“What’s black and white and red all over?” I quipped, just waiting to deliver the punchline of my third-grade riddle.
I was sitting around a common room with nine other Crimson news
executives as we posed probing questions to the aspiring members of the
next executive guard.
I thought I’d lend some levity, perhaps inanity—something
playful—to the five-hour interrogation that had begun to dribble by
with all the speed of a snail. But I stumbled as I jumped to the punch.
“A bloody newspaper!” I shouted, completely, um, butchering the joke.
The thing is, there are actually two answers to the
question—either a bloody zebra or a newspaper, period. But in my haste,
I combined the two.
We laughed. It was funny. And eerily right on.
This bloody newspaper!
And not just because it’s called The Crimson; that’s only the beginning.
Not a single writer, photographer, or designer could confess to
a pure love of this place, this institution, this almost
incomprehensible club. Call it what you will, the Crimson is swollen
with passionate people who both love and hate the time they spend here.
It’s hard to be a casual member—believe me, I’ve tried. This
building either sucks you up or spits you out. As a freshman, I came in
unaware. Surrounded by a pool of budding journalists and overanalytical
overachievers, I wrote stories because it was fun and new and I sort of
liked seeing my name in print, even if I didn’t read back over my
articles. By the time I became an elected editor, worthy of the Crimson
Staff Writer byline, I had already grown slightly sour on the whole
experience. I didn’t quite jive with the daily rush of the newsroom,
didn’t quite click with the legions of older editors. “Who are these
crazy people?” I used to think.
Now I guess I’m one of them.
It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment that things changed for
me, and to be honest, I sometimes still feel like an outsider. As I
slogged through sophomore year, writing stories less than fascinating,
I considered moving on to some other organization. I didn’t quite fit
in and wasn’t sure I wanted to. But every time I prepared to step away
from the Crimson brick road, I found something to reel me back in. I
questioned if I could really take on the slew of responsibilities
granted to each news exec, and if I could do it my way. Competition
mingled with curiosity to keep my interest and enthusiasm alive. I
didn’t want to admit it, but I was hooked.
Believe me, there are aspects of the organization I’d change
in a heartbeat, late night hours that I’d love to reclaim. But even
when I escape the building at 4 a.m., cursing “bloody Crimson” on the
bleak walk home, it only takes some recovered slumber for me to
remember how astounding this place is.
Five days a week, a group of students come together at 14
Plympton, The Crimson’s own red brick mansion, to put together a
newspaper that reaches not only bored breakfasters, but also a troupe
of alumni and sometimes even those beyond the Harvard bubble. Not bad
for a gig between classes.
Of course, not everyone thinks of it that way. For some, the
Crimson comes first; it’s an obsession, coursing through their veins.
But I’ve never been able to approach it as such. For me, it’s a
constant balancing act, and I’m left feeling bad when The Crimson lands
on the lighter side of the scale. Often, it’s a question of time, both
my schedule and fixed deadlines.
Luckily, almost ironically, in the race against the clock,
time is on our side. Or history, at least. No issue miraculously writes
itself and squirms through the presses; each is carefully sculpted by
time-honored traditions.
Take proofing FM, for example. By the time I get my hands on a
page on Tuesday night, it’s already been devoured by dozens of eyes.
Hours have been poured into comp seminars to instruct the writer on how
to interview sources and structure the story. After editing, a slightly
improved version emerges that still has to jump the hurdles of further
inspection. While writers and editors sweat through words, designers
and photographers unite to make the page look appealing, obsessing over
spacing and lines. By the time the story reaches my desk, always later
than I’d expect, it’s just a couple of flicks of the red pen, a couple
of changes, and it’s ready for press.
Wednesday I recover, or retreat to similar responsibilities
for the daily, but Jannie and Elizabeth trudge forward. By the time
people read the magazine on Thursday, the next issue is already
underway. And the beat goes on.
The whole process hinges on institutional memory and forward
thinking. New ideas and fresh perspectives flesh out and dress up the
structural skeleton we’ve inherited.
Sometimes it’s tempting to rely on the bare bones rather than
take the extra strides to make a story sparkle. When it comes to The
Crimson, I guiltily confess to choosing function over fashion, but as
my tenure winds down, I regret not taking more time to accessorize. I’m
inspired by the devotion of my peers who have logged longer hours,
battling unwieldy technology, cheering unhappy staffers, and not
settling for lackluster ledes. All to put out a quality paper, day
after day.
I’ve witnessed tool-kit-toting truancy, endless enthusiasm,
deficient dancing, frustrating follies, ceaseless commitment, and witty
wording. An alphabet of alliteration can’t quite spell out the
experience. I’ve loved it and I’ve hated it.
It’s not black and white. But hopefully read all over.
Wendy D. Widman ’06, a news executive editor, is a chemistry concentrator in Mather House. She likes both zebras and newspapers.
