They tell
you to go to college to follow your dreams. “They” is your family, friends,
teachers, community, and everyone in life who has impacted it in one way or
another. It’s the people who tell you that you’re not going to be successful
without a college education so they tell you to find something you love, learn
as much as you can, and practice it every day for the rest of your life.
Growing up
it seems that everyone wants to be involved in the sports world somehow. Most
boys, and some girls too, dream of becoming sports broadcasters, professional
players, or somehow tied to that world.
I was one
of them. I had dreams of being a sports writer for as long as I can remember.
In high school, while I was writing for the local newspaper and beginning my
career, I had a lot of support. Random strangers would recognize my face from
the paper and say that they liked my article or I was doing a good job. Coaches
would tell me it was refreshing to see a pretty, female face in the sports
department. Players were amazed I was their age or younger, yet writing about
them so they could read their name in the paper the next day. I loved it, every
aspect.
While I was
looking at colleges, I was solely focused on journalism schools. I wanted to
become the best of the best and make my way to the top. Granted, being a female
in a male dominated profession was going to be tough, but I was up for the
challenge.
When I
toured Syracuse University, I fell in love with the S.I. Newhouse School of
Public Communications. It was the #1 journalism school in the country and I
knew that if I could get in, I would be able to unlock doors so many other
people would never even be able to imagine.
Newhouse
was the only school I applied to. Yes, I took the risk and only applied to one
school. But I did get in. I was a part of the 9% who were admitted to the 2013 Newhouse
freshmen class.
My first class of my college career was an
intro class to all of the different communications majors that Newhouse
offered. You could feel the greatness of Newhouse when you walked in its doors.
I made my way to my lecture, took a seat towards the front, and looked around.
The other 119 kids that I sat amongst were too part of this elite group.
I quickly
discovered what it was like to be a Newhouse student at SU.
When you
introduced yourself to other students and they asked what school you were in at
SU and you replied Newhouse, there were usually two responses. From my fellow
Newhouse students, they would be overjoyed to meet “one of their own.” They
would ask what clubs or organizations you were in or were planning on
joining. Every current event possible
was free game for discussion or they would try to engage you in some sort of
stimulating conversation about a topic that nine out of ten times I had no idea
what they were talking about.
Now if they
were not Newhouse students. You were usually asked why you were talking to them
then. “You’re too good for us,” was a phrase I heard many times in the first
few weeks.
Is this
really what this school was like? Why did it hold this prestigious recognition
in the country, but on its own campus, my fellow students couldn’t stand me?
Nevertheless,
the semester went on.
I had two
Newhouse classes my first semester. My intro to Newhouse professor liked to
talk about herself, a lot. Her PhD, how she was from Florida and it was so much
nicer to live there than Syracuse, her prior experience as a lawyer, and I
could probably dedicate the rest of this blog to random, pointless shit I know
about this lady, but I’ll spare you.
I went to her office hours only
once because I’m not one of those students who suck up to her professors. I
went this particular time because I didn’t do as well as I thought I did on an
exam and she really encouraged us to come to go over the test and ask questions.
I knocked on her door and she invited me in without looking up from what she
was doing. I introduced myself and she told me to take a seat. She handed me my
test and an answer key and said she didn’t have time for me right now because
she had other things to do. I was confused because she practically begged us to
come to her office hours and now she didn’t have time? I didn’t even look at my
test; I simply walked out of her office and never looked back.
My other
Newhouse class was grammar. Now I took grammar in high school, and although I’m
from the backwoods, my mom was an English major in college and has her master’s
so she always made sure to correct me and teach me proper English so I didn’t
talk like a hick. Therefore, I like to think I have a relatively good grasp on
the language. I couldn’t figure out if this class was a way to scare me out of
Newhouse, or just a complete joke. I’m thinking like many other things that
involve this school, it was the latter. This particular professor made
powerpoints and videos about her dog to somehow teach about grammar. And she
was writing her own book for the class. Props to her for writing the book, but
I had to pay $80 for this online book and she was writing it as the class
progressed so there were many weeks where she would forget to post the chapters
or they were posted well after we took a test. The icing on top of the cake
though was when we were supposed to take a test for her class and usually my
rule is, if a professor is 20 minutes late for class I leave. Well this day
since we were to take our midterm I decided to stick around, 45 minutes into
our hour and fifteen minute class she walks in, with her dog no less, and asked
if we got her email. She said that her dog was having too much fun at the park
and she just couldn’t pull her away. Seriously? I’m paying thousands of dollars
to sit in a professor-less class because your stupid dog is at the park?
As if my
problems with professors weren’t enough, there was my run in with the assistant
dean - multiple times.
Despite my
first two Newhouse classes giving me bad feelings about the school, I still
wanted to be a sports writer. I thought the best way to do this was to double
major in journalism and sport management. I talked to everyone in the sport
management school I needed to talk to. They said that me coming in with 21
credits from high school and being a good student would definitely help and
they’d love to have me in their program. I was told to be able to do this I’d
have to make an appointment with the assistant dean of Newhouse and get her
signature. So I did.
I barely
had a chance to get the words out of my mouth when she told me it probably
wouldn’t be possible since the sport management core curriculum wasn’t the same
as the Newhouse one. I explained how I came in with credits and had talked to
multiple people in the other school, as well as a professor in Newhouse who was
a former sports editor for a few major papers and everyone said it was going to
work.
She told me
my dreams were stupid and maybe I should rethink another major and future job.
Excuse me?
The
assistant DEAN of the #1 journalism school in the country told me my dreams
were stupid? I had a lot I wanted to say to her but I was stunned. I never had
anyone tell me to my face that my dreams were stupid. I grew up in a loving and
supporting family and community where I was always taught to follow my dreams.
I never
cry, and if I do something is truly wrong. But when I left that lady’s office I
broke down and called my dad. He told me to forget what she said, find a
loophole, and if I wanted it badly enough to continue to go after my dreams,
whatever they may be and however crazy they may seem.
The
semester progressed and every day I questioned whether I still wanted to be a
sports writer. Maybe I should continue with my journalism degree, and find a
way to be a sports writer without the sport management degree? Or maybe I
should give up on sports writing in general. I mean, I was just a young girl
who knew a lot about sports and liked to write. What made me think I could
actually write for Sports Illustrated
someday? Every day seemed like a constant battle of my dreams versus reality of
what my future held.
At the end of the fall semester I
was walking to take my final at Newhouse and there was graffiti on the
building. I thought nothing of it because Newhouse people are usually artsy
anyway and I was more focused on my final. I figured it was an advertisement or
something someone did for a project. It wasn’t until I was walking out of the
final that I really took a good look at it. “#1 in communication, LAST in free
speech.” The more I thought about it, the more I agreed. I wrote something
towards the beginning of the semester that didn’t paint the school in the picture-perfect
light it’s grown accustomed to portraying, I was told to change it. That’s not
how freedom of speech is supposed to work. For a school that won’t let you
graduate until you can recite the First Amendment word for word, and that calls
the First Amendment the foundation of its school, it’s very hypocritical.
“Liars live here, are you one?” was also spray painted on the ground outside of
one of the Newhouse buildings. As I was leaving campus to head home for
Christmas vacation, I continued to think about it. Liars. That’s what I felt
like when I was in Newhouse. The atmosphere was suffocating. I wasn’t a liar. I
was not about to compromise my beliefs and writing because it didn’t fit the
cookie-cutter mold the school wanted to exemplify. I was always taught to be
honest and tell the truth. And even if that truth doesn’t paint things in the
best light, or it may hurt someone’s feelings along the way, I have always been
one to tell the truth anyway. This graffiti made me think of my own moral
character and question why I was still part of a school that was restricting me
and trying to change who I was.
When I came
back from winter break I decided to give the school another chance. Maybe I
just took some of the wrong classes and got off to a bad start with the people
at Newhouse?
At the very beginning of second
semester I had to change a lab time for one of my classes. The lady in the
astronomy department was very helpful and told me I just had to fill out a slip
of paper. Leave it to Newhouse though to make sure nothing is simple. I got an
email that they wouldn’t process my request because I didn’t fill out proper
paperwork and get enough signatures. It’s not like I was trying to change
classes, my major, schools, anything. I was only switching from one lab time to
another.
I also went
to talk to my academic advisor the beginning of second semester to see where I
stood and if I could double major in business. I figured if my sport
management/journalism major was going to be shot down, a double degree in
journalism and business was practical. She made me go through hell telling me
that I didn’t pick the right classes and asking me when I thought I was going
to apply to the business school because my grades probably wouldn’t get me in
and neither would my lack of extracurricular activities. (Apparently a 3.3 GPA
and member of the equestrian team meant absolutely nothing). I told her this
was something I really wanted and asked for assistance. I also needed her to
sign off on an ROTC paper for me. It was simply a list of my classes, yet she
told me she wasn’t going to sign anything that was government controlled
without first reviewing it. So I sat there for 20 minutes as she critiqued my
class decisions and then told me at the end that becoming a member of ROTC
wasn’t going to benefit me scholastically. I couldn’t believe the nerve of this
woman trying to tell me how to live my life. I told her it wasn’t any of her
business and she called me an ungrateful brat for not thanking her for her
help. I had a few choice words for her and flipped a chair as I walked out of
her office. I know that wasn’t a smart thing to do. I should have kept my mouth
shut, thanked her for her time, and walked out. But I didn’t know what it was
about people in that building that thought they were God’s gift to mankind.
Things
change and people change.
I know that
school certainly changed me.
The more I
thought about being a sports reporter, the more I didn’t want to. Not only had
the faculty and staff of Newhouse crushed my dreams, but I don’t think morally
I could be a sports reporter or even a reporter in general. Did I really want
to go up to a coach after he lost the World Series and ask him why he thought
his team lost? It was bad enough they lost; yet there I’d be rubbing it in and
making him feel worse. Or did I want to be the one who had to interview an NFL
player who was deemed not guilty of murder when the world knew he was? “Please
tell me how you feel knowing you got away with murder because you’re an NFL
player and can pay anybody off and have the legal backing to do whatever you
please.”
And from
personal experience, I saw what it was like to have reporters go after people
you love. I sure didn’t want that.
I’m too
opinionated, and I have a heart.
When I
decided to switch from a journalism to psychology major my parents really
questioned my decision. I had busted my ass to get into Newhouse and here I was
leaving because a few people had made it hard for me.
It was more than that though. Those few people who didn’t have time for me
and didn’t show me I cared in one semester were going to make it miserable for
me in the remaining seven of my college career. They showed me that in Newhouse
you’re just a number, but if you go on and do big things they’re going to take
credit for it and make it known you were a Newhouse prodigy.
Switching
out of that school was one of the best decisions I ever made. Anytime I tell
people around campus I was formerly a Newhouse student and transferred out,
people judge me. I probably could have sold my spot there and made enough to
pay for the rest of my college career.
A piece of
paper with a certain name on it doesn’t mean that much to me though. Neither
does the lying, conniving, backstabbing, drama, and arrogance that surrounds
the Newhouse school.
Now I think
back to what my dad told me freshman year when he said don’t let anyone get in
my way of following my dreams, no matter how crazy they are. Getting into
Newhouse was a dream, and I proved I could do it. Now leaving that school
behind is helping me follow my real dreams in life. Ones that are bigger and
better than anything that school could have ever provided me.
So this is
for you Newhouse. This is me expressing my First Amendment right of freedom of
speech, which is what you preach; yet you don’t practice. I have the right to
say what I want without you covering it up because it makes you look bad.
Thanks for helping me figure myself out and I won’t miss you.