That's the Way it Was

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances. — The First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution

I remember almost every room in Carroll Hall, the home of the UNC School of Journalism and Mass Communication. I remember nearly every professor who taught us about "good", ethical journalism. Chuck Stone, with his slow and steady manner, his warm and jovial manner, transferred his wisdom while simultaneously questioning censorship; Rich Beckman, with the simplest of instructions, gifted us with the minimalist approach to photojournalism and photo editing, ensuring all we did with our cameras and our computers as journalists was honest; Jay Anthony transmitted to us the rules of design and the tools with which to illustrate; Ferrel Guillory, whose door was always open, bequeathed to us the gift of good, solid reporting; Deb Aikat consistently had jokes, but was insistent that not only did we create our web content with purpose and readability, we learned our Internet history as well; Bill Cloud, after whom I modeled the requirement of my students to comprehend current events, coached us on the intricacies of copy writing and editing - it was a strict education and a valuable one; Harry Amana, a force to be reckoned with, opened our eyes to the true history of the media with information we will never forget and acts we hopefully will never repeat; Cathy Packer constantly reminded us that journalism is the fourth branch of government - the "watchdog". Each of them more than well-respected in his or her field, passed on knowledge, wisdom and experience in the most professional of ways. Each of them transferred feelings of both respect and honor, at least, for the profession of journalism and for the First Amendment.

The First Amendment greeted us each day as we entered the hallowed lobby of Carroll Hall for class. At some point I had to memorize the First Amendment, word for word, although I do not remember specifically for what class. Later, after my brief career as a journalist, I engendered my high school journalism students to memorize the First Amendment as well, during my mission to teach them "good" journalism. Although many of them did not comprehend at the time why I was so hard on them, nor did some of them wholly invest in the idea that there was a difference between "good" journalism and journalism, they understood later. And although many of them thought I was "crazy" at the time for making them write relentlessly and edit interminably and thought I was "too serious" about their Newspaper class - I often reminded them it was "Newspaper Journalism" - I later received words and letter of thanks, often followed by the news that said student was majoring in journalism or communications and was grateful for the madness of writing so much.

Therefore the news of Walter Cronkite's passing is undeniably moving for someone who came from the school of "good" journalism. Although Dan Rather remarked that Walter Cronkite made television journalism what it is today, he was wrong. Television journalism today is far from what "the most trusted man in America" did in the two decades he covered the stories of America. "That's the way it is" was exactly the most appropriate way for Cronkite to end his newscasts because that is exactly what he was reporting on. The editorializing that pervades American journalism as we know it today is not why Cronkite was invited into the homes of millions of Americans every evening.

Friday night I was on the computer and saw that Cronkite, at 92 years of age, had passed. I told my Aunt, ten years my senior.

"Oh my goodness, I have to call Judi," she said, referring to her sister. "Many trying times in our lives revolved around Walter Cronkite."

She picked up the phone and dialed my other Aunt. She gave her the news and Aunt Judi responded. Aunt Jill laughed, said "say that again" and put the phone up to my ear.

"Walter Cronkite was at our dinner table every night," Aunt Judi said. "Yup, we weren't allowed to talk either. We had to stay up on current events."

So I pictured my aunts, my mother, my grandmother and grandfather sitting around the television, with the sixth spot at the table filled by Walter Cronkite, whose presence was so much larger than the television screen he occupied. And with that I pictured every American family who was fortunate enough to eat dinner together and own a television between the years of 1961 and 1981.

As many have stated, there is no one who can replace Walter Cronkite, not now and not ever. On the CBS special "That's the Way it Was: Remembering Walter Cronkite", one guest noted that it is a good thing there is no one else whom the American people have put their faith in the way they did Cronkite. "He was the right man at the time to be "the most trusted man in America". True. Times have changed and we, in the United States and abroad, consume news differently and it is produced differently. We no longer accept that "that's the way it is." Our news is editorialized and analyzed during its delivery so that what we receive is far more than the way it is.

While I love Chris Matthews, Keith Olbermann, Rachel Maddow, David Gregory, Bob Schieffer, and(gasp) Stephen Colbert, they deliver our news in a very different format and formula than did ever Cronkite. Paul Krugman, Maureen Dowd, David Brooks, Bob Herbert and George Will I love too. But they are pundits - they analyze the news for us. They present it, discuss it, analyze it and synthesize it for we the consumers of the United States of America and we don't have to do it on our own. It's a brand new school. Even those from the old school of broadcast journalism - Barbara Walters, Connie Chung, Katie Couric, Sam Donaldson, Dan Rather, Peter Jennings, Brian Williams, Charles Gibson- have not the same no-nonsense, face-forward savvy as Walter Cronkite. The man gave his last newscast 28 years ago and until this day he has remained a name in our common vernacular.

Much of the eulogizing regarding Walter Cronkite related to the man. Cronkite was the journalist he was because of the human being that he was. All of the professors in the School of Journalism and Mass Communication whom I was lucky enough to encounter, believed in the value of "good" journalism - there are many people who do. I am grateful that while practicing their own "good" journalism - most of it print - they educated so many of us to do the same. But learning to do something well and actually doing it well are two different things. There are those of us who are purists - who do not taint the well nor do we want to. But times have changed and both the consumers and the producers of news have changed with them. It is rare to consider it simply "news" or "journalism" anymore. A whole generation is coming of age in an era when the difference between "news" and the rest of the media is inscrutable. We have the Internet, multimedia content, video, video on the web, animation, television, cable, newspapers, magazines, commercial radio, public radio, newscasters, bloggers, pundits, talk show hosts, political ads, commercials, YouTube, cell phones, social networking and Twitter. All of which deliver current content in some form or fashion. I am in no way implying that the press or the media as we know it today is bad or wrong or inadequate. I am simply stating that it is different. We are continually challenged to sift through the media, to figure out and decipher the difference between truth and fiction. The media is not the news, and the news has changed in the last three decades since Cronkite retired. It is a rare occasion that any one can safely say "that's the way it is." CBS presented a beautiful tribute about Walter Cronkite and it was aptly titled "That's the Way It Was" because it is that way no longer.

The Art of Packing

"Each of us has the right and responsibility to assess the road which lie ahead and those over which we have traveled, and if the feature road looms ominous or unpromising, and the road back uninviting-inviting, then we need to gather our resolve and carrying only the necessary baggage, step off that road into another direction. If the new choice is unpalatable, without embarrassment, we must be ready to change that one as well." - Maya Angelou

I have always had trouble packing. No matter how many times I have moved - once every year, at least, of my adult life - and no matter how many trips I have taken - too many to count - I still have not perfected the art of packing. If I pack efficiently and on time, I forget something. If I begin packing too early, I bring more than I need. I am now at a point where I have a typed list I use to help me pack - it neither guarantees I pack on time nor that I pack what I need for my subsequent activities, but it does help me remember the little, important items - cellphone chargers, cash for tips, adapters for the computer, stockings, scarves and shawls - but not necessarily specific items of clothing. It is easy to list general items - skirts, shoes, boots, jeans, dresses - all of which I have with me, but I have approximately 20 dresses and 3 pairs of jeans. I don't really like wearing jeans, so it's fine for me to have only 3 pairs, which in fact I bought after I arrived, but do I really need 20 dresses? I must admit, I prefer dresses and skirts to pants, but I am sure I could have packed more efficiently.

Always, at the end of my packing, as I am standing over my bag, squeezing it shut with both legs, pulling the zippers one inch at a time, dramatically grunting as if that will help, I think about how I could have packed better. How, if I had started early, rolled the clothes tighter, chose less pairs of shoes, used a different suitcase or planned my trip better, I could have a neater, tidier piece of luggage. My baggage would not be such a mess.

But the truth of it all is, that baggage is a mess. It will always be a mess, it will always be a burden until we let go. We use baggage to constantly make judgments about ourselves and about others, especially in terms of relationships. I was sitting with a friend a couple of days ago. She is going through a divorce. She has had more dates in the past four months than I have had in the past four years and I have been single for much longer than that.

"Now I have a child, I have a divorce under my belt: I have a lot of baggage," she declared as we sipped wine in her garage, the makeshift playroom they designed at her mother's house where she is living.

I have been thinking about her statement. She claims she has a lot of baggage. She did not shed one tear as we sat there talking. We discussed her husband, her former marriage, their daughter, her future, dating, spirituality. There she sat, composed, optimistic, neat and tidy. While in theory she has more baggage than I do, heavier baggage than I do, it doesn't seem so. And that is when I came to the conclusion that it's not how much baggage we have, it's how we pack it.

When I left the UAE to come to the States for the summer, I declared I was finished with drama. I had a fling that was supposed to be fun, but was laden with way too much drama - it ended up being burden. That was it. I decided to free myself. I had enough of men vomiting up their drama, baggage and issues into my lap and leaving me to clean up the mess; so I made myself a declaration. No more taking on the toll of someone else's drama. I had had enough.

The time came for me to pack. One month before my trip to the States, I got out my luggage and casually began to pack. Any dress I could not wear in the UAE but could wear in the States went in my bags - strapless, spaghetti straps, cleavage, or any other sort of revealing dress was in this category. I was also moving to a different flat in a different location before I left, so I had to pack all of my belongings for that move as well. The whole ordeal was somewhat of a disaster. I didn't really do much of any serious packing - for either situation - until I finished school for the year and had only one weekend left. Then, I had to deal with all my baggage. My stuff comes in all forms of dreams that have haunted me for years. Meeting my future husband on an airplane - what do I wear for my flight? Figuring out the difference between what I need for the next seven weeks, and what can remain in Dubai for the summer only to burn up in a potential fire - do I really still have that fear? Deciding what to put in which bag - just in case one bag got lost and the other didn't. And of course, seeing my favorite guy, my closest friend for the first time in a year - how do I prepare for that?

All of our concerns, hopes and plans go into the packing. What we're looking forward to and what we are leaving behind, all of that energy goes into the act of packing. It is all associated with our baggage. We carry it with us when we travel. When we leave the safety of our homes and our comfort zones and we go elsewhere, be it the arms of loved-ones or the arms of a stranger we inevitably take some of these things with us.

"What the $*!% did I pack?" I said to Sarah almost every day when I would attempt to get dressed.

Once I arrived in Atlanta, I tried to downsize my luggage before traveling on to my other destinations. I ended up with a bizarre assortment of fun, cosmopolitan clothing and very few practical items. It reflected my new life a great deal. I live fancy in my modern, disillusioned city of desire and dreams, but much of it is impractical. Before I left and since I have been here, I have been careful to remind myself of that.

Sarah and I went through the same ordeal every day. I was back in North Carolina - the look was not fancy. Sarah kept reminding that I was cosmopolitan now. I had to embrace it, so I did.

Prior to this trip, I have only one memory of losing my luggage. I have a fleeting image of our suitcase, the one my brother and I shared, outside of our door in the snow after it had been delivered in the early hours of the morning. When I began my trip in June, I had fears of lost luggage, but by my fourth flight I was getting pretty confident that my luggage would arrive wherever I did. I even verbalized that morning that I use my five dollar tip as insurance to guarantee that my luggage arrives. Apparently five dollars is not always enough.

After flight number four to Ohio, I waited calmly at baggage claim. After 30 minutes, of which I occupied myself by speaking with a friend on the phone, I asked the Delta representative who was removing unclaimed baggage from the belt, if that was the last of the luggage. She said yes. My inner fire ignited and I began to smolder. Part of me remained calm while the other part of me lit up. This time I had only one bag, there was no second bag back up. Both dresses I would potentially wear in my brother's wedding as bridesmaid were in that bag. All of my jewelry, all of my toiletries, and all of my shoes for this trip were in that one bag. I replayed my curbside check in - my hesitation to get in the line with woman, even though there was no line. Knowing that I always fared better with male attendants I thought about going to the man, but he had a line and the woman didn't. And then going into the line with the woman, and her having trouble with something and the man offering to help her and her insisting that she could get it herself.

When I went into the Delta Baggage Service office, the men relayed to me that Atlanta had upgraded their luggage system and that day was the first day they used the new one. A few glitches...right. He promised me I would have my luggage that night. I believed him. Only about 20% of me was pissed now. But eventually I got to my mother's and I wanted my stuff. I wanted my flip flops and my toothbrush. I wanted my nightie and my dresses. I called Delta. It was a little after eleven o' clock at night. According to the man at the airport, I was going to have my bag that night. According to the website, luggage was not delivered to residences after 10 PM. The woman on the phone said they would deliver my luggage in the morning. I decided to walk to the gas station across the street to buy a toothbrush. It was nearly midnight. There were no toothbrushes. The woman behind the counter told me I could walk down the street to the Walgreen's. Walgreen's was not very close, at least when one is walking at night in Akron, Ohio. Apparently due to the timing and novelty of my request she thought I liked to walk the streets. Not so much.

I went back home. I resigned myself to dental floss and Scope. I heard a little voice trying to remind me that having less stuff was good and telling me that I should comfortable with the uncertainty. I tried to ignore it. I knew I should not have been so consumed with the idea of having so much stuff. Other than the fact that Delta doesn't buy replacements for luggage until five days after it is lost, I had no real reason to worry. But I did. I wanted my luggage. I was attached to my stuff, to my baggage, as we all are. Baggage is part of who we are - at least until we let go of it.

I was in the process of my makeshift bedtime routine when my mother's phone rang. She spoke for a few seconds and began unlocking the door. I got hopeful. I went into the living room. My luggage had arrived.

I was talking to my friend after the incident. I was discussing emotional baggage with him; he claimed I still had some. I was shocked and immediately defensive. He reminded me of an incident a week or so prior. "Oh, yeah," I giggled. He was right. I contested that it is only in that instance, related to that one situation. He claimed it still counts - after all, when the incident occurred, I did dump that bag out all over him.

Some people are immaculate packers even though they may have an immeasurable amount of baggage - heartaches, war, illness - but they fold it up and pack it up and we barely ever see it, let alone trip over it. But it's there. Occasionally, the careful observer will get a sneak peek, either from his or her perception or from the other's divulging and we receive confirmation that they are human and have a past. And we exhale a little more. Some people don't actually hand us their bags or dump them out on us, they just let the contents slip out behind them everywhere they walk and we constantly struggle with it, until we decide to no longer.

"I had a girlfriend once like you: you know all over the place, everywhere all at once," my friend said to me once over lunch. That's me and that's my packing. I don't have much baggage, but what I do have, I don't pack very tightly. So from me, there's no judgment. There is just a decision to accept or reject.

In the movie "The Breakfast Club" Ally Sheedy's character, Allison, dumps her purse out all over Brian and Andrew. Instant mess. Once she does, they can no longer ignore her or remained detached. They are compelled for whatever reason to try and understand the baggage, analyze the baggage, deal with the baggage. It's the same way with real life. It's much easier to travel with luggage that is neat and tidy and packed efficiently. Baggage that's hastily packed and thrown together, due to poor planning or asking the wrong questions has to be lugged - it's harder to sort through. It's not a question of whether or not we have baggage. By the time we're adults, we all have baggage. The difference between a tolerable experience and a burden is all in how we pack our baggage.

Coming Home

"Home is a place not only of strong affections, but of entire unreserve; it is life's undress rehearsal, its backroom, its dressing room." ~Harriet Beecher Stowe

I don't know where home is anymore. Supposedly, I am here now. But I occasionally think, with absurd ambivalence, that I want to go home. And when I think I want to go home - for that tumultuous, turgid fifteen or thirty minutes or sixty minutes- I mean my latest home, and that is in Dubai.

It's hard for me to say where "home" is. Now, it is in Dubai - or at least I have referred to Dubai as home since December, when I felt it was time to make an exit from the cacophonous subcontinent back to the desert. Yet, as summer holiday approached I began to think about coming home - to the United States and more specifically North Carolina. I lived in North Carolina for ten years, my entire adult life until I left for Dubai, and prior to that Indiana, Pennsylvania, and Ohio respectively. While I usually tell folks I grew up in Ohio - because physically I did - I, in fact, grew up in North Carolina - most importantly - emotionally and mentally. My mother and my brother remain in Ohio. My father and my stepmother live in Atlanta, and that is my "home base" when I am in the States. And to a certain degree, all of these places - Indiana, Pittsburgh, Ohio, North Carolina, and Atlanta, are some semblance of home - or what home is supposed to be.

These places are my family and my friends. They are places where I have lived and lost and loved. They are joy, silence, laughter, love, acceptance, rejection, sorrow, ecstasy, anguish, chaos, familiarity, nostalgia, turbulence and resilience - all of the things that make up home as well as break it down. They are amazing food in restaurants I already know, they are people I worked with and was inspired by, they are bars where I spent many a summer evening, they are short visits with pals filled with chatter and light and laughter and a longing to continue but acknowledging that the feeling is fleeting and so is the meeting so here is our quick goodbye - again...sort of a little too similar to last year - isn't it?

It's fierce - this feeling of anguish and angst to return to Dubai, to a location I fought with for months, and fought against for months until I accepted it was mine. Knowing I was so excited to come here, to come home, and then arriving and it's amazing and it's almost everything I hoped it would be, but then for a minute, for an hour, those distorted thoughts and feelings overwhelm me and I picture my unpacked flat and my eccentric security guard and the ease of daily life and I "want to go home". Then I am perplexed and a wash of guilt and shame simultaneously mixed with comfort and inextricably linked to what I know not and I wonder about the holidays and next summer and when and if and how I will "come home" again.

And now I am here. Loving every moment. Living every moment. Accepting everything the Universe has to offer. And when those forty-five minutes or so roll around...and I am submerged in discomfort and living the questions, I do not escape it. I do not resist it as I did my new home. I embrace the fear and acceptance and the tears and the peace. I reflect on my people and the amazing visit I have had over the past three weeks and I smile and I am grateful I am here. And when someone asks me when I go back and I realize it is is ONLY ________ weeks (now five), I return to the present and I contemplate "home" - a place and a definition I have been seeking and finding and leaving for the majority of my life, and I breathe - because whether home is in Ohio or Atlanta, or North Carolina or Dubai, or with my family or with my friends, or with my Papi or where the heart is - or all of it and none of it at the same time - "wherever you go, there you are" and maybe home is there also.