Well here I am at the other end, spent up and beat down. I
imagine I feel a lot like the Pittsburgh Steelers did at the end of the 2005
NFL season: exhausted after winning four in a row and underestimated because
they were entering the playoffs as the last seed.
And that’s what my brother and I treasure most from that
memory. It wasn’t the series of heart implosions that started with Jerome Bus
Bettis fumbling, followed by Big Ben tackling and ended with Vander-jacked
missing. It wasn’t breaking Carson Palmer’s leg. It wasn’t even the eventual
Super Bowl beatdown of the Seattle Seahawks.
What my brother would have me remember most is that single,
excitable moment preceding every successful campaign, in life and in football.
I’ve eyed many prizes that were over my head and stepped into many tough
situations deemed unfitting for my permissive nature. And that’s when that
moment occurs, always bringing up a firm answer to boil: Bring it.
I imagine that thought occurred to me a lot as editor in
chief. I imagine the Steelers thought it a lot before they blazed their path
toward Super Bowl XL. And I imagine my brother (to whom I dedicate this piece
for his everlasting lessons of manhood, dedication, diligence and integrity),
used the thought to surpass a poor and fatherless life by scoring a high-paying
job in Japan before dropping it all to return and care for my then-sick mother.
My brother’s story is one of instinct, led by toughness. As
the immature short-cutter he always reamed me for being, I amended his lesson a
bit. The original probably sounded like, “Bring it on. The success comes later,
if it ever comes at all. Do it anyway.”
And that’s the hardest part, isn’t it? In a day and age
where we dread over-shares and covet personal space, who wants to take on any
more things? Who wants to be a magnet for things outside their trust circle or
beyond their safety net?
Journalists do. My brother’s lessons gifted me with a unique
reaction to problems: Run toward them. An attraction to problems, for whatever
reason (the impending challenge, excitement of the chase, full-on masochism),
is a journalist’s defining characteristic. It is the common characteristic in
all Guardian staffers that will always leave me flustered with pride and honor.
I’ve met some of the most forward-looking, captivating, inventive and
pioneering minds at the Guardian, and they all have, at one time or another,
flanked me while I blindly made my run at problems. This piece seconds as
paltry attempt at thanking all of them for being journalists — and running with
me.
To 2007-08: I know our road has been an unconventional one,
especially being led by the little-brother type editor. What I lacked in poise
and assurance I tried to make up for in hard work, openness and humor. It
probably ended up a big mashup anyhow, so all apologies. If I seemed cold, I
was trying to be quietly strong. If I seemed overbearing, I was just trying to
be convincingly firm. If I seemed depressed, I was just trying to be solemnly
contemplative. If I seemed distant, I was just trying to avoid you seeing me
drunk and/or high (j/k!).
The yearlong erosion of my character brings to mind the
headline of a farewell column of a fellow editor: “In which she swears she’s
not a bitch.” I feel your pain, girl.
The most appropriate courtesy would be to recall something I
tell my sister in heartfelt conversations, and often I think it’s the only kind
thought that keeps Sophia forgiving my faults. I’ll repeat it to you now, to
thank you all for being brothers and sisters that have taught me, nurtured me,
comforted me and supported me: I hope I made you proud.
To 2006-07: We started many things together, from an
advisory board to an alumni reunion to a new Web site. Every single thing was a
building block; nothing this year would have been possible without your
hand-built foundations. Cheers to Heather for leading the pack with her
sharpness, Andrew for keeping me down to earth with his harassment and the rest
of the crew for being my fire and fuel for the job of a lifetime. To the
business folks Anna and Mike, who abided the staff’s youthful spunk that was no
doubt at times relentless. You guys made me want to achieve and build something
special with our little newspaper.
To 2005-06: My experience being journalistically raised in
what I now dub the “Golden Age of Guardian” became not only the touchstone that
I regularly retreated to this year for inspiration, but also formed a crucial
part of my still-in-progress coming of age. That was the year I discovered a
world outside my home, where questions flew, everything was dirtied by sin and
all you needed to prove yourself was the guts to deliver. The scandal that was
Steve York’s televised cock, and the reporting I did on it, would have been
nothing if not for the tutelage and guidance of my managers at the time: Vlad,
Ian and Grant. In fact, I still look on this year’s staff with the warmness a
policeman would feel when recalling why he entered the force. You guys are the
reason I will always write; it’s a practice that is surprisingly unnatural to
me but I do anyway, because it forces me to challenge myself, value
introspection and be inquisitive.
To the longest of friends and groupies: Rael, who held down
Guardian gangster-ism with a cooled sensibility I’ve always admired. Danai, who
had the kindness to pay me undeserved compliments. Richard, whose high
tolerance for our late nights and my editorial fuckups always gave me something
to lean on. Utako, whose ever-disarming charm was a welcome thing to any dark
Guardian day. All the sloshball players in this year’s championship Guardian
team, I hope Ichiro’s lead-offs and subsequent barfing proved that not all
journalists are squares. Matt L, whose perfection set a new set of standards.
Serena, who had the guts to tackle a position, and then more
To the Guardian’s newest class: My happiest moments are yet
to come. They’ll happen next year, when I see you guys developing, growing and
blossoming to heights I know I could have never even conceived myself. To Matt,
for being the gravity that attracts so much of our talent, energy and, most
importantly, good fucking times. To Hadley, one of the strongest women I know;
I should take cues, girl. To Reza, for undoubtedly keeping ghetto Guardian
alive next year. To Jesse, history’s best hippie ballplayer. To Kim, a down-ass
chick. To Sonia, for her innate courage to always speak her mind. To Chris M.,
whose unrivaled knowledge of cinema was big enough to make my quoting of Denzel
and Pacino somewhat enjoyable. To Chris K., whose originality and quip-filled
character made him an artist in the truest sense. To Simone, for teaching me
strength by never seeming as burdened as me by her drive to work (I’m Debbie
Downer without you, girl). To Alyssa, the impromptu editor whose kind but gutsy
nature single-handedly set a course for her section. To Nicole, who I know (as
a fellow comic-book lover) possesses pure unadulterated imagination, a very
rare quality in these disillusioned, see-it-to-believe-it days. To Teresa, who
backs Rihanna just as feverishly as I do — now I’m not as ashamed, girl.
To the editorial critics: No career is without its potholes.
From Sun God to SRTV, I’ve been at the butt end of administrative, political
and student-led fire many a time. My writing has seen me in a number of
compromising situations for a journalist. I’ve misquoted: In a union story a
ways back, I mixed up a quote attribution between opposing parties. I’ve
misstated: In his second run at the A.S. presidency and my year as news editor,
UCSD alum and political gadfly Daniel Watts ripped into me — furious to the
near point of tears — for alleged misconceptions about his platform and uncouth
public handling of the death of his friend Benjamin Sumner, an A.S. councilmember.
I’ve even reneged a whole piece: Last year, I wrote an Opinion column in which
I retracted my two-star rating of Justin Timberlake’s “FutureSex/LoveSounds.” I
know what you’re thinking: “What kind of journalist does that?” The answer: all
of them. Expect mistakes from me, but also expect the humility that allows me
to talk any issue out. E-mail, ask,
prod, and represent your own community.
My brother has taught me just as much. His influence drove
my comic-book illustration on the preceding page.The vigorous spirit he
instilled in me during childhood has grown into inescapable teenage yearning
for nothing less than heroism — the stuff of films, comics and legends. I can
take comfort in the fact that he first taught me to the ways of manhood before
letting me dream of heroes.
Then he taught me that a hero doesn’t make a man — one of
life’s truest lessons. But Anh, I still want to be both.
