Stats can be fun… maybe?
Today’s lesson in journalism was all about data.
When I walked into the newsroom at the college this morning and looked at the day’s lesson plan on the whiteboard, I literally groaned out loud.
You see, I HATE numbers. Despise them, actually.
I’ve never really been good at math – and knowing I wanted to be a writer from the time I was in high school meant I was in the clear of all things involving numbers.
Or so I thought.
Until I came to J school and realized that sometimes those pesky little numbers simply have to be included in a story and there’s no way of getting around it.
Like, when census results come out and the city’s population has increased. Or, when you’re talking about how many post-secondary students actually get jobs after graduation.
These stories wouldn’t be stories without numbers, and they are stories people care about and want to read. They want to read the facts, and those facts, unfortunately (for a girl who hates math) include numbers.
So though I wasn’t pleased to see today’s lesson was all about compiling data, I guess I understood why we had to do it.
The assignment was to find data of some kind, turn it into a story idea, brainstorm “real people” we could interview to connect the story to potential readers, and then brainstorm how we could compile the data in a way that would be visually appealing and interactive for the readers.
I shuffled through some data on the Statistics Canada website, and after some trouble finding a story idea that wasn’t going to bore my readers (and me) to death, I asked myself: “Well, do I want to know?”
Then I saw a study regarding the financial impact of student loans.
Wait. I’m a student. I have student loans. Many of my friends have student loans. School is expensive and tuition fees are going up across the country — meaning even MORE students will probably rely on student loans. AND there was just a Day of Action at the University of Winnipeg protesting tuition increase.
I care about this. I know other students care about this. It’s timely.
I think I found my story.
Finding real people to anchor it to? Piece of cake. I know quite a few people who are burdened by student loan debt, and know a few people who work at the UWSA who would be happy to speak about the Day of Action and the impacts of tuition increases.
The data– well, that took a bit longer to get my head around (I told you I’ve never been good with numbers).
What I boiled it down to is according to Statistics Canada, students across Canada are increasingly taking out student loans (57 per cent of the graduating class of 2005 had student loans – up from 49 per cent in 1995) and the average student debt is over $18, 000 — among a whole whack of other data.
But how do I visualize this?
Uh oh. This might be where I run into a problem. Unlike other stories we talked about in class today such as crime rates across the city, and other data stories that had a table of data with locations and such that could easily be turned into an interactive map, the data in my story may not be so easy to turn into an interactive visual.
I sketched out a few pie charts comparing the number of students with loans in 1995 vs. 2005 — but quickly realized the story I settled on might not have enough data to turn into anything visual, let alone an “interactive visual”.
Crap.
However, I did have some fun playing around on Google Fusion Tables and IBM’s Many Eyes (both really neat data visualization sites) with some fictional data – just to see how it works.
Hmmm. Maybe numbers CAN be fun sometimes…
How I learned to stop worrying and love the tears
I am emotional.
Yup. I said it. (Big surprise there for those of you who know me, right?)
I can’t help it. I’ve been this way since I was a little girl. In fact, when I was a toddler, my cousins’ nanny used to call me ‘the girl who cried’ in Ukrainian. And hey, I’m a Scorpio.
I used to be pretty self conscious about it. I used to wish that little things didn’t bother me, and that I could just let things slide and not take things so seriously, like some people I knew.
But, it’s just the way it is. I’ve come to the conclusion that after 22 years of being this way, I probably won’t ever change.
I take everything to heart. Most of the time I put 110 per cent of myself into everything that I do. Friendships, relationships, assignments – you name it.
I’m a “fixer”, and one of those people who doesn’t give up easily. I will sit and try to find a solution to a problem even though it may be virtually impossible and something I should probably just walk away from, and it will bother me to no end should I not be able to come up with some sort of “reasonable” solution.
I listen to “sappy” music like Bon Iver (in fact, I’m listening to his latest album while I write this) and I always cry at weddings. And at airports. And during rom-coms. And when I’m angry. And when I’m sad. And when I’m happy…
You get the idea.
Like I said, my emotionality used to be a trait I wished I didn’t possess. (And still is, sometimes)
I’m learning to accept it though… and maybe even like it a bit. Mostly because I’m learning that sometimes, my emotionality can be (gasp) an asset.
Being someone who is emotional also makes me compassionate, and I’ve realized that for a journalist, compassion is a forgiving trait.
I’ve learned that because of my compassion I am really good at talking to people (and maybe more importantly, listening). And when I say talking, I don’t mean just striking up a good “hey, how are ya” conversation; I mean sitting down with someone and having them tell me their entire life story when really I only need to ask a few quick questions.
I have learned that my compassion has allowed me to ask hard-hitting, tough questions in a less-hard-hitting way, and a way that whomever I’m talking to feels comfortable enough responding without closing off or shying away.
Sometimes THAT might mean that I shy away from shoving a recorder in someones face to get a quote in fear of “bothering” them – but I’m working on finding a happy medium.
Along with compassionate, my emotionality also makes me passionate. And as a writer and a journalist, I think passion is a crucial trait.
My passion for what I do means that I care about every story I write; I invest myself in them. It means that when I start a story, I’m going to follow it until the end and make sure I cover it in the absolute best way I can.
I’ve been told before that years in the business will “harden me up” and desensitize me a bit. While I know I can use some “hardening” , and that I could maybe (okay, totally) develop a “thicker skin”, I hope I never lose my compassion, my passion, and all of the other traits that come along with being emotional. Qualities I’m learning to accept and that I think make me a better journalist.
Everything I learned about journalism, I didn’t learn in J school
[pxlwtjmbflwvf] Watch this. And then read.
I think if I could pick one profound thing (among the many) I learned while on my internship (for those of you who don’t know, I spent six weeks in Calgary interning at Metro newspaper) it’s this:
Everything I learned about journalism, I didn’t learn at journalism school.
I’m not trying to discredit J school. It has given me the tools I need to decipher what is newsworthy and to craft a decent story. It’s helped me grow in so many ways and I feel like I’m leaving with a pretty full toolbox.
However, what I figured out after being thrown into the world of daily news reporting is there are a lot of things J school just can’t teach you.
Such as what it’s like to be the measly little newbie intern reporter at a Calgary Police press conference. Maybe I’m just not loud enough, but somedays it took me a good three or four tries before my question was even heard without getting talked over. Or trampled over (okay maybe that’s an exaggeration).
On that note, I did learn that it’s to my disadvantage to be a tiny little female, especially when thrust into a media circus such as the one at the Calgary Airport when the couple who were aboard the capsized cruise ship off the coast of Italy returned home. Armed with my camera (and my Gordie Howe elbows), I had to try to shoot a few decent snapshots of the couple while trying to weave my way through the six-foot-something camera guys who had suddenly closed me out of their little circle. Great.
On a more serious note, J school could never have prepared me for covering my first fire. I know it’s not the worst thing I’ll ever have to cover as I continue on my journalism journey, but showing up at the scene of a fire to be told you’re the “scum of the earth” by the family, and witness the mom carry her lifeless pet away from the home in a blanket isn’t something a class could have prepared me for.
After that experience I had a talk with my editor about the “line” and how far you can push to get someone to talk to you when they say they don’t want to – something I also don’t think you really grasp until actually faced with the situation.
It’s get the story or someone else does.
It sounded harsh when I was sitting in my car freaking out after being not-so-kindly told to “fuck off” by the family who’d just lost their home, but I needed to get my story and make deadline.
I drove away and tried to regroup only to return later and knock on a neighbour’s door to get a last name for the family. After a quick 411 search and a few rings I had the mom on the phone.
It’s all in your approach.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your home, but I was wondering if you had a couple of minutes to chat. We’re hoping there’s some way we can rally up some community support for you guys.”
Suddenly, I had the few quotes I needed for my story. And I didn’t get sworn at.
But I didn’t feel great about it, either.
I guess you didn’t cover any fires for your college paper, eh?
That’s when it really hit home that I AM a baby journalist who still has so much left to learn outside the walls of J school.
Especially if I’m going to work for the New York Times. (Kidding. Well. Maybe.)
The grass isn’t always greener…
From my favourite spot in Calgary
Some of the lines you might have heard fly out of my mouth include the following: “I need an adventure”, “I’m ready to move on to bigger and better things” and ”I need a change”.
And then I went and did an internship in Calgary for five weeks.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Calgary. I would go so far as to say that after a couple of weeks it felt like home, and I can see myself living there.
Someday.
Just not right now.
After five weeks away from Winnipeg I realized … it ain’t so bad here.
For starters, for the most part all of my family is here in Winnipeg. It might have been the fact that I was gone for Christmas, but after a couple of weeks away I really missed my little brothers. And my mom and dad (just don’t tell them).
I also took for granted the ability to just meet up with a few friends at the nearest pub after a long day. When you’re in a brand new city and don’t really know anyone, the ability to just pick up your phone because you feel like a beer and some company is –well – tough when all of your friends are three provinces away.
Little things like your car breaking down, or getting ditched by one of the only people you do know in the city suddenly feel like the end of the world when you’re all alone in a big city – one that you’re not really familiar with.
Yes. I’m waving the white flag.
I missed Winnipeg.
I missed my friends and family, yes. But I also missed the distinct qualities that make my city unique.
Like, drivers waving when you let them in. That just doesn’t happen on the Deerfoot. In fact, most of the time Albertans in big trucks just drive wherever the heck they want and you have to hope to god you’re paying close attention or you and your little four-door sedan are going to be SOL.
In fact, for the most part, Winnipeggers are just a lot more friendly than Calgarians. Must be that “small town” feel.
In Winnipeg, if my car battery is dead and I need a boost, I can guarantee that before CAA shows up at least four or five people will stop to see if I’m okay, if I need help, if they can call someone, or if they can give me a boost. Last week it hit -50 overnight in Calgary and my car battery wouldn’t start. The neighbour walked outside, looked at my uncle who was trying to boost my car, looked at me standing there freezing trying to start my car, didn’t say a word and got in his car and drove off. That just wouldn’t happen here.
Oh yeah, and the same day my car died, I went to Walmart to get an extension cord so I could avoid the same fate the next day, and Walmart was sold out of extension cords (apparently everyone was in the same boat as I was). That just wouldn’t happen in Winnipeg.
Plus, parking in Calgary is expensive, groceries are expensive and….
Ok. I’m not out to complain, I swear. I really did love it there (pinky swear).
And I realized that if I had to, or if tomorrow I decided to take a job somewhere out of province, I could do it.
But the question is… would I?
Right now, I’m not so sure. I think I might want to stay put in Winnipeg for a little while longer.
Small town girl, big city
I’ve never really considered Winnipeg to be a small town. In fact, I’ve always considered my hometown a pretty decent-sized city.
Ha. Joke’s on me, I guess.
I always like to pretend I’m not naive and that I’ve travelled outside my lovely prairie province of Manitoba more times than I can count.
Confession time: yes, I’ve travelled lots, but it’s always been with family. Being one of those kids who did university right out of high school, and then opted to go back to college after graduating university, I haven’t had much cash or time to travel on my own. So, I was limited to the three week cross-Canada family road trips to visit my cousin in Oregon (you know, the kind of trip where you visit three provinces and four states in a span of two weeks?), and the weekend road trips to the states to go snowboarding. Not to mention, most of the time I wasn’t doing the driving.
So, when I decided to take a five-week internship at a newspaper in Calgary, it kind of felt like a big deal. It would be my first time traveling somewhere on my own, and my first extended adventure away from my safe-haven of Winnipeg (where I’ve lived all my life).
As we reached about an hour outside of Calgary, I turned to my friend (who graciously offered to do the drive with me) and said, pointing at the city lights that stretched for miles and miles across the horizon: “is THAAAAAAT Calgary?!” (I’ve been to Calgary before, but, never driven in by myself, and always got into the city during the day.)
She laughed at me. And then I laughed at myself. I felt like a little kid.
As I pulled into the city and tried to avoid getting side-swiped by yielding cars on 16th Ave (see, I told you I was from Winnipeg: land of the easy-to-navigate roadways, home of the less-than-intimidating highways), all my friend kept saying was “Okay, we have to figure out where we’re going BEFORE you hit Deerfoot. You do not want to hit Deerfoot, people drive like nut-jobs on Deerfoot, and if you’re already feeling overwhelmed you might be screwed.”
“We’re looking for 19th Ave. And then 8th.”
Holy. Shit.
Suddenly I felt like a naive, nervous, Winnipegger, trying to navigate her way through a city I don’t belong in. Oh, wait. That’s not what I felt like, that’s EXACTLY what I was.
“I feel like such a small town girl, in a strange big city,” I said.
My friend laughed at me.
Thankfully, I have a trusty little GPS app on my iPhone and after plugging a few addresses in (and a few wrong turns), I was able to (somewhat) figure out where I needed to be.
I can promise you, I won’t be leaving the house for the next five weeks without my GPS turned on, and that I’ll probably get lost more than a few times.
However, that too, makes me excited. Getting lost is part of the fun, right?
I can’t wait to see what this city has in store for me.
Why I love the airport
I haven’t been able to do too much travelling in the last couple of years, and when I do it’s usually by car and not by plane. So, whenever I visit the airport, it’s usually because I’m welcoming someone home or seeing someone off.
I’d have to say that the airport is probably one of my favourite places in the city simply because of the fact that it’s a place of “welcome home,” and “see you later”.
The other day I met a friend at the Winnipeg airport – he had a couple hour layover on his way back to Vancouver, and after not seeing each other in almost a year, we decided to meet for coffee and a catch-up. I walked into the airport and there he was waiting for me just inside the doors with a big grin on his face. Immediately he grabbed me into a bear-hug.
Insert warm fuzzies here. THAT right there is why it’s one of my favourite places.
I could sit for hours people-watching at the airport. There’s something about people embracing hello, or saying goodbye that’s comforting – even when you’re only watching.
Last winter, when one of my good friends came home from her year-long stint in Australia a bunch of us met her at the airport. We’d made a big sign that said “Welcome Home” and sat at the gate anxiously awaiting her arrival. As she came down the escalator we all cheered.
Yeah. Like I said, warm fuzzies.
And then there’s the goodbyes. I’ve never been good with saying goodbye. I’m a crier (surprise, surprise), and there’s something about seeing someone off at the airport that always gets the tears flowing. Even if they’re only leaving for a short while.
Case in point. A few years ago one of my close girlfriends traveled to Uganda to volunteer for three months. A few of us girls went to the airport to see her off, and as we said our goodbyes at the gate there wasn’t a dry eye between the four of us. Her mom got a kick out of that.
“Girls, three months really isn’t that long. She’ll be back before you know it.”
This past summer I had a friend visit from out of town. In this case, I got both the hello AND the goodbye.
When I saw him off at the airport at the end of his trip I knew probably wasn’t going to see him for a while. As we stood at the departure gate I tried to pretend I wasn’t crying.
“God damn head-cold, making my eyes water.”
(Insert cheesy “this isn’t goodbye it’s see you later” line here)
In my defense, I did have a cold. However, I am the biggest sucky-baby ever (Sometimes. Ok, most of the time.) and it wasn’t the cold causing the wet stuff on my cheeks.
I told you I’m not good with goodbyes.
Regardless whether they’re of hellos or goodbyes, all of my airport memories are fond ones. And I’m reminded of them each time I find myself there.
I’ll leave you with one of my favourite airport videos. Yes, you guessed it, this one makes me cry, too.
Recounting the war
This semester the only reading assignment we were required to do in our journalism class was to read John Hersey’s Hiroshima. While I was jealous of the year that got to read Christie Blatchford’s Fifteen Days, and then have Blatchford come in and talk to them, the further I read in Hiroshima, the more I appreciated that Duncan had us read it.
I did read Fifteen Days a few months ago, upon recommendation from a few soldiers I’d met over the summer. According to them it was one of the most accurate accounts of the Canadian Forces in Afghanistan. Fifteen Days tells the stories of several Canadian soldiers, and both their own, and their families experiences with war, with death, and with the aftermath of it all.
Though Hersey tells a very different set of stories than Blatchford, it’s both Hiroshima, and Fifteen Days, in my opinion, that are the truest forms of journalism.
It’s in works such as these journalists can learn what is stressed to us in our journalism classes from day one. The best way to tell a story is to be there. I’ve said it before: I believe a journalists job is to paint the truest, and most real account of a story possible for your reader – to make them feel like they were there. Sure, you can make a few phone calls from your desk and you might be able to give your reader the information they’re looking for – but in order to really paint a picture for a reader the journalist must be there to experience all of the things you can’t while sitting at your desk. In both Blatchford and Hersey’s cases, it’s clear they were there experiencing the stories they tell.
Like Blatchford does in Fifteen Days, Hersey immerses himself in Hiroshima, and those whose lives were so greatly affected by the atomic bomb. He gives his readers vivid, and sometimes gory details from the day the bomb was dropped, as well as the days following.
He paints a picture of a city affected by, what I would say is probably one of the biggest tragedies in history.
After turning only the first few pages, I had a hard time putting it down.
In only a few page turns, I was deeply affected by the destruction that happened on Aug. 6, 1945, and could feel the pain of each survivor as Hersey strung each memory together to tell their story.
I felt one thing might have been missing, though. We’re taught in our journalism classes that quotes make the story – and Hersey’s work lacked direct quotes. However, we’re taught that we need to weave our stories together with quotes to give our readers a way to link the story to real people – and I don’t think Hiroshima was missing a link to real people at all. I very much felt the emotions and struggle of each survivor despite the fact there were no direct quotes.
I read the book in its entirety in an afternoon, and was surprised at how easy a book of such difficult subject matter was to read.
I think a big part of what made such a tragic story so “easy” (and I quote it, because though it was quick to get through, it was an emotional read) to get through was the fact that it was originally published as an article in the New Yorker – and it’s written in a manner that it is fast-moving and flows from chapter to chapter smoothly, very much in the same style as a newspaper article.
I can only imagine the reaction of the New Yorker’s audience when they read Hiroshima – which took over the entire issue of the New Yorker in August of 1946, only a year after the bomb was dropped.
I did some digging around and found out that after Hiroshima was published in the New Yorker, the magazine sold out almost immediately.
I’m not surprised. After an event where much of the media suppressed images and coverage, I can only imagine that Hersey’s account of the tragedy would have been of interest to people, particularly so soon after the war ended.
I wonder though, how many people have read Hiroshima lately (Besides our journalism class, of course)? In trying to purchase the book, a few of us discovered that there weren’t all that many copies even left in print. I wonder in 50 years, how many people will be reading Fifteen Days?
Hersey leaves his readers with one final thought, as he revisits the Reverend Kiyoshi Tanimoto, one of the six survivors whose story Hersey tells. The last line of the book reads, referencing Tanimoto, that “his memory, like the world’s, was getting spotty.”
It’s this line that stuck me as I put the book down, and probably was the thing that affected me the most out of everything I read in the book, and is something I’ve touched on in other posts. How can the effects of violence and of war be so easily forgotten? And does the fact that after only four decades, the world’s memory begins to get spotty, mean the world is at risk of reliving similar horrors once again?
Hey, world, here I am
Over the past year, a reoccurring theme for me has been taking chances. You see, before coming into CreComm, I used to be someone who played it pretty safe. I’ve mentioned the analogy of living in my “safety box” before. I was the girl who sat in my university classes and didn’t say too much. I never wrote for the university newspaper, because I didn’t think I was good enough. As much as I’m not really a shy person, I had a hard time putting myself out there.
Once I started CreComm, everything started to come together. I vowed, almost a year ago, that I was going to (hypothetically, of course) start jumping off a few more cliffs. I gained confidence, both as a person and a writer. I started writing more and getting my work out there. I took on a few freelance opportunities, which then lead to more freelance work. I applied to be Co Editor-in-Chief of the college newspaper – and I got the job. I applied to be a media embed on a Canadian Forces training exercise, and spent two weeks suited up in a flak vest and helmet in the middle of a field in Shilo. I have worked harder in this program than I have ever before, both on class assignments and extracurricular opportunities – and I have learned and grown so much.
As this semester comes to an end, it’s almost unnerving to think that my time here is almost done (uh, 8 weeks of classes when we come back in January. WTH?!) On one hand, I am so ready to be done with being a student. I feel like I’ve acquired the skills I need to take a job in the industry, and I know I will succeed. On the other hand, though, it’s a little scary. I’ve been a student all my life, and it’s hard to imagine being anything else. But, much like I did upon entering CreComm, I know that as I leave the college and venture out into the “real world of journalism” I’ll continue to gain confidence, and grow as a journalist. I know I’ll never stop learning.
Something Joanne said to the Broadcast Journalism students in one of the first classes has stuck in my head. She told us the day we believe that we can craft a perfect story is the day we should pack up our desks, and move on from the industry. And I think that reigns true. I’m excited to learn, and grow, in a different setting than the classroom. Sure, I’ve learned so much within the four walls of the college, but I know that there is so much left for me to learn.
In a few weeks I’ll be headed to Calgary for my first work placement, where I’ll be working at Metro Calgary for a little over a month. It’ll be my first opportunity to work for a daily newspaper on a consistent basis, and hopefully get at least a few good published work samples.
Going to Calgary is definitely a far cry from my safety box I used to live in, and I can tell you that even a year ago, I probably wouldn’t have even considered it. It’s a new (bigger) city, one I’m not really familiar with. It’s going to be my first Christmas away from home, and away from my family. But to my own surprise, I’m more excited than scared. I’ve been craving an adventure and I think this is going to be just what I need. I’m excited to put myself out there – to prove that I’m willing to move away for work, to network with potential job prospects, and to build my portfolio outside of Winnipeg.
A couple of weeks ago, my friend, and recent CreComm grad Jessica Cable came to speak to us journalism majors. One of the many pieces of advice she gave us was that we can’t be afraid to put ourselves out there, and to move for the job we really want. (She spent her summer working for the Kenora Daily Miner, and just recently packed up her car and took a job as a reporter/producer at Shaw TV in Lethbridge).
Well, world, here I am. I’m ready and willing to work anywhere. As long as I get to be a journalist.
I have my heart set on doing the Michelle Lang Fellowship at Postmedia News next year. I know the competition is stiff, and who knows if I’ll even be considered. But, I’m going to take that chance, too, and in a couple of months I’m going to start putting together my application package.
From the time I was a little girl, my mom’s always said to me “the worst thing they can say to you is no.” It’s taken me a long time, and a grueling year and a half of CreComm to get here, but I think I’ve finally ditched my safety box, once and for all.
Here’s to my adventures in journalism (and life in general).
I’ll never know this hell
Sg. Nathan Harris, Hell and Back Again
“It’s getting back that’s hard. You go from being at a heightened sense of awareness on a daily basis, and then come home and have to worry about what kind of chicken you should buy at Safeway. Getting home and listening to people bitch about coworkers, or their sports team that made a trade they didn’t like, or that Ikea only has two sales a year now grinds on a person just back from war like an anvil dropped on Wile E. Coyote’s head.”
Last Remembrance Day, when I interviewed my stepdad’s friend, who’d done a seven month tour in Afghanistan a few years ago, he told me the hardest part about going to war was coming home.
I thought of this quote the other night – appropriately enough, on Remembrance Day – after I watched Hell and Back Again, a documentary about a 25-year-old American soldier, Sergeant Nathan Harris, who becomes injured shortly before his tour in Afghanistan is up.
There’s a scene in the film where Sg. Harris is sitting at the drive-thru with his wife, who’s ordering. There are a few people, presumably friends, in the backseat of the vehicle, all talking over each other. The filmmaker, Danfung Dennis, flips back and forth between this drive-thru scenario and shots of Harris and his fellow soldiers in Afghanistan – all you hear is machine gun fire, and yelling, and it’s as if you’re experiencing Harris’ flashback. The scene quickly flips back to Harris at the drive-thru window, with his head bowed. He says something along the lines of “I just can’t handle everyone talking over each other.”
The film follows Sg. Harris both during his time in Afghanistan, as well as when he returns home from his deployment after taking a machine gun bullet to the hip.
Just as my stepdad’s friend told me, almost exactly a year ago, Dennis paints a picture of the difficulties many soldiers face when coming home from war.
“The luxury of being able to be ungrateful on a daily basis is something I didn’t have for seven months, and once I was back it was a sad and angry time for me, as I had to adjust. I lost friends and I lost soldiers and I cannot truly explain or discuss that with anyone but one that’s been there.”
Another quote from my stepdad’s friend. Something I believe, after meeting and speaking with other soldiers, holds true for many.
Dennis spends his documentary trying to give viewers a glimpse of exactly these emotions.
It only made me realize, even more so, that I will never fully understand what it’s like to go to war.
There’s a song on Matthew Good’s Vancouver album called A Silent Army in the Trees. In addition to the fact that it gives me goosebumps every time I hear it, it reminds me of a letter my friend, a soldier , wrote me a few months ago.
“This song reminds me some of the reasons I get uncomfortable when artillery fires nearby, or when I hear footsteps running up behind me. It reminds me of trying to explain my life to you, and wishing there was a better way for you to understand. It reminds me of how disconnected our overseas experiences are from life in Canada, and of the efforts to bridge that gap.”
It’s both of these soldiers’ words, and Dennis’ documentary that have made me realize war is something I’ll never fully understand.
Sure, someday I will write about war. I will write about soldiers, and I will try to tell their stories as best as I can. Some day, when I’m reporting in a “hot country”, I will try my best to bridge the gap between soldiers’ overseas experiences and life in Canada through these stories. But I’m not confident it’s something that can ever be achieved.
As my dad’s friend said to me last Remembrance Day: only those who have been there, who have lost friends and soldiers can truly understand.
I came home from viewing the film, and didn’t feel like talking. I sat in silence and thought of my Remembrance Day. I thought of the service I’d attended earlier, and all of the soldiers who stood tall and stone-faced, barely flinching as the padre read his opening prayer. I wondered how many of them had done a deployment, and how many might be struggling with coming home. I thought of the middle-aged lady standing behind me at the service, quietly crying to herself. I wondered if she had a husband, or maybe a child, serving in the military. I thought of the little seven-year-old girl and her grandmother standing in front of me, and how when the bagpipes started to play the girl tugged at her grandma’s sleeve and began to cry. I wondered if she had a mom, or a dad in the military. I thought of my stepdad’s friend and his willingness to share his story with me. I thought of my friend and his letter, and listening to him share some of his stories, knowing that I will never fully understand the things those serving overseas have seen. I thought of how my Remembrance Day was so insignificant compared to that of someone who’d experienced life in a theatre of war.
Before I went to bed that night I went back and read the “about the film” for Hell and Back Again once again.
“His agony deepens as he attempts to reconcile the gulf between his experience of war and the terrifying normalcy of life at home. The two realities seamlessly intertwine to communicate both the extraordinary drama of war and, for a generation of soldiers, the no less shocking experience of returning home.”
I wondered, as I closed my eyes: for so many soldiers, which is a worse hell – being at war, or coming home?
Remembering not to forget
Last year, during Veteran’s Week, I wrote my thoughts about Remembrance Day in a post titled This Year I’ll Wear My Poppy Differently. In doing an assignment that encouraged us to explore the question: “What is Remembrance Day, and how does it affect veterans?” each of the journalism students was encouraged to interview someone who has fought in a military conflict, or who has served as a peacekeeper, or has strongly been affected by armed conflict.
I spoke with a friend of my stepdad’s who’d been deployed to Afghanistan in 2006, and I told a little bit of his story, and what Remembrance Day means to him.
It was in telling his story the meaning of Remembrance Day changed for me, too. I went to a Remembrance Day ceremony at the Convention Centre, poppy on my lapel, and with sincere gratitude, paid my respects to veterans and those serving alike. I sat quietly at the ceremony, and thought about how lucky I am to be a Canadian, and was almost overwhelmed with the fact that peace is all I have known.
Little did I know, that in the year following, my appreciation for the military, and for those who’ve served/are serving overseas would continue to grow, and that I’d find myself even more so compelled to attend a Remembrance Day ceremony, and pay my deepest respects.
There’s been a few things in the last year that have resulted in wearing my poppy differently again this year.
First off, I had a chance to spend two weeks working as an embedded journalist with the Canadian Forces on Exercise Western Defender ’11, in Shilo, Manitoba last May. I’ve mentioned it before, but these two weeks changed me forever. I met soldiers from across Canada, and heard stories of deployment from soldiers as young as I am, as well as those who saw the horrors of Bosnia; all whose lives have never been the same. These soldiers took the time to sit down with me, and share some of the most difficult stories to tell. I laughed, and cried, and reflected with some of these soldiers as if they were my own family. And I will never be able to express how grateful I am that they were able to let me into their world, even if only just a little bit. I felt, and still feel, compelled to tell their stories. I know that there’s no way I’ll ever be able to understand exactly what war is like – and for that I am truly blessed. But I have gained a greater perspective, and more importantly a greater appreciation for these men and women who dedicate their lives so that I can live the life that I do here in Canada.
Secondly, I had a good friend called for deployment. Suddenly, the news I was reading about soldiers overseas had a deeper meaning. It wasn’t just my dad’s friend, or my friend’s boyfriend –people I didn’t really know too well; it was someone I cared about, and someone I would worry about. It wasn’t JUST the war that was happening thousands of miles away – in a few short months, both after returning home from Shilo, thinking about all of the soldiers I had met, as well as knowing someone I cared about was going to be deploying there – it all hit much closer to home.
Thirdly, upon my return home from Shilo and speaking about my experiences with my uncle who was visiting from Calgary, I learned that my great uncle served, and died in the Netherlands in the Second World War. And my gratitude for soldiers who served, and gave their lives for us so many years ago, grew once again. My uncle sent me this article, and I found myself sitting in front of my computer, tears running down my face, as I read about one of my own family members who gave his life to make a difference.
And so, I sit here with a full heart and think about how this year, again, I’ll wear my poppy differently. A year ago, I sat and wrote how I’d be wearing my poppy with a little more meaning, and taking a little more time to think about those involved in war; both Canadian soldiers and otherwise. I wrote that I’d be wearing it with a little more gratitude towards my Canadian identity. I wrote that I’d be attending a Remembrance Day ceremony, and sincerely paying my respects and appreciating the fact that peace is all I have known.
This year, I’ll be doing the same, if not even more so. I will be paying my respects to the many soldiers who’ve shared their stories with me in the last 12 months. I’ll be thinking about my friend, and how right now, he’s doing his work-up training, preparing to deploy. I’ll be paying respects to my great-uncle, who gave his life so that I could live the life I do in Canada.
This year, I’ll be attending a Remembrance Day service, not because I have to for a school assignment, but because I feel that I should and because I want to pay my sincerest respects.
Lest we forget.
