.

Then he came in … a tall, dark-skinned fellow with a grin from ear to ear and one thing on his mind. He had told my shopkeeper a friend had told him to come in. He was looking for a certain item … one he could use at school. It was a one-night event, he mentioned, and the shopkeep understood. The other items he picked up, I paid no attention to, but one item – a golden tassel, caught my eye. The shopkeep then came in my direction and picked me up from my stand. At that moment, I knew I would be destined for greatness.

“Since you seem such a special fellow,” the shopkeep told the young man, “I will let you have this special item right here. Made from a fine fabric, this should fit your description – and the top of your head, just fine.”

I remember being taken into the back room where people admired the look of my friends atop their heads as I awaited my moment of glory. The shopkeep then placed me atop this young man’s head and turned us to face the mirror. As I looked at myself and this young man, I felt as if I would now experience for sure what the little children have said as they looked upon me. I know my tenure with this young man would be worth it.

After this young man voiced his approval, the shopkeep helped remove the robe he tried on and folded it neatly. He put the other items neatly into a paper bag and placed me into a round box. I had to admit, the box was quite warm, but I am claustrophobic. As I took a last look around the shop, I told my friends that I was going to a better place and I will see them again someday. Afterward, I remembered being placed into the backseat of a car and driving away. Where I was going, I did not know. I didn’t know what time it was, what road we were on, I didn’t even know the young man’s name – up until I overheard the conversation he was having with a lady friend of his.

“Ben, I know you’re looking forward to next month but why did we have to come all the way out to Burlingame to pick up this stuff?”

I then heard him say, “I thought you would enjoy the scenery. Besides, a friend of mine recommended that shop because the shopkeep is his uncle.”

“And you got a discount?” She asked him.

“No.”

“You’re hard to read sometimes, do you know that?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll try to publish a revised version of myself.”

As I sat in that box awaiting my fate and listening to these two people converse, I thought of the experiences I would have with this young man, whom I now know as Ben. I looked back to the days where those and those before me took the walk with those people with everything in the world going for them. Would I get that experience with him? I certainly hoped so. His event is next month and I looked forward to it with every fiber in my being. The wait would be worth it.

That fateful day finally rolled around and I was removed from the round box. I had come out a few times before when Ben went to have some photographs taken. I thought the pictures looked great, but he kept insisting on having some company in the shots. He brushed me off afterward and placed me inside the box until the day of his event. On this day I was fitted atop his head again but this time he attached to me the golden tassel I saw back in the shop. He dusted himself off, placed me back in the round box, and proceeded out the door. After he had completed the last finals of his college career, he was as relieved as I had ever seen him. While one year later than he planned, this event was nonetheless going to happen. He no longer snapped randomly or forgot what to say. Now he was focused and prepared.

As I heard him say to himself, “I’ve done it. I’m going to cross that stage and I’m done. What a relief!” I knew his experience would be worth it.

There I was, in a sea of colors in that hall. Reds, greens, magentas and other patterns (each representing a different degree, I suppose). I felt the buzz of anticipation as these young men and women heard their names being called and they headed toward the stage to receive the reward for which they had worked a great deal of their lives. With each name called, the cheers became louder. As these people stood on that stage, I bet my friends could see the looks on the faces of the parents and friends of these people who had strived so hard for the opportunity to have one of us atop their heads.

"Benjamin Restitotu Schilter,"

When Ben’s name was finally called, I felt a sense of relief that he was almost there. Seventeen years of work and all he had left was 17 paces to where he could close this chapter of his life. I was just glad I could be there to witness it.

Still others were called, made their way to the stage, until the entire class had been accounted for. At that moment, I looked over and noticed that Ben grabbed me. I also saw this happening with many of my friends. Was this the flight our parents and grandparents have told us about? Was this the moment we get to be one with the sky? All of a sudden, I felt a lurch and I was launched upward along with the rest of my friends. The Class of 2012 let out one big cheer and threw us in the air to show they had accomplished all that was asked of them, and more. And at that moment I knew that what those men and women must have been through was worth it.

Welcome to the copy desk

I honestly did not think I would get to this point in my life, but as my best friend once told me, I find writing to be cathartic for me. Don't get me wrong, I've been writing for years, but I've only ever shared my thoughts with either my friends or clinical psychologists. Here's to hoping that with this blog, I can once again find the catharsis I'm looking for - and maybe rant about the failings of the English language along the way...