full circle

In the first year of university, in our "highly reputable" program of journalism at Ryerson University, we were told that we were going to be prepared for real life scenarios, and graduate with a set of hands-on experiences.

I was skeptical -- not because I wasn't excited or ambitious enough, and especially not since I thought my thirst and appreciation for "stories that matter" (given my tumultuous background) would somehow be rewarded. I was skeptical because the most important tool of a journalist, namely language, seemed to be my weakness. English remains to be my second language.

And my professors didn't lie: we were sent on "streeters" on our very first day of class. We reported, interviewed, and were viciously evaluated year after year. Some people dropped out, some people reluctantly stayed. I was constantly doubting my abilities, and was torn between my love for fiction and my hunger for politics.

One of the first stories I pitched to my prof came about after a conversation with the cab driver who was rushing me to my 8:00 a.m class after I almost slept in because of partying with my best friend the night before. It was the old story, but news to my ears: "I have a masters/PhD in . . . But I've been driving taxis since I moved here."

I was touched and repulsed. For that week's report I wanted to write about that issue. My prof said it's too big of a challenge for a first-year story, and that I should pick something more school-related, and focused.

I had my convocation ceremony yesterday. And for the first time in the past four years, I thought, good job.

Check.

I am currently working on a story that coincidentally (or not) is about professional immigrants (not) being employed in jobs worthy of their knowledge/experience.

Check.

Patience. You know?