Over analyzing in the USA

Upon landing and departing the plane, an intoxicating smell of donuts and sugar, hit me as hard as the humidity accompanying it. As I allowed my nose to experience the sweet sensation of the Krispy Krème flavored air, my stomach issued a grumbling sound that I was sure all of my fellow travelers could hear.

Traveling from a country that was experiencing winter and cooler weather conditions, my eyes initially found it difficult to adjust to the exposure of the summer sun. As a result of this, I squinted and took notice of the dry, bland colors of the unfamiliar place I had just arrived in; a myriad of brown, orange, yellow and grey shades poured over the city. The dry, humid weather placed itself heavily on my shoulders; my lungs felt weighed down as I attempted to breathe in the thick, sticky air. Despite wearing polarized sunglasses, the sun’s rays penetrated my vision, causing me to find solace in each blink my eyes took.

In an attempt to relieve myself from the heat and clamminess, I jumped into the first available taxi at the airport. My hospitable chauffeur, trying to score a bonus on the tip I was already obliged to give him, initiated small-talk; he spoke slowly, his jargon baffled me. We spoke the same language, yet his colloquialisms caused me to lose myself in phrases like, “word”, “silverware” and “cool and the gang.”

Arriving at the airport hotel, I hopped out of the taxi and could taste the city smog in my mouth. A combination of the previous sugary scent, cigarettes and trash overwhelmed me. As I entered the reception area and began the “checking in” process, I was handed a complimentary green apple. As I wrapped my mouth around this piece of fruit, I was disappointed to not feel the skin of the apple crush beneath my teeth; instead, it softly disintegrated, leaving a powdery texture in my mouth. I had finally arrived in New York City and, honestly, I could not have been more excited.

I can only watch as my time on this continent is being vacuumed at such a hasty speed. Initially, I had experienced culture shock; the American stereotypes I had seen on Australian television were amplified and I found it difficult to keep up with the fast-pace of this country. While skimming through the uploaded photos of my travels so far, homesickness subsides and my love for traveling, like an incessant vine, wraps and encapsulates me, right down to my worn-out Doc Martens.

The Politics of the Plain Style

“Plain style: nothing beats it as a vehicle for profitable lies, which can entertain people and may even do them good in other ways.”

Earlier this week, I was assigned the task of summarizing a chapter from the book “Journalism: the Democratic Craft” titled “The Politics of the Plain Style”, by Hugh Kenner. I wasn’t aware that this particular snippet of text would pluck such a heartstring within my writer’s heart.

This chapter provided insight into the mind of a doctor of literary modernism who asserted that journalism was characterized by the plain style; a term describing writing that is simple, direct, and unambiguous. Kenner critiqued this employment of journalistic writing as he idealized that reporters write in this fashion to attract trust within their audience and to attain “a trusted artifice.” Upon reading and reflecting on this notion, I became overwhelmed with a rush of self-directed questions. As the interrogation continued, one question persisted to resurface; why do I want to become a part of an industry that persuades rather than informs the public of information?

While studying Advanced English at high school, my class covered a topic titled “Telling the Truth” which exemplified the distortion of the truth by the media. This module covered issues surrounding sensationalism and was reinforced by the Australian television series “Frontline”; a satirical parody based on the day-to-day operations of a news station. At the completion of studying this topic, my view of the media and investigative journalism had become drastically cynical; what version of the news could I trust?

So, hypocritically, I enrolled in a Bachelor of Communication with a major in journalism at the University of Newcastle, Australia. My fervor for writing combated the negative stigma I had attached to the media industry; I assumed that ascertaining a degree in journalism could assist me in becoming a recognized, paid writer. Also, the idea of becoming a distinguished journalist within the public eye, although a farfetched dream, was a rather enticing thought.

Nearing the end of a journalism degree, I have reached Frost’s two roads, yet I am left in a state of contemplation; having an awareness of the negative impact the media can bestow upon society, did I really think I could make a difference? Could I live up to the names of Murrow, Woodward, Burnstein and Guerin- journalists who fought for and championed the exposure of the truth, disguised by the lies of high-powered organizations? Although, Guerin literally sacrificed her life for the pursuit of the truth and democracy, I don’t think tertiary studies could prepare any person for that.

Perhaps I should just stick to writing critical essays.