Of Pubic Concern

A copy editor at our paper once told me the greatest lesson he’s learned after years on the job is to never put the word “public” in a headline.

It’s too easy to forget the “l,” he said, and end up with thousands of newspapers plastered with the headline, “Governor Shakes Hands With the Pubic.”

It wouldn’t necessarily be a lie. Members of the public often act like pubes. Or at least how I imagine pubes would act were they able to speak.

Ah, if these pubes could talk.

But the best part of my job (besides the table they stack with junk food in an effort to distract us from our hourly wage) is talking to people.

People are fascinating. People are also assholes. And that’s why we have newspapers.

People doing good. People doing bad. People helping people. People stabbing people.

For the most part, the people I come into contact with daily feed my good-energy tummy. I thrive off of the interactions and feel rejuvenated by the glimpses I get into the lives of others.

Then there are those whose mamas never taught them the whole “if you can’t say anything nice” lesson. For all of the good we do as journalists, there will be mistakes. And there will be a circulation of 30,000 itching for the chance to let us know about it.

I once botched a UT football player’s name, and it was as if I single-handedly took the life of each reader’s first born. If they had known I was a Mizzou alum, I’d probably be dictating this blog from a hospital bed.

Lesson learned: quadruple check any article related to Texas football.

Cue Bum Phillips.

I wrote an article about the charismatic Houston Oilers coach, quadruple-checked my facts, called my dad to tell him I shook the man’s hand, and went to bed pretty damn pleased with myself.

In the morning (OK, noon), I awoke to discover a photo caption printed with my front-page article that claimed the Texas football legend coached the Cowboys.

Oh hell, the gun-toting state of Texas wants my head. I didn’t write the caption, of course, but my byline and email address is all kinds of plastered on the story. I knew I’d be in for a day of bashing.

As expected, there were hurtful comments, mostly because they tried to degrade what our operation does as a whole. When people attack my (and everyone who contributes to making our newspaper) livelihood, my reason for getting up in the morning, the thing I pour my heart and soul and energy and pubes — my EVERYTHING into, it’s frustrating.

At the end of the day, I got an email from the sports editor, who said a reader called for me in regards to the Bum Phillips story. I timidly dialed the number the caller left, praying he hadn’t allowed his hatred to brew all day long.

When he answered the phone, my good-energy tummy filled up. Just by his voice, I could tell this man was so decent. He just wanted to tell me how much he appreciated all of our Bum Phillips coverage (99% of which I didn’t even do) and that he enjoys my writing.

I teared up. By the time our conversation ended, my face hurt from smiling into the phone.

He told me war stories. He told me he goes to Branson every year and that his cousins have a show there. He told me a story about how he met a man fishing in Arkansas, invited the man to visit him at his beach house in Texas, and when the man came to see him, he found out the man was a former governor of Arkansas.

He told me he was once a Texas Ranger, but his ex-wife abandoned him and their kids in the 50s. In order to get custody of the kids, a judge said he couldn’t be a Texas Ranger “because people like to shoot at us and what not.” So he worked at an energy plant the rest of his life and raised his kids with the help of a Mexican couple (“I guess the proper term for them these days is ‘Hispanic’”) he allowed into his home.

He gave me his address and said to stop by for dinner sometime so we could talk more about Missouri.

I told him he’d never understand how much it meant to me to have a stranger take time out of his life to encourage me. And that I so very much enjoyed our conversation.

THAT’s what makes this job kick ass. My position comes with an open door to the community, and I’m constantly invited into other people’s lives. I’m always learning, always having enriching conversations, always meeting someone who makes me appreciate humans more.

I may also always deal with the pubic. But that’s why they invented the Brazilian.

Wherever you go, there you are

I first started researching colleges in the 7th grade. Right after I took the ACT test. I’d had my heart set on UCLA as a child, namely because Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski seemed to get into so many fun shenanigans there. But with the wisdom that comes with turning 13, I decided Ivy League would be a better bet. East coast. West coast “Ivy League” was for the chumps.

Price was no obstacle because the 30K a year would be paid off by the time I was Ally McBeal. Or perhaps it’d be paid off by the Wheaties endorsements I’d get after being the world’s first 5’9 Olympic gymnast. Later, I’d tell E! True Hollywood Story about my humble beginnings and perhaps provide charming sound byte teases with my witty sense of humor. I’d acknowledge my dog in my Oscar acceptance speech.

I guess I count myself lucky to have even had the kind of life that allowed such dreams to seem feasible. And the kind of parents that cultivated such ambition. I’ve been dreaming about my future forever. I still fall asleep dreaming about someday.

As we all know, I traded in Ivy League for a tiny religious college in southern Missouri. My wholehearted ambition then was to live in an African hut and tell people about Jesus. Not a bad goal, but certainly a far cry from where I ever envisioned myself as a kid.

And then there was Spain. And MU. And now Texas. And all along the way, I don’t think I ever knew exactly where I wanted to end up. Living in an unrealistic co-ed dorm room with Slater? As an anorexic, quirky NYC lawyer? Meryl Streep’s predecessor? I didn’t know. Just did. Always dreaming of what was next.

I sometimes feel regretful for how everything’s played out so far. How it hasn’t matched the timeline I set out as a child. But then I come back to real time and realize that everything I did was what I wanted. I wanted a dirty hut. I wanted Europe’s marble sidewalks. I wanted COLLEGE, with all of its late-night crying and dirty beer pong cups. I wanted to prove myself at a newspaper.

All that I have to do is figure out what I want next (which would be easier if someone would HIRE me). I don’t have to have a plan, because I’ll inevitably evolve into someone I cannot plan. Someday is always exciting. But today is just as good.

Little Kayla might not have envisioned herself 23, single and broke. But big Kayla wouldn’t trade the experiences for anything. Not even a shared living space with Zack Morris.

Welcome to the Good Life

I believe it was Kanye West who first said, “the best things in life are free.” Kanye was being sarcastic. And so was I in attributing such a profound quote to him.

But I’m being sincere when I say I believe it.

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This past week awed me. It made me appreciate so much, namely the career I’ve chosen. And namely the fact that I get to do awesome things for free. Scratch that. I get paid to do awesome things.

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Sure, most of the workweek is full of boring interviews with people who say “um” more than they say anything close to Kanye-style profound. There are the City Council stories and the never-ending livestock shows. But every now and then, something truly interesting comes up. And I get to be the one who witnesses it.

Take for example, the time I got to ride around on an airboat and listen to compassionate volunteers explain why they spend hours and muscle-power removing abandoned crab traps from the sea. To save the wildlife–all of which neither know nor appreciate their efforts.

Or when I got to meet the area’s most badass chick–a New Zealander who owns a gigantic ranch roaming with miniature horses, cute puppies, a domesticated deer and all sorts of other animals she has rescued. That same badass even took us on a tour of her sprawling land, concluding with a trip to a waterfall where she spread her husband’s ashes. But not before she packed a pistol in her back pocket in the event a copperhead would appear. So. Cool. And even more poignant were the stories she told us of loss, laughter and strength.

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I get to get to know some of the most inspiring people. As my job.

This weekend, I was able to flash my press pass at two events in my favorite little town ever–Goliad. I had the opportunity to witness an 1800s massacre re-enactment, complete with wardrobes, weaponry and food. I even got some one-on-one time with the director of Goliad’s old fort–Presidio La Bahia–where I learned, even witnessed history.

I get to learn every day. As my job.

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Afterward, I went to the Texas Mile–a 1 1/2 mile stretch of airport runway with no speed limit. Cars don’t even impress me. And I was impressed. People from all over the nation–continent even–came in their cars I’m way too much of a girl to even appreciate. All I know is they looked cool. And went fast.

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I get to witness things most people never have the opportunity to see. For free. As my job.

Unlike Kanye, I’m not bragging. I’m beyond thankful. To be sure, this job will probably never pay much. But the experiences are invaluable. And cooler still, is the fact that I never even think of this as work. It’s always an opportunity. To know, learn and see. All I’m doing is experiencing things through a lens. And sharing that with others.

As Kanye would say, “Imma let you finish, but Kayla has one of the best jobs of all time.”