It was Thursday morning and students’ impatience hung heavy in the air. The yearend slideshow had already been postponed a day and time was running out. Then came the curt voice over the intercom declaring that the event had been canceled.

We bristled. In our minds, the showing of the Associated Student Body slideshow had been akin to the distribution of yearbooks and the last issue of the school newspaper, the Accolade. It just could not be canceled. This brusque announcement foreshadowed worse events to come.

I could only piece together patchwork details. Officially, there were technical difficulties and it just “hadn’t happened.” Unofficially, the slideshow had not been finished in time, but no one seemed willing to admit it.

When my adviser asked me to write the story, I was shocked; I had never written a deadline story on such short notice. I accepted the assignment after only a moment’s hesitation because I knew that it would be a good experience for me as I prepared to be the next year’s copy editor. I quickly jotted down questions and made my way to the ASB room, where I found a bigger problem—and person—awaiting me.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the ASB adviser huffed with terse finality, his walrus mustache stiffening.

For him, that was the end of our conversation. For me, it could have been the end of my story. I flinched. Everyone, especially the seniors, who only had one month before they graduated, wanted to know what had happened.

This was not the first time the adviser had attempted to censor a story. Earlier that year, one of the ASB presidential candidates had used a copy machine to make some of his campaign paraphernalia when the rules expressly forbade it. In response, the adviser forbade the ASB class members from speaking to anyone, especially from the Accolade, about the incident although the school already had a general idea of what had happened.

I was in a state of disbelief as I left the room; I knew I still had to write the story, whether he would talk to me or not. I tried to call the assemblies commissioner, who had been in charge of the slideshow, but was unable to reach him. I was stumped. Where was that journalistic instinct I’d spent the past year developing? I considered abandoning the story, but I discarded that idea as soon as I thought of it. I wracked my brains for answers that evaded me much as celebrities flee the paparazzi; then I struck gold. If he would not talk, I would have to step over and above him. I berated myself for not thinking of it sooner.

When I arrived at the main office, the principal motioned me into his office and I took a seat as he folded his hands on his desk. I prepared for the worst.

“I think I have the answers you’re looking for,” he said after a long pause. He proceeded to confirm the rumors that the slideshow had not been finished in time to work out all the technological glitches that went along with it.

So I did get my story despite the ASB adviser’s restrictions. After I spoke to the principal, I had the assemblies commissioner verify what I had been told, though he did not want to comment directly on the fiasco. The solution to my dilemma was so simple—all I had to do was be persistent and not let one rejection destroy my resolve. And later, when people would wonder aloud what had happened to the ASB slideshow, all I had to do was say, “Read the Accolade. It’s right there.”


posted - 10:50 PM