I miss the intern

I really miss having Beacon intern Reeka Campbell around.

If you’re thinking how awesome it would be to have someone to pick up lunch or make a snack run, you have the wrong idea entirely. Having a newspaper intern is more like having a full-time newsroom student. She had to learn everything — reporting, newswriting, photography, how to use the server, how to use the old-fashioned office phones, when to call government’s switchboard, EVERYTHING — from scratch.

From that list, you might think our Ms. Campbell, now in her final year at the local public high school, was a leech, but I think she gave as much as she got.

For one thing, she had ALL THE ENERGY! Our girl came in, day-in and day-out, with so much energy and enthusiasm that she lifted me up when I was feeling dragged out.

For example: 

Me: [Eeyore voice] Routine press conference?

Her: WOW, such fun, what should I wear? Can I be the photographer? Is that the premier? Like, THE premier? Can I talk to him?!?

Me: [Eeyore now banished] Yep!

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Then this happened.

Then there is the cool factor. Let’s be real: I am 33 years old. I can no longer be relied upon to know what in the world is cool. Ms. Campbell, entrenched as she is in the world of teenagers, lives and breathes cool. She pointed me and the other old folks ’round here toward the latest in television and movies, and wasn’t too cool to enjoy some classics (ahem: Ladysmith Black Mambazo will ALWAYS be cool).

Then of course, because I am sappy about my chosen profession, there is the restoration of ‘faith,’ for want of a better expression. Having Reeka around, watching her go from a total newb to somebody who could handle herself on assignment and even be trusted with my own personal camera, was a very nice reminder that journalism won’t become solely the home of crusty old white dudes.

I can’t wait to see what this bright young woman does in the future.

Thanks for everything, my *lowe!

Giving her farewell message with the journalists preferred food, of course.

Giving her farewell message with the journalist’s preferred food, of course.

*Not a typo. My girl knows what I’m saying.

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