The Year of the Gadfly Read Online Free PDF Page A

media: the sharp, sweet newsprint smell and the sound of crinkling paper; the experience of reading words printed on a page. I love blogs and web news, of course: the constant stream of new information, the democratic nature of everybody having a say. But there’s something comforting about words that stay put. Words that, a day later, will be exactly where you left them. Unlike the news, the news
paper
is consistent. Even if you go to bed reeling, it’s okay, because by sunrise the paper’s there waiting for you.
    Journalism major aside, I’d already decided to take up the cause of newspaper preservation at Mariana.
Think revolution,
Murrow had said. And that’s what I was doing. The
Oracle
had no online presence, no multimedia interface, no investigative team. If I was going to implement these things before I graduated, I’d have to be named editor-in-chief ASAP.
    Unfortunately, my prospects didn’t look good. Murrow had been president of his high school, a star member of the debate team, and a basketball phenom. But at the
Oracle
’s first staff meeting of the year, I was given the position of staff writer’s assistant. (Having the word “assistant” on my resume is like saying, “I suck; don’t hire me.” Right now, even
I
wouldn’t hire me.) Worse, I quickly learned that Mariana’s paper is little more than an instrument of the state, an outlet for rah-rah instead of reality. In most schools this would be expected, but Mariana is supposedly run by its students. There are no proctors in the rooms during tests and no teacher monitors in the refectory. The handbook has an entire chapter dedicated to the student-elected Community Council and how it runs all clubs and helps adjudicate disciplinary infractions. Given all this, I’d have expected the paper to be the indispensable opposition. Instead, the
Oracle
’s editor-in-chief, Katie Milford, doubles as the Community Council’s senior class delegate. (God forbid that one of the Watergate Seven had been E-I-C of the
Washington Post
!)
    At the first meeting, Katie gave the news team an uninspiring spiel and then assigned stories on the refectory’s vegan dessert bar and the lobby’s new smart monitors. The only topic of controversy, which Katie and the senior staff haggled over for half an hour, concerned whether America was now a “postracial” society, and if so, couldn’t the paper quit using PC qualifiers like “African American”? At the meeting’s end, new reporters finally received their assignments. In addition to me, there was Russell Murphy, who only wanted to cover sports (he pitched an article on whether the electronic tennis team should be eligible for athletic funding), and Sophie Richie, who only wanted to cover fashion (she pitched a retooled version of the Sunday Styles piece on accessories!). I’d written up a beat note the first week of school and pitched pieces on Mariana’s egregiously consumptive carbon footprint, the economics of the school uniform (“From Cotton Bale to Collared Shirt”), and a Best Teachers package, with service-oriented sidebars on how to pick the best classes.
    Katie shot down every one of my ideas. “I’d like to start you off with an obit,” she said. “Mrs. Kringle, the school secretary, is close to kicking the bucket, and we have to plan for her demise.”
    I cringed. “Why not write a story on Mrs. Kringle’s life? Wouldn’t that be—”
    â€œObit,” Katie said, and turned away with a dangerous whip of her ponytail.
    I left the meeting aching with indignation.
Aren’t my pitches good?
I thought to Murrow.
What did I do wrong?
But Murrow was a realist.
These are the trials all reporters face,
he thought back.
Get used to disappointment.
    He was right. And I had other problems to worry about, namely Mr. Kaplan. Even though I’d boldly committed social