Inviting future vs. welcoming past.

I knew the room and the crowd well. I snuck in the back, content with fading into the background. As far as I was concerned my time in this particular spotlight had faded months ago. I was just here to visit. I was only here to help. I was not going to make a scene.

And then, my old choir director pulled me to the front of the room.

“This is Maggie,” he said. “She’s 19 and a sophomore in college. This is Gabby, she’s 5 and a proud kindergartener. Tonight, Maggie, Gabby and the rest of you in between need to work together.”

This is how the director of the youth choir at my parish opened rehearsal for Christmas Eve mass last winter. Fresh from my third semester of college, and back in my hometown I was invited to “help out” with the vocals. Singing in the choir and soloing at the ambo was something I’d done the whole way through my high school career. For Christmas the youth choir, the children’s choir and graduated alumnae work together. Consequently, I was the oldest member in the throng last Christmas. With a few alumnae at my side, moody teenagers standing in front of us and a fleet of children in the spotlight we filled the church with the sounds of Christmas.

The music was beautiful, and it felt great to be home—but that was last year.

Within the past three weeks I’ve received three winter invitations. The first came from the Associate Editor at Anthem Media Group offering me a winter editorial internship with KC Magazine. The second arrived shortly after from a friend’s mother, inviting me into their home during my five week internship.

Surprise, surprise—with a few quick phone calls, I wasn’t coming home for winter break.

Suddenly, my plans of lounging around the fireplace and watching Christmas movies with my mom were vanishing. Thoughts of revisiting my high school stomping grounds were obsolete. I’ve always said I wasn’t coming home after college, but I never factored in that I wouldn’t be coming home during college. I’m 20 years old, and half way through my fifth semester at Mizzou, I suppose this is normal—but it’s new to me.

I’ve done the math and counted the days. Between now and the end of my junior year, I will spend less than 15 days at home. Between working at the paper, and being a full time student there isn’t much time for running back to St. Louis.  On top of that, I’ve already begun looking at internships for this summer, and most stretch beyond the borders of Missouri.

I’m finally growing up, and I’m thrilled.

But just when I thought I was barreling down the path of journalistic ambition at full speed, I received my third invitation. My old choir director asked me if I would be interested in singing again this Christmas Eve.

While I’ll live in Kansas City the duration of my break, I will be home Christmas Eve and Christmas day. Who am I to pass up tradition?

I am slowly learning that my home, my voice and my past are much harder to ditch than I thought.

Then again, maybe that’s not exactly a bad thing. Just maybe, one of these days I’ll accept the fact that I can be both the journalist I dream of being and the little girl singing on the alter.

But until then, whenever then maybe… I think I’ll focus on my dreams.

Breaking ground with breaking news.

Looking back, the best way to summarize the first day of my fifth semester of college is through the excessive tweeting I engaged in all day long.

• Dear Mizzou if you love your j school so much you shouldn’t drop its students on the other side of campus. Just saying. 10:58 AM Aug 24th from txt

• I have Spanish now. Something tells me I intended to brush up over the summer. Aiee. 11:35 AM Aug 24th from txt

• I have to be at the Missourian every morning at 11am. There’s a dress code. Half my wardrobe just became irrelevent. 11:39 AM Aug 24th from txt

• The Missourian wants me to have a 573 phone number ($10 a month), a press ID ($20) a digital camera ($150+) and new wardrobe ($100ish) lovely 1:19 PM Aug 24th from web

• Breaking news. Ran across campus barely caught the shuttle it’s my first day at the Missourian and I’m on my way to cover a stabbing. Omg. 4:51 PM Aug 24th from txt

• This is legit proof j school students should be given garage spots. 5:05 PM Aug 24th from txt

Amidst a day filled with complaining about commuter parking and realizing that over the summer I’d forgotten how to speak Spanish—I was sent to cover a stabbing.

The syllabus for my reporting class at the University of Missouri is filled with multiple little obscurities. I mentioned the Missourian’s shopping list in my daily tweets, but that was only the beginning of it.

After breaking my bank account and professionalizing my voicemail, I was handed schedule of City Desk shifts. Reporting students rotate answering the phones and transferring calls at the paper. Which honestly, isn’t a big deal. I’d been warned by upperclassmen. I’d been told it’s annoyingly boring and to bring as much homework as I could while I waited for the phone to ring.

Well, my first day of waiting for the phone to ring was completely unforgettable.

Halfway through my shift, news of a stabbing crashed along the police scanner. Apparently, I was the only one in the building with a free moment and a car. So, the ACE flung me a camera, a reporter’s notebook and a Mapquest and I began my 25-minute dash across campus. (Now do you see why commuter parking annoyed me?)

This summer, I’d polished my interviewing skills while covering city council meetings for the Call, but I’d never had the chance to try breaking news. The adrenaline was incredible. I’ve always loved journalism, but at that moment my passion for it reached it’s highest levels yet.

So, on a day that usually filled with syllabuses, class rules and seating charts—I was sent to crime scene, talking to cops and trying to figure out what made two neighbors brawl in the middle of their suburban subdivision.

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times. My degree is so much cooler than yours.

Life as the “Call Girl”

Wearing a smile and a skirt I’d stolen from my mother’s closet, I pushed the oak door open and took a seat in the front row. An older gentleman sitting alone in the large meeting room greeted me with a firm handshake.

“I’ve never seen you before,” he said. “You must be the new Call girl.”

I opened my bag of tricks and pulled out my tape recorder, a pen and a reporter’s notebook.

“I guess that’s what they’re calling me these days,” I replied with a quick laugh. “I suppose I better get used to it.”

Well, that’s how my summer began. I’d just arrived home from my fourth semester at the University of Missouri, and I’d barely had a moment to unpack my suitcase before I was tossed into my summer internship at Call Newspapers.

I’m not complaining—I promise. I was thrilled.

I’d spent the past summer working over 50 hours a week at two different jobs and taking night classes. My next 8 weeks would be spent gaining reporting experience, polishing my interviewing technique and practicing my writing style. This internship was the first step toward the journalism career I’d been fantasizing about for years.

Throughout June and July I bounced in between various municipality city halls. For the first time I was given the opportunity to prove I really am capable of writing just about anything. With an emphasis in magazine I’m born to write features, but this summer I hired to report. I wrote about road improvements, pool budgets and impervious taxes. I interviewed spokespeople, mayors and citizens. I filed sunshine requests, studied meeting agendas and examined budget reports. I didn’t care that these topics weren’t of an extreme interest to me. I was researching, interviewing and writing—which is all I’ve ever wanted.

Halfway through the internship I interviewed Alderman Bill Nolan about the budget for his city’s new pool. After the interview I received one of the greatest compliments of my minimal journalistic career.

“You’re a smart girl Maggie,” he said. “Are you sure you want to spend the rest of your life writing for magazines? You are quite the reporter.”

That comment has been branded on my mind for the past few weeks. I’ve always known I can do anything I set my mind to—I guess the question I need to ask myself is what I want to direct my ambition toward.