The journalist, part 1

A friend recently posted a Facebook question, asking when you knew what your post-school plan was.

He’s graduating from a media program and has his future ahead of him.

I responded Grade 8.

It was an easy answer. I remember sitting in a career session with classmates. The teacher went around the table asking each one of us what we wanted to be when we grow up.

I said, “Newspaper reporter.”

When I signed up for my Grade 12 curriculum, I got hauled into Wally Proctor’s office. The guidance counselor said, “Ms. MacIsaac, you’re closing an awful lot of doors by not taking any science classes.”

I said, “It’s cool, yo.” (Not really. I wasn’t that flippant when I was 15.)

“I know what I want to be when I get out of university.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“A newspaper reporter.”

Guess what I did when I graduated from my St. FX U in 1991? I went onto a Diploma in Journalism at Holland College under the late Martin Dorrell and became — get this — a newspaper reporter.

It’s a part of me I can’t let go.

Telling stories, reporting the news and recording history as it happens is who I am. I don’t get to do that in a newspaper any longer. But I find the path in my own way, whether it’s sharing information on Twitter or taking a picture.

Stories need to be told.

No matter how big or small.

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