Letter from the Editor

Self discovery

I still don't know what is worse, the horrors of being a teenager or the horrors of being an adult. After the little experiment called "Trading Places" on the front page of this week's paper, a lot of my past bubbled to the surface, despite years of compartmentalization. The disastrous night of my senior prom; the endless barrage of teasing because of my weight, my white-girl afro, my last name; the death of my father; the fights with my mother; the journalism teacher who did not believe in me; my first major crush and subsequent first broken heart—yikes! It is hard to believe I survived.

Then on to college. I thought everything was going to be so much better. That definitely wasn't the case my freshman year. Three nightmarish roommates, complete social isolation, trips to the school's counselor, and an unnatural desire to study relentlessly. Thank God I loosened up. I met some great friends, discovered the party scene, was able to balance 20 credits and Jose Cuervo, and started to ease into my own skin. Of course there were still setbacks like being raped in my own apartment or relinquishing my boyfriend to the homosexual lifestyle (he still gives me the best fashion advice). But I made it through college with my two degrees, my liver, and a better understanding of who I wanted to be.

Two days after graduation, I dashed off to northern California and my first real newspaper job. It was great. I had a nice apartment on Pleasant Street (literally), a cool job as a photographer, and a reporter who thought I was one cute redhead. I followed that reporter to southern California after he had gotten a better job at a bigger paper. Big mistake. Although I was able to cultivate my career despite the giant risk, I was not able to maintain my relationship. The reporter developed an affinity for cyber babes, and my self-esteem was dealt a sizable blow.

I stayed in the L.A. area for another year after the break-up. But then the relentless crime, smog, traffic, and silicone got to me. I fled like a refugee to my homeland—Idaho. I left journalism and became a mortician's assistant (a family business). I had the greatest apartment in a 100-year old building. All my neighbors were little old ladies who loved to cook for me. I took up sewing and sketching. It was such a peaceful time. I felt like I was totally enveloped by an alternate reality. Everything was slow. But it couldn't last forever.

A job for a newspaper editor in Bigfork, Mont. was advertised in the local paper. My mom pointed it out, and I applied. I didn't get the job. Instead, I was offered a photo/reporter position. I took it. That was more than three years ago.

And what have I discovered about myself since living in Bigfork? That I still have a lot left to learn. But at 29, I also know I have little naivete left, for it has been lost in my travels. I am looking forward to 30, and even 40, for the woman I should be is still out there somewhere. I can't wait to meet her.