“Why do you want to be a journalist?” This is what my sister asks me on a Sunday afternoon in October.
I didn’t know how to answer her. How do I tell my sister in one sentence how it began?
I could say it started in elementary school. The first time I witnessed how cruel the world could be; and how much I wanted to change it.
I had known Danny for years. By the time I had reached sixth grade, I had been in his class four times. Each year, I watched as the teachers told us how Danny was different. Danny had been born with Down syndrome. This made him different from the rest of his peers.
And his peers noticed.
The teachers expected kindness. “Be nice to Danny,” they would say, with a weary smile on their face.
While he was in the classroom, Danny was treated just like any other student. Once recess started, however, everything changed.
It started at the blacktop. Four of the most popular boys in our grade decided to approach Danny.
Like usual, Danny was sitting on the swings. Many times I had watched Danny on that swing. For the entire hour of recess, Danny would sit, pumping his legs as hard as he could. For Danny, it was a form of escape. And on that day, four boys had decided to interrupt.
They didn’t look evil, but looks can be deceiving. I watched as the boys surrounded Danny on the swing. Danny didn’t stop swinging, but the confused expression on his face made it known that he too was wondering what the boys had wanted.
As I watched the boys surround Danny, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to see my brother, holding a video game in his hand.
“What’s up?” he asked. I began to answer, but a loud scream broke the air. I turned in the direction of the sound, but my brother was faster, and off like a gun, he ran towards the sound.
It sounded like a wounded animal – but I knew it was Danny.
As I ran towards the group of kids, I saw tears streaming down Danny’s face. I could hear words like “stupid” and “retard” being screamed in Danny’s face. My brother reached the scene first. Putting a hand on Danny’s shoulder, he asked him if he was OK.
“Yes,” Danny sobbed, “but make them leave me alone.”
“Leave Danny alone,” said my brother firmly. “He’s just out enjoying recess.”
“Yeah?” they said. “What are you going to do about it?”
I wondered the same thing too. What was my brother going to do about it? There wasn’t a recess aid in sight, and recess wouldn’t be over for awhile.
“I’m going to sit right here next to Danny and hang out with him,” said my brother, handing me his video game.
That day, my brother became my hero, but he paid a price for it. When recess began, the bullying switched to my brother. All my brother had done to deserve was to befriend a child that desperately needed a friend. But in elementary school, that’s it all it took. You didn’t need a reason to be cruel.
It took five months for the bullying to stop on the recess playground. Why did it take so long? The boys that had shouted such awful things at Danny and had taken to teasing my brother were deemed “nice young men.” Despite witness reports from recess aids and other classmates including myself, the school refused to act. It was easier to pretend it wasn’t happening. After all, who cares about the underdog?
Years later, as I reflect back on that incident, I try to answer why I want to be a journalist.
I know I want to inspire change. I want to tell the stories that need to be told, the stories like Danny and countless others that shape us as human beings. I hope one day to become a journalist I can be proud of, the kind of journalist who goes after a story with unrelenting passion, while being as objective as possible.
My parents’ say that I’m idealistic, but that won’t deter me from pursuing the full truth in the words I write.
~Stacy Lipson
Philadelphia, PA
Stacy.lipson@temple.edu
