Dear College, thanks for the memories

College – the highly coveted four years that most every middle/upper class kid experiences. Attending is not a possibility, but a requirement to make proud parents prouder and to prove the level of one’s education. Sure, school choice matters – Harvard and Yale, or the University of Florida and Florida State. But we all continue our education for the same reasons: the college years provide the perfect canvas for the transition to maturation – four years (or maybe more) away from home, an excuse to procrastinate a real-life job, a time for self-discovery, and perhaps, a place to acquire a more concentrated skill set.

People always refer to their college years as “the times of their lives.” They warn you to enjoy every moment, promising that the four years will fly by. They urge you to stay summers and get involved. They tell stories from their hay day, which must be missing the essential details that make the stories funny in the first place. They can’t help but reminisce. Is it because of the great educational experiences they encountered? No. It’s because of the friendships they created, the places they went, the bad choices they made, the independence they gained, the tailgates and football they watched.

Everyone seems to know, but no one really seems to care that college life is more about self-discovery than it is about higher education. Memories of sorority functions and weekend away trips to football games fill the spaces in our brains where statistics and comparative politics knowledge should be. Still, we leave our university, diploma in hand, only slightly smarter than we’ve ever been, but with more confidence, self-esteem and stories than we knew possible.

I sucked the life out of orange and blue. My time at UF can been categorized as anything but dull. Summer B, I took advantage of meeting new people, ordering pizza and pokey sticks for late night snacks and adding a second major (political science) after thoroughly enjoying my first international relations class. By the time fall semester arrived and rushing a sorority took priority over classes, I was well acquainted with the campus.

My journalism major made it acceptable for me to be curious about every hidden nook and cranny in Gainesville. I traveled to High Springs, Starke and Alachua looking for stories to write and people to meet. The only “A” in my entire collegiate career that I didn’t receive was, ironically, in Intro to Journalism (B+). I learned never to skip extra credit assignments, no matter how solid I thought my grade was.

Odd jobs defined my time not in class – a Texas Roadhouse hostess for two days before I quit (who likes to clean bathrooms?); a door girl to collect money on Thursdays at a downtown Gainesville club, where I’d watch bloody brawls take place; a beer tub girl at Gator City, where the lower my top meant the greater my tips; a tutor for Advanced Learning Centers, in which I tutored a first-grader twice a week in reading; a freelance food and restaurant critic for Examiner.com that allowed me to try each and every Gainesville restaurant my heart desires; and an ice-cream seller at the Gator football games in the alumni section, with weekly regulars. Attending games meant selling ice-cream, not watching.

I studied abroad – twice – with a greater emphasis on the “abroad” than on the “studying.” On my journey spring semester of junior year, I ended up on a fourth-floor “piso,” or apartment, in Barcelona, Spain, for four months. I lived with a host mother who spoke Spanish a-mile-a-minute – the most apropos breeding ground for misunderstandings. Dinners consisted of my broken chit-chat and offensive slurs. I would say accidentally that I was pregnant instead of embarrassed, or talk about my anus instead of my age. Despite my inevitable flaws, I practiced, and my trip became an on-the-go education. Spanish class took place in cabs and small boutiques. Home economics occurred mid-afternoon as I watched a woman scale fish in an open market, and my new Spanish friends taught linguistics – more aptly Profanity 101 – as we enjoyed tapas. By the time I shared my final meal with my Senora, Spain had become my home, and my educational experience became part of my life lexicon. I traveled to Paris, the south of France, Italy, Amsterdam and all around Spain on weekends, learning there’s more to life than school. I returned from gallivanting halfway around the world to realize that the love of my life was my best guy friend, and we would begin a relationship that makes others envious.

My second journey, 10 days in Icapuí, Brazil, with Pulitzer-Prize-winning photojournalist and professor John Kaplan for the coveted, invite-only Florida FlyIns class taught me the wonders of international journalism. I combined my love for travel and writing while producing a story on a Brazilian fisherwoman and getting class credit.

Internships, the mantra of UF faculty, became my goal. Us Weekly, Universal Republic Records, the Guardian Ad Litem program, Vertical Textiles, The Gainesville Sun, a stringer for The Independent Florida Alligator, and a freelancer for Tea Time magazine each became bullet points on my ever-growing resume.

The rest of my college experiences were a potpourri of this and that that I somehow found the time to accomplish/do. I was president of my sorority, a member of the prestigious Freshmen Leadership Council, a campus diplomat. I won an AT&T scholarship for three years. I was named the John Paul Jones, Jr. award winner for excellence in writing, as nominated and voted on by the journalism faculty and administration. I became an Anderson Scholar for the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences because of my stellar GPA. I graduated Summa Cum Laude (highest honors) and paid $45 just to wear the three cords at graduation. One of my professors dubbed me "a human highlighter." I created my first two blogs: KP in the City and Fork First Spoon Later. I went on a road trip to South Carolina for a Gator game. I spring breaked in Coast Rica. I “dated” my TA.

Only once I’ve cleared my head of each life-changing experience that has already become my college story, can I remember the classes – classes like food politics, in which I wrote and published my first book, "The Taste of Culture," and MMC2100 (Writing for Mass Communication) with an instructor who, to this day, remains one of my most valued mentors. I can think back fondly on once-dreaded papers and projects that have made me expand my personal boundaries while helping me to discover myself.

With a tear in one eye and a wink in the other, I pop the college bubble that I’ve been living in and prepare to tackle real life – Teach For America in Baltimore - where waking up at a normal hour is socially acceptable, working anywhere other than a bar or a club is smiled upon and going out nearly every night of the week is impossible. I leave feeling scared, yet ready to face those challenges ahead. Nostalgia for years past sets in and I long to relive it all over again. I wish I could go back to college.

I am the light of the world.

Once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you can’t help but yearn to share it - to shed some light on the community that has graciously let you in with open eyes and open hearts.

Sidneia, my fearless fisherwoman of a subject, had me follow in her footsteps for a week. Her deepest fears, weakness and secrets revealed themselves explicitly and implicitly. Her biggest accomplishments and feats did too.

Her heritage dictates children by age 20 and a sedentary life of daily sweeping and cooking. Kicking soccer balls, climbing coconut trees like a Spiderwoman and heaving and hoeing on fishing boats are simply out of the question. But Sidneia doesn’t care. She does it all, and most of the time, she does it better than any boy and man out there.

I wonder if she knows her American counterparts – those in the concrete jungles of New York and Miami, and in the high-heeled Capitol of Washington, D.C. – have already bent cultural barriers and stereotypes. I deliberately say bent instead of broken. It’s no surprise that firefighting women, lady plummers and female construction workers live in the shadow of laughter. Nonetheless, they still pay their bills and provide food on their tables.

While many of us in the United States take affirmative action for granted, Sidneia still remains the lone fisherwoman in her town though men and women claim they accept her. Tolerance is slow to take hold.

But the world is rapidly changing, even in communities that have trouble finding a spot on the map, such as Icapuí. Stability’s definition is unknown, or at least invisible to lady warriors, who live to bend societal norms and challenge daily standards. Sometimes acceptance on a larger scale just requires attention – perhaps in the form of a documentary; maybe as a magazine feature.

To communicate the challenges of her cultural heritage and to show that Sidneia is not just another female success story will require page-turning empathy for manual labor (or better yet, WOmanual labor), for antiquated traditions in small towns and for Sidneia as woman.

Her message, one of power and hope, is inspiring. Her “can-do” attitude had ability to light my spark, and it will keep me burning to share her story.

The all-powerful journalist

What is it about journalists? Everywhere I go, people are talking about what they read in the newspaper, what they saw on television and what they read online. Most people know that it’s the journalist’s job to get that information and disperse it.

No matter what country I am in, when people hear I am a journalist, they equate me to an all-powerful being – someone who can put their picture in print and tell their story. Sometimes, they think I will make them famous. Even when they don’t know the correct term to call me, they are quick to discover that a camera will capture their image and a recorder will save their voice and thoughts. Things are no different in Icapuí.

In Icapuí, an impoverished fishing town with no more than a few thousand people, outside influence is minimal. Everyone seems to know everyone. Outsiders, even those from other parts of Brazil, are rare.

With my arrival, the Icapuians feel important. To them, only important people have their picture taken; only important people get interviewed. This is, of course, what they see on TV and hear from their friends.

I found that if I shows an ounce of interest in them, they beam from the inside out, trying to remain humble and not let their smiles grow to broad. Even though they know I am American and they won’t see my article, they let me ask my questions and take their pictures. They especially love when I flip my digital camera around to let them see themselves. Children burst into uncontrollable giggles; grandparents flash toothless smiles. Is this is first time they have seen a camera?

I remain professional so that they will respect me and others like me, though I have no idea if another journalist will visit. They thank me in Portuguese and give me a "thumbs up" - the universal sign for acceptance.

From the taxi drivers who don’t ask for a penny until they have not only dropped you off but have returned you home safely to the waiters at restaurants who suggest the tastiest dishes instead of the most expensive, the people of Icapui are honest and hard-working. Without outside influence, they might not even know that there are places where taxis run their clocks double time to get more money or people who stand customers up.

Here in Icapui, I feel like a parent whose children don’t yet know there is no Santa Claus. I could never bring myself to spoil their views of the friendly American journalist who loves to ask them questions. It is for the Icapuians that I feel a strong commitment to accurate and ethical reporting. I know that these people are expecting me to return to the United States conveying nothing but their sense of utmost pride for their community. Plus, I know that the majority of readers in the US will never venture to Icapui; thus, I must do more than tell stories from my perspective. I need to remain unbiased and completely balanced as I report on everything I see, here and experience.

As a journalist, I can’t help but feel a yearning drive to advocate for these people: for the children who run in the scorching sand without shoes because their parents have no money, for the 16-year-old who is pregnant with her third child and for the fisherwoman, the only one of her kind, who has overcome monstrous obstacles to become accepted as a lady of the sea.

Though I understand that this advocacy may, in turn, be construed as unbalanced, I am certain I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who would visit Icapui, even as a fly on the wall, without a sense of compassion and a desire to advocate. This advocacy must remain subdued, but nonetheless it will underscore any article.

I never thought of myself as powerful, but I know that I have the power to choose words and pictures; I have the ability to share with others what they can't share about themselves. Only now am I truly able to understand the concept of a journalist as a gatekeeper. My great responsibility is not just to the journalistic profession, but to humanity as a whole.