What is Journalism ?

Buzzfeed has always stood out to me in how non biased it is. I always seem to see videos from all points of view or if theres on video showing one side another video will show the other. There was a certain amount of credibility I had for buzzed that I did not have for the other news outlets. Now knowing Buzzfeed is non-profit helps me to understand why they never had any motivation to back any specific side. Non-profit means they do not conduct primarily to make a profit so where Fox which is conservative or CNN which is liberal may be backed by people or companies who share the same views as these channels, buzzfeed has no need to voice any specific political views. The other channels or blogs will be backed by certain companies who agree with what the channel is saying, so they cannot change their views but Buzzfeed on the other hand writes true and honest articles as well as filming videos which show both sides. I have noticed that journalism has changed a lot over the last century. Once it was only writing for a newspaper or magazine and now it can go from writing for a paper to blogging online, making videos, talking on tv etc. Buzzfeed is a great outlet because they don't stick to one thing but do every one of those things. Journalism may also come in many different forms: News, editorials, stories, columns, reviews, blogs and can even be opinionated depending on the outlet. I believe Buzzfeed produces its material through all these different forms while still being unbiased, making it one of the most credible outlets to me.

https://www.buzzfeed.com

BLOG 4

“Keep an eye on her,” I heard as I walked through the store. I wasn’t in New Paltz with the familiar little shops where everyone knew everyone and knew where everything was. I was in the city. It seemed huge to me at the time, maybe because I was so little.

I heard that same phrase again as I’d walk through the aisles of clothing and Knick knacks. Had I done something wrong?

I kept trudging through the store in my big puffy winter coat, which I always though made me look like a marshmallow, and my winter hat. It was freezing out and my mom would never let me out into the cold without being bundled up.

My naivety had led me to believe the word was just as accepting as New Paltz. It was not. I was nearing the jewelry because it always amazed me how beautifully it glistened. That’s when reality hit me. The manager of the store came up to me asking to see what was in my pockets.

I was 13.

My body filled with fear and rage. Afraid I would get in trouble for nothing but anger because I knew I had done nothing wrong. I could feel my face getting hot and my sharp tongue ready to tell this manager how I really felt. However my mom came to my rescue. The mere sight of her made them ease their tense glares at me waiting for me to pull an incriminating object out of my pocket.

“Everything alright over here?” it was like my association to my mother is what set me free. The manager immediately said “yes” and walked away.

That’s the day I realized I was going to be judged because of my skin.

I had to be aware of how I dressed and how I presented myself because I could not get away with some of the things people of lighter color could.

And it’s sad.

My mom would not understand. Why I’d have to get up extra early so wet my hair every morning so it would get the perfect curl, or why id stay up an extra 3 hours just to straighten my hair. Why no matter how cold it is, if I’m in a store I cannot keep my hands in my pockets to stay warm.

That day in the city at 13 years old I learned one of the most important lessons I have in my entire life. It made me aware of how unjust society is. It made me aware that I belonged to a stereotype that was not even accurate. A stereotype that was molded for me, not even by people of color themselves.

The racial stereotypes of early American history still continue today when they were originally made as a method for control over them back in the 1600s-1800s. The stereotypes would evolve but the overall idea would stay the same.

Aunt Jemimah is the most modern stereotype, and it is through Aunt Jemimah that the association of the African-American woman with domestic work, especially cooking, became fixed in the minds of society.

No matter what, I have decided not to adhere to any stereotype I can avoid because a stereotype from centuries ago does not define a person today.

Ever since elementary school grades were extremely important to my mother. She would pride herself on how well my brother and I were doing in school. “What you do now dictates what happens the rest of your life.” Since elementary school I heard that. Usually students begin to get that pep talk in high school but not for me.

 Middle School came around and I had a certain expectation to uphold. The great almighty Sergio had walked through those halls. “Oh my gosh you’re Sergio’s sister?!” I would get all the time no matter who I had as a teacher, or what activity I did. He set the bar too high, way wayyy too high, I would think to myself. In my mind he had ruined my whole middle school experience because I could never measure up. Little did I know what was awaiting me for high school.

My grades in middle school were amazing. They would at least be amazing if I had them now. School had always come easy to me. My mom would always brag about how amazing my grades were to other people, yet at home they weren’t good enough. I always had high honor roll which had to be over 92.5 but that was not good enough.

Once in high school the expectations for me became very apparent. “Congrats! Your brother was accepted to Yael,” they’d say. Congrats? What do I have to do with that. “Oh you’re a Nazaire you must be amazing at piano … you must be amazing at math … you must be so proud.” I was proud but being compared to someone and having such high expectations set for me was difficult. I wanted to be able to create a path for myself not treat through my brothers and barely be half as good.

But no matter what I was set up for failure. Not because Sergio was too smart but because I had made myself think I could not compare. But I am different in my own way. He may have been amazing at certain things but in time I will find something that’s my own. Something that I won’t stress about him being better at. Something  that I wont feel like I failed at.

 http://www.education.com/reference/article/influences-sibling-relationships/

Happy Place

On warm summer days my father used to bring us over to a beach far from our house. It would always be a trip we did on the weekends because we'd have to stay a few nights in a hotel. We'd have a great time at the beach running and playing in the water. He would teach us and challenge us to swim out as far as we could, and then after we went swimming we would sit on the beach in the sand. No matter how many times my mom would tell me to put on sun screen I would always refuse and run away from her cream covered hands which would result in her putting a second coat all over my brother.


My mom would bring us out into this green, grassy area and we could throw a Frisbee back and forth, back and forth, and it was so fun to spend the day together. We would walk down the boardwalk, and it was always interesting to see all the little stores selling souvenirs and things made to catch my eye, along with the ice cream stores which had every flavor one could think of. I would spend my afternoons building castles in the sand, decorating them with shells and building moats-like hills to try and direct the flow of water, until the tide was too high and washed them away. Writing my name in the sand with my families and then a special spot where I'd be silly and put the name of myself along with the name of whoever my crush was at the time.

That too would wash away as the tide rose almost like a warning, to cherish what I could when I could because one day it would wash away with nothing left but the memories.

Going home sticky with ice-cream and the sting of salt on my skin, washing every last grain of sand from my hair, feeling intoxicated by the fresh air and wild power of the ocean, crawling into bed and still feeling the sway of the waves against my legs. For the rest of the summer I would beg my parents to take me again, even when my parents got divorced my mom would take my brother and I. Even when my brother went away to college my mom and I would still always make sure to go. She knew how much I loved the feel of the sand under my toes and the hot sting of the sun on my skin no matter how hot it got. I feel most content and at peace there because I just somehow feel most at home. 

 To this day, that city, that area, that beach is still my happy place.

 

Memories

My parents were separated for months. It was the hardest time of my life. But that’s another story for another time. The earliest memory I have is when I was very young before I even started school. My mom and I were laying down just relaxing. At least what I thought relaxing was at that age. We woke up from a nap I think. But anyways we thought it would be funny to knock on the wall. So we do. Downstairs I hear my dad open the door. We giggle to ourselves. We hear the door close, and knock again. We hear his footsteps race across the floor to open the back door I imagine. He comes up and talks to my mom. Then we reveal we’re the knockers. We all laughed. 

That one memory is what kept me going. With the hope that their love and marriage vows were strong enough last the stupidest jokes and they would survive this. Although I could have turned to acting out. Getting into trouble when they separated. But I decided why should I ruin my life for their decision to destroy my happiness like other kids might do. At least thats how it seemed to me. that they were trying to make me unhappy. 

I’ll just make my own happiness. 

My real friends were there for me, it was a chance to see who’d be there for me. Though the experience is nothing I would wish on a person I learned a lot from it. One don’t piss of my mom. She knows who she is and fights for it. She’s independent. I can only hope to be half the woman she is. 

Two my dad will always be there for me...in his own way. He'd never really been all that good at the whole father thing. It wasn't his fault it's just how he was brought up. He didn't know any better. But the happy days were never forgotten. Days like those gave me hope and although it did not change anything, during those days I felt like I accomplished something. Maybe a few more days of them together. Or that was just my childlike way of coping. But either way memories such as that one have stuck with me for years. 

This had been a mark on me and it definitely changed me.