Monthly Archives: November 2016

snapshots from the district

It’s a strange way to grow up, belonging everywhere and nowhere at once. I grew up with a Polish mother and Hungarian father. My parents and my sisters are the only family I have in America. During my childhood, my summers were spent in my parents’ small towns. The rest of the year was spent in Chicago, or Mountain Grove, or Columbia, or Springfield.

This means I’m good at adapting. I’m able to feel a kinship and live comfortably in just about any town, city, community. It also means that I never quite feel at home. I simultaneously feel that I belong everywhere, and that I can’t ever build a sense of belonging anywhere. Contradictory, perhaps, but that’s what it means to be human.

In May, I moved to Washington, D.C. to work on my master’s project.

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Besides Chicago, Washington is the closest I’ve ever felt to belonging somewhere in the States — appropriate, perhaps, since it’s the nation’s capital. It’s an international city. There are loads of residents who are similar to me, cultural mutts. When you go to a bar, you’re guaranteed to run into interesting people. Young people move to D.C. because they are passionate, because they are ambitious.

Now, the year is nearly over. I’ll graduate in less than a month. And I’m on the job hunt. I’m looking everywhere, all over the country. I’m looking back in Europe too. I must. Journalism is a tough industry, and there are only a few jobs in Washington. So maybe I’ll move away. Maybe I won’t. I’ve never done well with uncertainty, and it gives me nightmares.

 

Maybe that’s why I feel a sense of belonging in Washington. It’s a city of transience. People come, people leave. It’s dynamic, in flux. Quite like me.

I have no clue where I’ll be in a month. So for now, I’ll try to remember the little things that matter the most, like the view from my back porch in Capitol Hill on a late summer evening.

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one year later

A year ago, a graduate student at the University of Missouri began a hunger strike. He told me about it. I broke the story. Soon it was national news.

Anniversaries are a time when people reflect. I could write that post, reflecting on what it was like to report on a man who stopped eating. What it was like to watch this man physically grow weaker and weaker while I had to maintain a professional distance. What it was like to try and wrap my head around his faith in God, which was so strong, a faith that I still cannot comprehend.

But I’m not ready to write that post. My chest still pinches when I think about it.

So I’ll just say this: My life has changed immensely since then. The city where I live, the office where I work, the people in whom I confide, next to whom I wake. That week, one year ago, was still the most challenging of my professional life. It was the week when I learned that the best reporting can come from a place of empathy. In some cases, it must.

I’m grateful I got to write the first draft of that story. I’m thankful for the people who were in my life. Most importantly — I’m glad that student is still alive.