Field reporting with a body of reporters will, I expect, feel like having my eyeballs tugged ten directions, each separately, while trying to retain focus on questions in my notepad and simultaneously being interested in the ones crying to be read off theirs. Makes me smile. This is going to be chaos, cooperation and probably cognition filling whatever remains.
These other students are mostly gentle (wo)manly strangers with whom I’ve shared class the past month, but I expect we’ll be share enough words this trip to forget most reserved demeanors of the first month. I expect to crawl to someone’s door at 10 p.m., knock, and produce riveting evidence for why the groggy peer answering should care enough about my grade, journalistic output and potential future in the glorious-if-relentlessly-unglorifying field of journalism. I expect to bring a couple bucks, just in case my words don’t get me there.
But seriously, I expect to join with these folks, practice reporting technique, see scenery of a culture at my backdoor (but which ain’t mine), and return groggy with good memories. FRI turns into the type of thing I’ll talk about having done, but that morning I climb on the bus at 6:45 a.m. — that’ll be the only time I do.
— Sarah Alban