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.

Kids say the darndest things (Happy Halloween)

It’s the night where all the ghosts, ghouls and goblins… and skanks come out.

Okay, I know that’s harsh, but I promise there’s a point to that statement… and I’ll explain it shortly.

Since I’ve been in high school, the saying goes that once you hit a certain age, Halloween is simply an excuse for girls to dress, well, putting it nicely – provocatively, and for guys to put on a mask and act extremely creepy. (I added that last part in about guys – but hey, it’s true).

This year I kind of (okay, I definitely did) leave my Halloween costume until the last minute. I went to a Halloween-themed wedding social on Friday night and as of Wednesday, I still didn’t have a costume. And, I needed one pronto.

At first I had my heart set on being April O’Neil. If any of you watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as children, you’ll know that me dressing up as April O’Neil this year would be kind of fitting. In fact, when I first started out in Creative Communications and had my first few pieces published, a couple of my friends were calling me O’Neil. Anyways, when I realized that getting my hands on a bright yellow jumpsuit was going to be extremely difficult, I gave up on that idea entirely. Then I  kind of toyed around with being Laura Croft (you know, Tomb Raider?), but this was last Monday and by the time I hit Party Stuff all of their gun holsters were sold out.

So, like I said, now it was Wednesday, two days before this silly costume social and I still didn’t have anything.

Hm.

I also didn’t want to spend a million dollars on a costume I was only going to wear once.

I went back to Value Village for the third time that week and wandered around aimlessly.  And then I stumbled on a pair of black angel wings.

“What can I do with these?”

I thought about the little black dress I had hanging in my closet… and the fishnet tights that were kicking around in my drawer from a couple of Halloweens ago.

Aha. I’m going to be a black angel.

To be brutally honest, it was mostly because the angel wings were $10.99 and I wasn’t willing to spend much more than that to throw a costume together. And I wasn’t feeling very creative.

Anyways, the night of the social rolls around and I’m all ready to go. I’d painted my face to look half-dead/half gothic, and was heading out the door when my stepdad stopped me.

“You look like a skank with wings,” he said.

“Shit,” I thought. Totally not what I was going for.

So the next day my mom, stepdad, my four-year-old brothers and I piled into our family van to head to my aunt and uncle’s house for my cousin’s birthday and my stepdad starts telling my mom about my costume from the night before (she had been at work when I left the house).

“She looked like a skank with wings,” my stepdad said.

“Skank with wings?” piped in my four-year-old brother. “I want to be a skank with wings for Halloween.”

That was that. For the rest of the car ride none of us could speak we were laughing so hard.

There’s two lessons to be had here, I think. Number one: throwing on a pair black angel wings, a little black dress and painting your face probably isn’t the best costume choice, especially when you have a hovering, critical stepfather (I swear, I really wasn’t going for the skanky thing). And number two: Children under the age of four WILL repeat everything you say. And I mean, everything.

I’m pretty sure the daycare staff weren’t impressed when he went to school today telling everyone he was going to dress up as a skank with wings to go trick-or-treating tonight.

Sometimes you gotta let your hair down…

The tables were turned for a few minutes. "Look, reporters!"

I’m going to write about Shilo again. Yeah, I know, I’ve written about Shilo a lot in the past few months, but there’s still so much more I would like to say.

In all honesty, I could probably write about Shilo a thousand more times.

However, I’m going to take a bit of a different spin on it now.

I’ve talked a lot about taking yourself seriously – particularly when it comes to journalism.  And don’t get me wrong, I think professionalism is something that’s extremely important, especially in an industry where you’re always in the public eye.

I’ll be the first to admit, sometimes I have a hard time letting my hair down, and laughing things off. I tend to have my “serious, I’m a reporter and I mean business” face on anytime I’m working.

I’ll also be the first to admit that this comes to bite me in the ass sometimes.

“Why is the War Scribe so serious all the time?” the soldiers joked on my first few days in the field.

Confession: I went into the exercise with my “serious, I’m a reporter and I mean business” hat on and it stayed put for the first few days I was there.

And then I realized that sometimes you have to loosen up. No, this doesn’t mean throw your professionalism out the window, it simply means:  take the stick out of your ass, and learn to laugh a little.

What I learned, very quickly, was that sometimes you have to ask dumb questions; sometimes you have to joke around a bit; and sometimes you have to hypothetically let your hair down a bit and make yourself a real, touchable person.

What do I mean by that?

Well, I found as soon as I was able to “let my hair down”; not be so afraid to ask “dumb” questions and even joke around with the guys a little bit, they were more inclined to talk to me.

I started out as the awkward, slightly pretentious (in their eyes … I was just shy. And scared. Really!) reporter, who, really didn’t know shit about the army, who most of the guys really didn’t want to give the time of day to (because I was the awkward, nervous, ignorant reporter).

When I was able to loosen up a bit with everyone, and show them that I wasn’t just a reporter, but I was a reporter with a personality, who was genuinely interested in getting to know them on a personal level; willing to ask questions, and even joke around with them every once in a while, I found everyone in the echelon was much more willing to talk to me.

I also found that when I let myself loosen up a bit – show them a bit of my personality; joke around; ask questions that may have, in the soldiers eyes, been a little “dumb”, I had more fun. It all went full circle. Because I was having more fun, I let down MY guard a bit; laughing, joking, and being more than just a reporter with a stick up my ass. I think I became a much more approachable person (not to mention, enjoyed myself a lot more). In turn, some of the guys let their guards down a little more, too.

And so, I suppose the moral of the story here (anyone ever read Aesop’s Fables as a child? There’s ALWAYS a moral at the end of the story) is that removing the stick from your ass, hypothetically letting your hair down a bit and being able to have a little fun while working, is in the end, going to make your job a lot easier (especially when you’re stuck in a field with a bunch of really smelly, testosterone filled dudes who already have a preconceived notion that you’re the dumb, not to mention pretentious, civilian reporter).

Yes, I replaced the "serious, I have trouble loosening up" hat with one of the soldiers' scrim. See, I'm not afraid to look silly!

I’ve never met my editor (the importance of keeping your online identity squeaky-clean)

I have been freelancing now for a while. I stumbled upon an opportunity with the Winnipeg Free Press back in April of last year and have jumped on as many opportunities as I can with them since. I wrote the “Seven Things” column that appeared in the Sunday Xtra each Sunday, as well as picked up a few week stint of the “My Stuff” and “Mystery Ingredient” in the Saturday paper’s Detour section. I’ve also written a couple of other freelance pieces that have been published here and there.

I’ve written dozens of pieces – but I’ve never actually met any of the editors I’ve worked for. Our contact is strictly through email. I pitch a story by email. I send my story to the editor by email. I receive feedback through email.

I was thinking about this the other day as I updated my resume and portfolio; going through all of my online material. In particular, how important it is to make a good impression on your editor when you’re only communicating with them online.

I couldn’t tell you what my editors look like, or what they sound like – and I definitely couldn’t pick them out walking down the street.

All they know of me comes from the little thumbnail photo that appears beside my column, the few line emails I send them when I’m submitting a story; or asking questions, and the content of my stories. And perhaps when they’ve googled me and found my blog, or my Twitter account.

It’s easy to make a good impression when you’re sitting down face-to-face with an employer, or an editor. You can use your personality to your advantage – they can ask you questions, and see how you conduct yourself.

Working for someone who you’ve only ever exchanged emails with, however, is a little different.

I’ve come to realize the importance of sending professional emails, providing good, clean copy, and keeping my online identity squeaky-clean.

That means, when my editors google me, they aren’t going to find pictures or tweets of what I got up to on Friday night. It means that what comes up when you type in Dani Finch, Winnipeg, and hit search, is strictly professional content. I keep my Facebook account private, and make an attempt to keep my blog and my Twitter account as professional as possible. I won’t post anything on a public medium that I wouldn’t want my grandma, my instructors, my future employers, and my future husband to read.

If you don’t believe that your employers, or your editors, are going to google you – you should think again.

Trust me, it happens. One of the first things my editor at the Free Press did was read my blog. I know this because in one of the first emails he sent me, he commented on a recent post I had made.

It isn’t always easy to find work as a freelance writer – especially when you’re first starting out. But, if I’ve learned anything in the last little while, it’s that maintaining a professional relationship with your editor; putting your best foot forward, even if you’re only ever communicating with them through email; and keeping your online identity squeaky clean – and filled with professional work samples, are only going to up your chances of finding work.

Love letter to the North End: the people and the places

I have spent half of my life living in the north end of Winnipeg. When I was born, my parents lived in a tiny little house on Atlantic Ave. When I was two, we moved outside of the city for a few years, but ended up back in the North End just before I finished elementary school.

When my family and I moved to our current home on Scotia St. (which, by the way, isn’t even true “North End”) we received a lot of skepticism from friends and family. My stepgrandparents – who happen to be from the south end –  questioned why we wanted to live in “the hood.”  My friends, most of whom lived in St. James,  were nervous to venture into my “sketchy neighbourhood.”

I don’t quite know what my step grandparents or my friends were talking about. I love my neighbourhood – for many reasons. Not only do I feel as though our neighbourhood has a strong sense of community, but I also feel it’s made up of interesting and diverse people and places.

When I was a little girl, my dad was a milkman for Co-op Dairy (back when there was a Co-op Dairy, and when milkmen used to deliver cartons of milk right to your door). He delivered milk in the North End, both to homes and businesses. Sometimes I would ride with him on his milk-route. He’d take me into all the little North End shops that he delivered milk to. It was on these milk-route ride-alongs with dad that my love for the neighbourhood began to grow.

When I was in high school, I took a job as a cashier at Main St. IGA (right on Main and Jefferson). I think my favourite part of the job was getting a chance to talk to all of the diverse and interesting people the grocery store drew in. I learned to appreciate the unique community in which I lived.

In university, I ended up running youth drop-in programs at community centres around the North End, and got a chance to give back to my community just a little bit.

Now that I’m in my twenties, my love for the neighbourhood has continued to flourish. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. If I stay in Winnipeg after I graduate, I likely won’t venture too far from the North End. For me this neighbourhood is, and always will be, home.

In light of my love for the neighbourhood, I’ll leave you with a list of a few of my favourite places in the North End.

Gunn’s Bakery (247 Selkirk Ave.) In my opinion, this is the best bakery in Winnipeg, and has been around for more than 70 years. They make the BEST bagels.

Tenderloin Meat & Sausage (1483 Main St.) Can you tell I’m a good Ukrainian girl? I have never tasted kobassa (garlic sausage) better than what they make at Tenderloin.

The outdoor skating rink at Sinclair Park Community Centre (490 Sinclair St.) I have fond memories of strapping on my skates and playing pick-up hockey (or rather sitting on the bench and watching my uncles and cousins play pick-up hockey) here.

Super Boys Restaurant (1468 Main St.) I know most people think Kelekis when they think of iconic North End restaurants, but I have to disagree. Super Boys will always be my go-to North End restaurant for some of the tastiest burgers and fries, and largest selection of hard ice-cream.

Ukrainian-Orthodox Holy Trinity Cathedral (1175 Main St.) I have to admit, I’ve only ever been inside this church once. As child I used to call it “the onion tower church.” I love the way it looks, and that sometimes, when I’m out in the yard at the right time of day I can hear its church bells playing.

I’d love to know: what do you love about your own neighbourhood?

Are history books a thing of the past?

A couple of weeks ago a few of us journalism students attended a Winnipeg Press Club event on military storytelling, featuring Norman S. Leach, author of Passchendaele: Canada’s Triumph and Tragedy on the Fields of Flanders.

I left the talk, turned to a fellow student and said: I’m surprised he didn’t really mention Afghanistan. What about the stuff that’s going to be history in 50 years from now? Isn’t it just as important to tell these stories?

Leach talked about World War I and World War II, and the importance of keeping this Canadian history in school curriculums.

I agree, this part of Canadian history is  hugely important to a high school curriculum. As Leach pointed out, there’s no point in studying results of the war without studying the causes. We as Canadians should know how we came to be.

Leach spoke of how the last WWI veteran has died. He also told us that each week  500 Canadian WWII veterans die. He talked about losing history along with the veterans and questioned who would be left to tell the stories once the last veteran had died?

With no intent of being disrespectful, or discrediting to the many veterans who fought for our freedom and who helped write chapters and chapters of our Canadian history: part of me wonders when we’re going to move forward.

I keep asking the same few questions, questions I had been asking even before hearing Leach speak:

When do we move on from WWI and WWII and start talking about what’s happening now? Who is responsible for writing our generation’s history? As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, to date, more than two-thousand Canadians have been deployed to Afghanistan.

My classmate, Crystal, touches on these same questions in her post about Leach’s talk here.

I don’t know if we’ll ever move away from telling the stories of the First and Second World War. These stories very much a part of our Canadian history.

I do feel though, that at some the we have to start telling our own stories – and the history of our generation.

Which pretty much answers my second question.

I think we, as a generation, are responsible for telling our own stories.

I’ve talked about this before with my journalism instructor, Duncan,  on several occasions.

In 50 years from now people are going to wonder why this part of our history was never documented.

So we better start writing.

Duncan has pointed out to me, more than once, that as Canadian troops are pulling out of Afghanistan, their stories are going to continue to unfold – and it’s important that we continue to tell them.

But when do we start telling them? And whose job is it to tell them?

Is it the journalists – like Lisa LaFlamme, Christie Blatchford, and Murray Brewster – who’ve already begun to document this history through their own accounts, after spending months reporting on the war? Is it the soldiers who should be telling their own stories – much like the stories heard from WWI and WWII veterans?  Is it the historians job? Do traditional historians even still exist – or is it a dying profession in the age of the internet. In this day and age do journalists double as historians, too?

All I know is that someone’s gotta do it.

Which brings me to my next question.

Where do we record this history? Are 800 page history books a thing of the past? Are the novels written by journalists, and the newspaper articles archived online sufficient enough? Is Google our generation’s history book?

Though it’s a different kind of war, and a different kind of history than both the First and Second World Wars – the events that have followed 9/11 are OUR history – and a history that is going to be lost on future generation if it’s not recorded.

I wonder, in 50 years from now what a high school history curriculum will look like? Will our generation’s history get told in addition to the history of our grandparents and great-grandparents? Will our great-grandparents history be lost along with the last WWII veterans? Will our generation’s history ever be recorded in the conventional history book way?

I guess we’ll have to wait and see.