it's about survival

"First year, it's about survival." Joyce Smith told a room of sleep deprived students this morning. When she asked how everyone was doing she got groans in response. The lecture theatre was half full of first year journalists, the rest still enjoying the comfort of their beds.

I just want to survive first year. To pass. To learn. To experiment and see what feels right. To take it in gratefully and gracefully. Take the time to stop and breathe; laugh; remain human.

Sunday morning I found myself being pushed through a mass of people. Mothers pushing, children yelling, everyone for themselves. I had to get to work. I had to remind myself that EVERYONE had somewhere to go. It was the Santa Claus parade, and Queen Street West was filled to the brim with eager spectators and angry pedestrians.

At one point I thought I might pass out. My breathing got heavy; I told myself I was exaggerating.

But I was also thinking that this, this race for the same place, with all it's pushing and shoving, this is life.

It's the race to get a story in for journalism. The race to make a name for yourself. Actors fighting for fame. Lawyers fighting their case. Parents fighting to support their families. We're all looking for the same thing. Who's going to push through?

In a class of 150 journalism students, who am I? Who am I to say I want to write for the big glossy magazines? What makes me something else? I can't even read the goddamn newspaper or recognize Paul Martin.

I want to be somebody. I like to think of myself as special, but then again, aren't we all?

Maybe it just depends on how badly you want it. How you approach it. How you maneuver.

But I don't want to push.

I want to strut, smile, and walk my way to whatever my idea of the top is.

And I will survive.