This is the final installment of Love Letter to the Little Things. It’s been an absolute pleasure working on this column over the past year. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it!
Dear Student News Site of Centaurus High School,
You have made me the person I am today. You’ve given me a space to express myself, engage with the school on a much deeper level, explore my passions, and, most importantly, a space to challenge myself, learn, and grow. You have been the most fulfilling part of my high school experience.
And for that, I’m writing you this final, well-deserved love letter.
This final love letter is not dedicated to a little thing, but rather a pretty big, highly significant thing: this publication that I have reported, photographed, interviewed, written for, and called my own these past 4 years. Fair warning: This piece is going to be even sappier than my typical style (which is already practically dripping).
I am writing this, as I have written so many articles these past 4 years: holed away in my bedroom (I’m persistently interrupted during staff meetings), and at the very last minute. I’ve been holding back from writing it, in the hopes that if I leave it unwritten, this chapter does not have to come to a close (Spoiler: Of course it’s closing anyhow, and I’m just as sad as I would have been a week ago, if not more so.)
It’s difficult to wrap my head around the fact that this is it. The various documents of unused Scroll ideas (all creatively named some version of “newspaper ideas” or “scroll notes”) will remain that way. There will be no one waiting for me in the staff room next Tuesday afternoon. I am no longer the Editor-in-Chief, a title which I worked so hard for and value so highly. Sure, everything else is ending, but not this, right? This can’t be the final version; the publication is still a draft waiting for review by my future self, I still have comments to resolve. And while it certainly isn’t the final version, it is time for me to pass the draft along to the next editor, errors and all; the deadline swiftly approaches.
This is my hardest goodbye, leaving the paper behind. It’s not an understatement to say that this club changed the trajectory of my life. Through the Scroll, I have not only discovered a life-long passion for journalism and storytelling, but also learned so much about myself. While I’m currently undecided as to whether or not journalism will be my future career path, I know that the skills and knowledge I’ve gained from my time with this publication (both personal and practical) will stick with me for the rest of my life. I’ve learned how to write well and quickly, about almost anything; how to follow my passions and put them to use, and the value of a story. I’ve learned how to conduct a good interview; how to connect with others on a deep level, on a wide range of topics. I’ve learned when and where to take the right photos; how to see the beauty in the mundane, to live in the moment. I’ve learned how to coordinate and manage a large group of people- how to trust myself, to problem solve, to collaborate, and so much more.
And I’ve learned how to engage with the world around me; to be curious and open, always.
The Scroll has been my rock throughout highschool – the only thing I’ve stuck with the entire time. I’ve grown up with the paper. I was there when the paper was named, when our logo was created, when the website was first launched, and now I’ve gotten to see our staff room fill up, see people in the halls wearing official Scroll hoodies, see us win our first award (and our second, and our third, and…).
In 2020, an infamous year known for a long list of things that were not the founding of this publication, the options for getting involved at school were obviously quite limited. I joined the paper by scanning a QR code on Warrior TV, and wouldn’t have attended the first meeting had my friend not been there. When I logged onto that first call, Ms. Ascarrunz (along with the previous Editor-in-Chief) explained the vision for the club: a platform for students to freely express themselves, about anything and everything that mattered to them. The paper was not to be solely restricted to journalism; it would also contain literary work, art, video – really anything that could possibly be argued to fall under the realm of a student publication. And it was entirely new, eagerly awaiting its place at CHS. Something that could become anything we wanted. In the midst of the pandemic, and the typical self-discovery that comes with high school, this couldn’t have sounded better to me.
But the paper had to be born first. In those first two years, I got to participate in the exciting (and excruciating) experience of starting from scratch. I remember the first in-person meeting, sitting in the classroom at the back of the library, talking with all of the upperclassmen (I was one of three freshmen) about what we could do with our new creation. We covered the whiteboard with ideas – the first of countless brainstorm sessions- and talked way past when the meeting was supposed to end. I could feel then that this was going to be big; and if not, I would make it big. And although I might not have chosen this boot-strap approach (and I’ve often dreamt of a plane that did not have to be built while flying), this fact is ultimately what kept me coming back for more. I wanted to see it through, to get the ideas off the whiteboard.
In that process, there were many, many ups and downs; one month we might publish 14 pieces and gain hundreds of views, and the next we barely produced a product. But the fun was found in the struggle; A never ending project, a boundless creation!
Not only did the Scroll present an enjoyable challenge, it also presented an easy and reliable opportunity to put myself out there. The list of people I never would have talked to, stories I wouldn’t have heard, had it not been for the scroll, is longer than I can recall. Oftentimes, the Scroll was the sole reason I attended an event or noticed the things around me. The typical “high school” events such as football games have never really been my scene, but via the armor provided by my camera and press pass, I found a place there. Whenever I felt unwelcome, I could always remind myself that my presence was objectively valuable; I was serving the school community, representing the student voice. Because of the Scroll, I can tell you what clubs we have and who’s in them, how students are feeling on various world issues, or why there are goats behind the school everyday. It’s possible I could have learned these things separately, but I doubt it would have been at the same depth and range. I’ve met so many wonderful people through the Scroll, both within the club and through interviews or events. The members who graduated before me served as my role models, taught me how to be a Centaurus student. It always meant so much to me to see their friendly faces in the halls; I’d hope that I’ve served that same role for the underclassmen staff these past two years. The paper provided what COVID schooling didn’t: a way to meet and build relationships with people across a range of interests, grades, and perspectives. That’s the whole point of it, really – to give students a space to connect with each other.
I’ve spent the last 4 years trying to make that original vision a reality. From the launch of the website (for which I made a giant poster that took several hours to make and was promptly thrown away by the custodial staff at the end of the school year) to our final meeting this week (for which I helped make senior shirts that I sincerely hope will not be thrown away), I’ve put more work into this club than anything else in the entirety of my life. Because I know it’s worth it. It’s worth it to give other students the same things this paper has given me, whether it be through participating in the club or by simply reading and engaging with our content. Journalism is notoriously undervalued in the world at large, but I wanted to make sure that that was not the case within the walls of CHS.
I’m not delusional enough to think that I’ve entirely achieved this. But this past year especially, I have seen the Scroll blossom into what I’ve always known it could be. The staff room I just exited is astronomically different from the staff room I entered. We are now a fully-fledged, well-furnished, newsroom and community. The best example of this that comes to mind is a meeting we had in February. The entire staff was gathering for a training session on interviewing, and someone wanted to sit next to their friend. So they pulled up a chair. But then someone else wanted to sit next to them, so they pulled up another chair. Soon enough, the whole staff had formed one giant table in the center of the room, stretching banquet-style across the entire length; everyone wanted to sit together. That’s the kind of moment that never would have happened before this year; at least, not without my semi-forceful prompting. And although I did require them to take a picture (like the proud parent I am), the moment itself was organic, and it has really stuck with me ever since.
When I joined the paper, no one knew we existed; I’d say I was in the newspaper and the response was frequently “We have a newspaper?” Now, students and staff alike approach me to tell me they enjoyed one of my stories, or even to ask if we can cover something they’re passionate about. Teachers are stopping us in the hallway to congratulate us on the NINE awards we just won. And each time they do, I think I literally glow with pride. The contrast – from unknown and unimportant, to a source of pride for the CHS community- is quite palpable. It’s made all my underclassmen dreams come true.
I’m overjoyed that all of the remaining staff will be able to experience that feeling, hopefully for the rest of their time on the paper; the feeling that what you do, what you care about, matters. It may not feel like much, but when you’ve done it the other way around, you know that it makes all the difference.
And that’s the feeling that I hope the paper can continue to provide for the student body at large in my absence. Our mission has always been to be a paper for the students, by the students, which has additional significance for the Scroll because of one key factor: We are a club, not a class. And while that distinction certainly comes with significant challenges, it also sets us apart in both structure and product. Anything you’ve read on this site was produced over four, one-hour meetings (and a couple of late nights in between.) It’s powered by pure passion, in the form of twenty five students. Everyone on our staff is here for one reason: because they care. That care soaks into our final product, and I think it makes a visible difference in the types of stories we choose to cover.
My final, most favorite thing about the Scroll is that it is a living entity. Because we are such a new creation, there has always been a delicious sense of dynamism. To me, it’s felt like an endless well into which I’ve been able to keep pouring my passions and ideas without ever finding a bottom. Every year has looked different from the last, each presenting new joys and challenges. It never, ever got dull; contrary to the common misconception that journalism is boring or defunct, I found it pretty thrilling.
And as a living entity, I know the paper will continue to grow without me. I wouldn’t have it any other way; a draft needs polishing, after all.
I’m so grateful to have been able to create the first draft, and I will be watching eagerly from afar.
In conclusion: “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so difficult.” – Winnie the Pooh
Thanks for everything.
Sincerely,
Shira Nathan
co-Editor-in-Chief, 2023-2024
Thank you to Theo’ Belin (Class of ‘22) for starting this club, and thank you to Ms. Ascarrunz for enabling me to take it from there.
And to my staff:
Thank you for letting me fail, over and over and over. For your patience. For your newsroom gossip, your creativity, your friendship. Most of all, thank you for trusting me, for listening to me week after week as I stood at the front of 4 different classrooms and tried to figure this out. I wouldn’t have been able to make the paper what it is now without all of you; you ARE the paper.
I wish you all the very best. Take care (of yourselves, of each other, and of the publication.)
