By
Kevin Clerici
Arizona Daily Wildcat
Editor's note: This is the traditional goodbye column, submitted by the outgoing editor-in-chief of the Arizona Daily Wildcat, myself. Those before me have typically written a commencement speech of their own, but I offer an alternative approach.
My first day on the job they called me the Outsider.
They gave me three working days to secure a staff of 60, a rusty desk in the corner and a computer that didn't have enough juice to run e-mail.
But that's OK.
At the time, I was an anomaly.
Most editors advance from within; I hadn't worked for the Daily Wildcat in more than two years. I was old (23) by Wildcat standards. I was working nearby as a features writer for a professional (and competing) newspaper - a job most of the staff coveted, and didn't have a clue why I was ditching it for them.
I was brash. I had big ideas, and a bigger mouth.
I had just bumped two of the staff's brightest candidates and taken over for a much-loved and respected editor.
Outsider? Hey, it could have been a lot worse.
I was an idealist. I figured I would win them over with work ethic. I would take every day seriously, lead by example. I wanted to demonstrate to the staff that the editor was there to assist them, not vice versa.
The way I saw it then (and now more than ever), the Wildcat is a big-time player on campus. And with that comes a big-time responsibility.
I knew the job wasn't going to be easy, but I had studied in the professional arena. I was in for the long haul, and I was ready.
If I plan to make a dent in this industry - to be among the leaders of the 21st century journalism evolution - then this was my first battleground.
But nothing prepared me for a phone call I received one afternoon in late March.
I must get 40 calls a day, most questioning something we have printed or pleading for similar press. I treasure those calls. I have been screamed at, called a legion of unprintable adjectives, but this call was nothing like that.
You see the beauty of this job is that it takes a collaborative effort - no one person is bigger than the paper, and no paper is accomplished without everyone contributing.
My happiest moments were times when I would stop and listen to the newsroom. Raw energy and chaos intermixed - relentless fingers attacking the keyboards, people screaming, laughter, phones blaring, the chatter. It's moving, I tell you. So when those occasions arose where I was forced to act alone, that collective spirit was missing.
This phone call started off with the caller praising my recent decision to run a controversial advertisement written by conservative David Horowitz titled "Ten Reasons Why Reparations for Slavery is a Bad Idea - and Racist Too."
At the time only a handful of student newspaper editors had decided to print his confrontational full-page ad. Of those papers, several soon ran front-page apologies after suffering community backlash. I was not one of them.
The caller complimented me on my bravery, my commitment to do the right thing - and it felt good.
Running the ad was no easy decision. I was learning the ropes, remember. I had 48 hours to decide. I didn't agree with it. I didn't like it, but to me defending free speech - even offensive speech - was paramount, especially on a college campus where the open exchange of differing ideas should be encouraged.
I thanked him.
Then he started talking about how I was a role model for the Aryan nation. How it was inconceivable to him that some of those "N-words" would have the gall to ask for reparations and how it was "good to know that the leader of the paper felt the same way."
My immediate response was silence. I couldn't muster a word, or a groan of disapproval. I was too overcome - too humiliated - to formulate any sort of rebuttal.
My idealism was shattered.
The reparation debate is a complex one. The ad was gasoline on an already emotional fire. Reasonable people can debate the issue, but this to me was beyond reason. My first thought was frustration.
But then I started thinking. It would be hypocritical of me to lash out. My decision to run the ad opened this discussion.
To be associated with a group, a belief that I vehemently despise hit hard.
It also opened my eyes to the angers of the world, and how I am not about to change it. Not alone, anyway. The way to fight troublesome speech is with more speech.
A friend in the business told me a newspaper affords an avenue for discussion, in all its glory and its disgust.
I like that.
You can't always explain why people believe what they do, but intolerance and censorship is not the answer. Seventy-seven issues later, this is a nice lesson to have learned, a good reminder for everyone.
There is a scene in "City Slickers," my father's favorite movie, when Billy Crystal and his best friends are reminiscing. They are atop horses riding along a barren trail, miles from electricity. They are talking about life's best and worst days. For Crystal's character the choice is easy - a day with his father at Yankee Stadium. His worse day: The morning his wife finds a lump in her breast. I shiver at that thought.
This call was my worst day.
The movie follows Crystal's character as he searches for some meaning, some substance in his life while he drives a herd of cattle in the New Mexico backwoods. That strikes me as a funny place to find yourself, but one could retaliate that a newsroom is far more remote.
My semester as editor has been a similar journey.
And like all great trips, mine ended too soon; cut short by graduation and the realization that it's time to leave the nest (I turned 24 last month).
My best day? Well, today.
The caller welcomed me into "his family."
But I don't need his family because I already have one. They bought me a cake recently, and a tree. And funny thing, they don't call me the Outsider anymore.
Kevin Clerici graduates Saturday (again) with a degree in journalism and creative writing. He can be reached at kclerici@azstarnet.com.
