Comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity.

I think it’s time to talk about Oklahoma City.

I’ve been thinking about doing this for a while. This weekend, I stopped by my favorite city to tell it hi, briefly, which is the only time I see it now.

 

Oklahoma City is my favorite place in the world.

 

In this post, I’m going to tell you why. I’m probably going to cry, which is all right.

 

Sometimes tears are good.

 

--

I took my first newspaper class in high school in 1999, when I was a freshman.

 

To say that I struggled in college is an understatement. College for me was 2003-2008, and in that time, I went to three schools. I don’t even know how many crappy minimum wage jobs I worked.

 

I was a punk in college. I knew that journalism was what I wanted to do, and I didn’t understand why I had to work jobs I didn’t want to work and why I had to take classes I didn’t want to take to do journalism full-time.

 

I get it now. I get that you have to work for what you want, and I understand that you have to go through bad times to get to the good stuff.

 

Back then, 2003 to 2007 Monica was a punk. College was the first time that I failed, and I didn’t know how to be a failure. It was completely new to me, someone who graduated high school with a 3.7 GPA and took honors and AP classes.

 

College sucked.

 

In the summer of 2007, that all changed. I applied for an internship in the biggest, most badass city that I’d ever visited, and I got that job.

 

I moved to Oklahoma City by myself, to start an internship at the newspaper, The Oklahoman. I got lost trying to find my apartment complex. Everything I owned fit into the back of my car.

 

When I finally did find my apartment, and moved my stuff in, I was too scared to venture outside to a grocery store or a fast-food restaurant for food. The big city was too intimidating to me.

 

I stood in my new apartment that night, alone and hungry, and if I remember right, I cried.

 

Welcome to the real world, 2007 Monica.

 

I was terrified.

 

--

 

The only thing I remember about that first day is how much we walked. They took us everywhere, all over the huge building (I worked on the seventh floor), and they a photo of the interns, all dressed up.

 

I still have that photo.

 

--

I remember meeting each intern and asking where they lived and where they went to school. There were some impressive hometowns: Oklahoma City, Dallas and Chicago, to name a few.

 

The schools were even more impressive: The University of Oklahoma, Texas, Missouri.

 

And then there’s little me, from a no-name town who went to a no-name school. Also, did I mention that I went to three schools in five years?

 

Oklahoma City was the first time that I was surrounded by people who had the same passion as me. It was the first time that I got paid for what I loved to do.

 

It was the first time that I realized that I struggled in college for a reason, and that this would be the start of the rest of my life.

 

Oklahoma City was the first time I realized that I could do what I loved for a living. It was the first time that I realized that I could have a career, instead of just a mundane job that I hated.

 

--

 

I remember a lot of things about that summer. And there’s probably a few alcohol induced things that I don’t remember, too.

 

2007 Monica liked to party.

 

I remember feeling so fancy when we went to the downtown bars on the Fourth of July. I remember looking up at the stars that night, and thinking, ‘Damn, this is what happy feels like.’

 

I remember wearing heels to work. I got my heel caught in the elevator and tripped in front of everyone I was trying to impress.

 

Another intern tripped and spilled an entire glass of whiskey later that night, and I remember no one made fun of me after that.

 

At least I didn’t waste whiskey when I fell on my face.

 

Mostly, I remember realizing that all the other interns were just as scared as I was that entire summer.

 

When someone bought donuts on the floor above us, my intern buddy and I talked about going up and getting some for breakfast.

 

We didn’t. We were too scared to.

 

Now that I’m nice and old, I can spot an intern a mile away. I recognize the fear behind their eyes, and I sympathize with that.

 

I understand that.

 

I think it’s hilarious.

 

--

 

I mostly wrote weather stories that summer. I did cover some other things, though. I wrote about an execution. A story about local food. But mostly, just weather.

 

I remember getting my first (and only) page one. I still have it, and I need to get a frame for it.

 

Also, when I die, no one is going to want a newspaper from 2007 with my byline on the front page. Please, whoever oversees my arrangements, just bury me with it.

 

Anyway, I remember I had my story in pieces on my computer screen. Quotes here and there, some notes, sure, but it was not finished and polished yet.

 

My editor came up behind me, read my screen, and then asked me to send him what I had. I wanted time to finish it, but he wanted it immediately.

 

I sent it, and then went over to his desk.

 

I watched as he edited my words. I remember looking at his fingers, and then at his screen, and then back at his fingers.

 

I remember thinking, holy shit. This man’s got magic in his fingers.

 

That was the first time that I realized that all writing is better when it’s edited. I used to think I’d make it as a writer when my work didn’t need an editor.

 

I was wrong.

 

Writers always need editors.

 

--

 

I associate Oklahoma City with the love that I felt there.

 

Oklahoma City is like a long-lost friend that you haven’t seen in a while. That city is like greeting a loved one at the airport and hugging them so hard you never want to let go.

 

Oklahoma City was my first love.

--

 

I remember going to a kickball game that the full-time reporters played on. Interns were not allowed to be on the team, but we went to watch. (I’m pretty sure we just wanted to suck up to get a bar invite after.)

 

I told one of the reporters that the other interns went to bigger schools than me. I fessed up to her that I was on my third school and was going to be a ‘super senior’ come graduation time.

 

Her response: No one cares. Your past doesn’t matter now that you’re here. The only thing that matters is your future.

 

--

Oklahoma City was everything that I ever wanted. It was the biggest city that I’d ever visited or lived in. To 2007 Monica, it was the fanciest place that I’d ever seen.

 

I’ve since grown up and have visited some other cool cities. Namely, New Orleans, Nashville, Denver and Washington D.C.

 

But there’s something about the feeling that I get when I pass through OKC.

 

I went back over the weekend to visit, briefly. After spending some time in Tulsa, I paid the dumb $5 fee (cash or check only, no debit or credit, because Oklahoma is Oklahoma) to drive over to OKC, and I stopped at the Memorial.

 

I bought an Oklahoman along the way.

 

I grew up going to Oklahoma City. It’s as much a part of me as Kansas is a part of me.

 

When the bombing happened, I clipped out newspaper stories and kept them. I read them over and over.

 

I grew up to work around those reporters whose bylines I used to read when I was little.

 

I love that city more than I love anything else in my life. That city gave me confidence, friends, and a sense of belonging that until then, I’d not felt before.

 

It also gave me a lot of alcohol and Guitar Hero, too.

 

I wasn’t myself in college because I didn’t fit in anywhere. In Oklahoma City, I found myself. I drank rum, played Guitar Hero, found friends I loved like family and learned that strong people lift each other up, not tear each other down.

 

It was an incredible two months.

 

--

 

When I lived in OKC that summer, I always went to the Memorial at night. When the security guard approached me, he told me that nighttime was his favorite time to be there, too.

 

I would explain the Memorial, but many of you have probably already seen it. If you haven’t, you can Google the particulars.

 

On Sunday morning, I went and spent about an hour there on my way back to Kansas.

 

I picked up a wrapper from the water and put it in my pocket. I touched the water, the gates, and the back of one of the chairs.

 

I wondered why I was touching everything a few days ago, but it felt right, so I kept doing it.

 

Now I know why­. My love language is touch. I can’t do much to heal anyone’s pain, but I can offer a loving touch during my time there.

 

I looked at the chair that I touched, took note of the name, and said a little prayer.

 

Comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity is what the Memorial offers its visitors. Those words are etched on the gates.

 

The bombing happened in 1995, when I was nine years old. The Memorial was finished in 2000 when I was in high school. We went to the site when I was little, when there was just a chain link fence around it.

 

Little did I know back then that Oklahoma City would offer me just what the Memorial promises to visitors: Comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity.

 

Oklahoma City was the first time I felt like I belonged somewhere. It felt like I was meant to be there, and that I had earned my spot at the table.

 

I love you, Oklahoma City.

 

I always have and I always will.

Headlines.

I love Kansas.

Giant inflatable colon stolen in Kansas

Kansas man accused of stealing cake, vacuum from Dairy Queen

Sometimes I miss writing headlines.

Favorite piece of journalism

To date, this story from The Denver Post is my favorite piece of journalism.

I read it again today, as a reminder that writing is an art that I will probably never master.

I read it again today, as a reminder that you can remember strong writing years after you've read it.

Incredible piece of journalism

This is an incredible piece of journalism.

The outcome is sad, though, as the man featured in the story killed himself earlier this week.

Words are powerful, folks.

I hope journalism never dies.

First job

My first job out of college was at a Harris newspaper.

It started to die three years after I was born: The long, slow death of Harris Enterprises

I'm a sad panda today.

Good journalism

When people ask me what Reddit is, I have a perfect response: It's my favorite way to waste time.

Last night, I was laying in bed tossing and turning. I opened Reddit on my phone, and read news about a certain celebrity golfer who was arrested.

That thread led me to reading this wonderful story: The secret history of Tiger Woods

I could try to tell you what this story is about. I could pull out some of my favorite quotes from it. I could go on and on about why I admire this particular piece of journalism.

Instead of reading my words, just click on that link above and go read somebody else's words.

I promise you won't regret it.

In 11,000 words, which is unheard of in journalism, this story explains how someone at the top of their game and life can come unraveled.

Do me a favor and read it. Please. It's almost life changing.

At the Movies

I've heard about the Tallgrass Film Festival, but I've never been.

Wednesday night was the start of the festival, and a friend invited me to see the opening movie at The Orpheum in Wichita.

First, what a cool theater.

Second: I can't even describe how amazing the movie is.

It was a documentary about Robert Ebert, half of the Siskel and Ebert duo. I knew of them, and I remember when both of them died, but I had no idea of the history they had.

Roger Ebert worked for the Chicago Sun-Times. Gene Siskel worked for the Chicago Tribune. Both were enemies at first and refused to work with each other.

Over time, something about the two of them clicked. They bickered and cussed at each other in-between takes, but cared deeply for each other. Ebert said of Siskel: "He's an asshole, but he's my asshole."

Ha, ha.

The filmmaker followed Ebert throughout his hospitalizations, and was in the middle of emailing him questions for the film when he died.

Why did someone follow a gravely sick man around with a camera, you ask? Siskel died in 1999 of brain cancer at age 53. Aside from a few family members, no one knew he was sick. Ebert didn't even know, and the film said he was really upset about that.

After Siskel died, Ebert told his wife that if he ever had to go through a health battle, he wanted the world to know about it. He didn't want his problems to be kept a secret.

I cried about 57 times throughout the movie.

Of course I knew they worked for newspapers. I didn't know how long they worked for newspapers, that Ebert was the editor of his college newspaper, and that they both went through newspaper buy-outs and watched the staffs shrink.

(I know a little bit about those topics, too.)

They worried about job security. They both knew they couldn't be profitable on their own. They were always going to need each other to be successful.

In his last years when he could no longer talk, drink or eat, Ebert started a blog. He said something along the lines to the filmmaker: "Some people choose to write a blog. I have to write a blog."

His last blog entry was the day before he died.

I can't believe how powerful the film was. It expressed perfectly how much love they both had for movies and for the written word.

I wish I could have written down all of the wonderful quotes I heard in the movie, but it's not exactly polite to whip your phone out in a dark theater and start typing away.

It was amazing.

I remembered when Ebert could no longer talk or eat, but I couldn't remember why. During the entire film, I kept trying to remember what happened to him. I don't know of a polite way to say this, but I couldn't remember why half of his face was basically missing.

In the film he said that his face was "the new reality."

It took the entire film to get to that part. A large part of his jaw was removed because of cancer. In the movie, he communicated to the filmmaker through voice diction software on his computer.

Someone without half of his face seemed positive and optimistic most of the time.

Wow.

If this is any indication of how amazing the Tallgrass Film Festival is, I definitely need to start going from now on.

Newspapers are quickly dying off and journalists are burning out, trying to hold on to a sinking ship. It's nice to be reminded that it was once a great, admirable profession.

What Siskel and Ebert wrote changed people's lives.

And now I'm getting a little teary-eyed again.

I've interviewed people on their death bed before. (Perhaps that's a story for a blog post later.) I remember being asked by non-journalist friends why in the world journalists do that.

It's so invasive, people say. Why don't you just let people and families in pain have privacy and peace? Why not just leave them alone?

There are many answers to that, I think. The most important answer? Death is a part of life. It's not something that you can avoid, and, really, it's not something that people should pretend never happens.

Also, you don't talk to dying people and their families about death. You talk to them about their life.

Those stories should be told. They have to be told, in my opinion, because those are the most powerful words you'll ever read.