When I was younger, my uncle Red would come up and visit us nearly
every month. He would hop off the train with a red duffle bag and a copy of the New York Times tucked under his arm.
After scooping me up in a bone crushing hug and singing bad songs to me and my
little sister the entire car-ride home, he would sit with me on our
couch and teach me how to read the newspaper.
The New York Times, at first glance, is intimidating. It’s chaos on a page. But he taught me that the seemingly oddly placed columns are there for a reason; you can fold the paper and only read a story at a time. They make it like this for a reason, he said. It's so you don't take up too much space on the subway.
I liked the feeling of the thin, inky paper under my fingertips. I liked that it left colored smudges on my skin, and that big picture on the front page would be colorful and, sometimes, a little scary. A woman crying...people in huddled masses...a little boy staring me right in the face.
I didn't actually read the paper, because I was more concerned about my family of Webkinz at the time. But the awe of pouring over a newspaper with my uncle and folding the pages in precise ways to read only one story at a time has stuck with me.
Fast forward maybe 8 or 9 years, and I’m a freshman in high school. In the grocery store, I usually let my fingers run over the tops of fashion magazines to feel the thick, glossy pages bound together, and I hover over the newspaper stands to glance at the headlines. In school, I hear on the morning announcements that the school’s newspaper, The Maroon, is having a meeting. My interested is piqued, and I show up to see old issues of the paper scattered around the room – real newspaper paper, with real newspaper paper ink.
I was sold. I joined the staff; I wrote for the paper; I checked the small box that said Interested Major: Journalism when I took the PSAT for the first time. I essentially let my life be consumed by The Maroon and, by default, the news.
All because of newspaper paper.
To say that my fascination with the printed news didn't come from my uncle Red would be a lie. And to say that I wouldn't be the same person without his New York Times lessons would also be true. Without him, I would not be a child possessed with the news; I wouldn't let out an audible gasp whenever I came out of Port Authority and saw the New York Times offices, not would I listen to the NPR newscast every morning as I walk to school and every night when I do my school-work.
The New York Times, at first glance, is intimidating. It’s chaos on a page. But he taught me that the seemingly oddly placed columns are there for a reason; you can fold the paper and only read a story at a time. They make it like this for a reason, he said. It's so you don't take up too much space on the subway.
I liked the feeling of the thin, inky paper under my fingertips. I liked that it left colored smudges on my skin, and that big picture on the front page would be colorful and, sometimes, a little scary. A woman crying...people in huddled masses...a little boy staring me right in the face.
I didn't actually read the paper, because I was more concerned about my family of Webkinz at the time. But the awe of pouring over a newspaper with my uncle and folding the pages in precise ways to read only one story at a time has stuck with me.
Fast forward maybe 8 or 9 years, and I’m a freshman in high school. In the grocery store, I usually let my fingers run over the tops of fashion magazines to feel the thick, glossy pages bound together, and I hover over the newspaper stands to glance at the headlines. In school, I hear on the morning announcements that the school’s newspaper, The Maroon, is having a meeting. My interested is piqued, and I show up to see old issues of the paper scattered around the room – real newspaper paper, with real newspaper paper ink.
I was sold. I joined the staff; I wrote for the paper; I checked the small box that said Interested Major: Journalism when I took the PSAT for the first time. I essentially let my life be consumed by The Maroon and, by default, the news.
All because of newspaper paper.
To say that my fascination with the printed news didn't come from my uncle Red would be a lie. And to say that I wouldn't be the same person without his New York Times lessons would also be true. Without him, I would not be a child possessed with the news; I wouldn't let out an audible gasp whenever I came out of Port Authority and saw the New York Times offices, not would I listen to the NPR newscast every morning as I walk to school and every night when I do my school-work.
And maybe that's just a reflection of me having an obsessive personality, or making poorly based decisions -- I dedicated four years of my life to something because of paper, and I plan on doing it again -- but whatever it really means, I'm ready to dive in.
Thanks, uncle Red.
I really love this post! You describe things so beautifully, like the,"thin, inky paper under my fingertips." It is so easy to connect to your writing, so I think you'll be a wonderful journalist! The story also brings me back to my childhood when I would read the newspaper with my grandfather; it's also ironic because I'm slightly allergic to the newspaper ink because it makes my eyes water. Nonetheless, I love reading the newspaper and thank you for sharing the childhood memory. As for suggestions, it was impossible to think of any, but maybe use more transition words. Amazing job :)
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