The Evolution of an Intern Coming full circle at Indianapolis Woman

And so it ends.

Eleven weeks ago, I walked into the Indianapolis Woman office a typical internship newbie –– timid, hopeful and a little naïve. Twenty-two stories and nine blog posts later, I’m rushing to finish a few last-minute assignments for the September issue’s Fall Home Guide before my term as the summer intern expires.

You’re probably expecting me to sum up my internship with recaps of struggles and lessons learned or to recount my favorite office memories.

Though I have many small moments with my co-workers that I’ll treasure, I have no words to describe how the strangers outside my cubicle somehow evolved into my work family –– even as a journalist whose world revolves around knowing what to say and how best to say it. From reminiscing about early college days with Senior Editor Laura Kruty to sharing a lunch break with Alan Inkenbrandt, our production manager, to conversing with CEO Mary Weiss and Editor in Chief Shari Finnell, my experience here transcended what I wrote for publication.

In an ironic twist, my writing philosophy effortlessly seeped into my personal life this weekend and pulled me full circle to the woman I was more than two months ago.

Like most weekends, my friends and I consulted every newspaper, local calendar of events and online review we could grab or click our mouse on to find that one golden nugget of a weekend experience. Our searching led us to the Indianapolis Museum of Contemporary Art in Fountain Square on Friday night for the PostSecret: Confessions on Life, Death, and God art exhibit opening.

PostSecret.com is Frank Warren’s online collection of postcards covered in scribbled secrets and drawings from anonymous writers. Some are sobering, some are satirical and many are politically incorrect, but all of the beautifully honest postcards chosen for the exhibit are fuel for discussion about deeper issues.

As I peered down the rows of clear plastic waves of confessions, all I felt was a sense of affirmation. Reading strangers’ carefully crafted messages about their biggest fears and hopes validated the firm belief I have about all humankind, the concept I posed to you in the first sentence I ever blogged: Every person’s story has a beginning. The rise-to-the-top successes, the post-mistake transformations, the magazine’s cover stories and inside blurbs all are the results of someone’s beginning.

As a young woman, I thank you for allowing me to share some of my beginnings –– the emotions, the reasons, the people and places and events –– with all of you.

As a professional journalist, I hope to continue doing so.

Thanks for reading.

Sarah Moreland, Entry #9

The Science of an Inner Child

One look at my iCalendar this morning reminded me of my newest milestone –– two months as an intern here at Indianapolis Woman! Even more surreal than the time that’s passed is how much time is left, a mere two weeks that will probably fly by as fast as the first nine.

While revisiting my first blog post, I noticed I had written that I was ready for “big girl” journalism. Whether or not I’ve grown into a professional journalist during the past two months is still up for debate, but I have a feeling I’ve matured more than I think.

Why?

Let me show you –– with a little bit of science.

So, how does that old physics concept go again? For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction, right? Well, as I continue to develop into the person I should be –– a post-college working adult who lives under her own roof and doesn’t depend on her parents’ life insurance or money handouts –– I feel an equally strong tug to return to an earlier, easier time in my life.

Maybe I worked too hard last week, or maybe I was inspired by some home video nostalgia (see previous entry for details). Whatever the spark was, something in me –– my inner child, no doubt –– begged for a chance to come out and play, so I grabbed a few friends and journeyed to where all inner children want to play on a lazy Sunday: the Children’s Museum’s Rock Stars, Cars and Guitars exhibit.

Our eyes and imaginations led us to an open stage and dress-up corner with bins of outfits for each musical era, where one of my friends dived into the classics, pulling out a military-style jacket taken straight from the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album cover.

I channeled the ’80s in a teal velveteen cape-like top with padded shoulders and flashy sequins, and my other classmate brought us back to modernity in a hot pink, puffy sleeveless jacket that probably migrated from the Barbie exhibit next door.

Add in two inflatable guitars and a plastic microphone, and you have a lot of nonsense and very little dignity.

Welcome to the land of no inhibitions, where dancing to “YMCA” in period costumes is normal. At least, for anyone under the age of 10.

Despite a sign inviting patrons of all ages to dress up and dance, we were the only guitar-wielding rock ‘n’ rollers taller than 5 feet, but if there’s one thing we’ve learned as college students, it’s how to have fun with what we’ve got.

We humbly received fashion advice from our younger counterparts, blatantly ignored stares from surprised adults and mock-rocked out on stage in front of dozens of museum visitors. When it was over, our primary school-aged fashion advisers praised our performance, and our five minutes of fame were up.

As I switched out of my sequined jacket and left the ’80s behind, I bumped into a 6-foot, rhinestone-bejeweled Elvis with blond hair and sneakers. He was beaming –– either from excitement or humiliation –– and accompanied by his two children as he took our spot on the stage.

Did he plunge into embarrassment for his children’s sake, or was his costume a reflection of his own creativity?

I guess I’ll never know.

I’d like to think that our brave steps on stage set a trend, but more likely, the responsibility-burdened father of two was pushed to explore his younger side because it’s natural –– just like physics.

Sarah Moreland, Entry #8

Following the Script

How Making Movies Makes Some Sense of Life

I’d like to call myself a moviemaker. No, I’ve never written a screenplay, and I can neither identify the functions on a camcorder nor keep a camera from shaking without a tripod. Still, I’m a star moviemaker –– in my head.

You know how it goes. It’s like when you play out an ideal blind date scene in your head while you primp and curl and anticipate, but once you and your date meet and start talking, your expectations deflate and you’re surprisingly disappointed. If you know the feeling, congratulations! You have a fantastic, visually creative mind. Too bad the romantic comedy running through your thoughts clashes with a real-life situation more fit for reality TV.

Like most people, I filter experiences through my personal production team and edit the footage for a film only I will see when I sift through my memory’s archives. But, like many filmmakers, I have to check how historically accurate my movies are, so I did some research –– with a VHS compilation of home videos from 1989 to 1991.

With my vivid imagination and propensity to turn every experience into a work of art, the living room furniture around me vanished into black nothingness and the footage of my childhood shone through sepia-toned glass. At least, that’s how it seemed to me, the director of my mind’s inner movie.

For two hours and 10 minutes, my imaginary movie –– this time an autobiographical one –– seamlessly added in these flashback sequences. For once, reality complemented my memory’s theatrical re-enactments.

It was then that I realized my life’s script, the one that matters most, had already been written. Call it fate, or coincidence, or God’s will, but one scene from my past showed me that my path into the media industry wasn’t so much a choice as it was nature.

A chubby, slightly bald-headed, 8-month-old me was lying on my stomach, looking up and laughing. What was I laughing at? The wind-up teal clown that played music and spun around? Or the multicolored pyramid of plastic rings I loved to play with at that age? No, I was laughing because my dad was reading me a story about nine dogs who loved to bark.

Skip to a few minutes later in the tape, after “The End” was said and the book was discarded someplace out of reach. My dad, finished with the sports section of the newspaper, folded it up and dropped it on the ground. For a few agonizing moments I watched while the baby version of me half-crawled, half-rolled herself to the dropped newspaper, then –– ignoring all her expensive toys and gadgets –– stared at the picture-less page of text and smiled.

On the tape’s three years of compiled footage, baby Sarah never grinned as toothlessly wide as she did when she was “reading” that newspaper or one of her books, despite her visible frustration when she couldn’t turn the page with her pudgy, uncoordinated hands.

Is my foray into journalism just a coincidence? I don’t think so. The director’s continuation of my character from one age to the next, the progression of my dreams and goals, the foreshadowing of what is to come –– well, that’s all just part of the script.

Sarah Moreland, Entry #7

The Diversity of Hand-Me-Downs How a simple garage sale demonstrates variety of opinion

For me, few events represent America’s “melting pot” culture as much as a garage sale -- and I’m not just talking about the myriad hidden treasures you can discover.


Think about it. The lure of a typical American garage sale transcends most social and cultural barriers. As soon as April’s showers fade away, people in neighborhoods across the country –– regardless of socioeconomic status or ethnic background –– grab their old folding card tables out of the basement, layer them with gobs of no-longer-useful items and sit in a lawn chair for two or three days, nurturing the hope that their hoarded objects will make them a nice stack of cash.


And they will. Whether the table is covered in antique costume jewelry worth much more than its selling price or it displays only a box of half-used crayons for a nickel, people will check it out. The treasure-seekers who come are often as diverse as the garage sale smorgasbord laid out in front of them: housewives and single mothers who work, WASPs and immigrants, children and grandparents, bus drivers, retail clerks and physical therapists.


If you think Indianapolis lacks the ethnic and social richness of other metropolitan cities, you should stop by a neighborhood garage sale at 9 a.m.


That hodgepodge crowd brings another type of diversity –– one of opinion. The psychology of garage sales amazes me –– what runs through buyers’ minds as they brush their hands against my old belongings, why some linger near broken childhood toys I thought would eventually end up unwanted in the “take for free” box, and how they determine an object’s worth in the end.
Wow, that’s pretty complicated. And that’s only the psychology of the buyer.


What makes letting go so liberating for the sellers, especially when they will, inevitably, just fill their house back up again with new acquisitions? It’s like the routine of making your bed each morning –– frivolous and unnecessary.


Or so it seems on the surface. Behind the $1 price tag on a flawless sterling silver locket could lie a simmering frustration against a recent ex-boyfriend. To the seller, the locket is a painful reminder of what used to be. We, the buyers, see it as an unbelievable deal.


A mother of two saw a souvenir from the 2010 Beijing Olympics as one stuffed animal too many. I saw it as a 25-cent window to the biggest sporting event in the world. Who wins? Both of us, thanks to diversity in perspective.


So mark it on your calendars. This weekend, let’s embrace diversity –– of thought, of culture, of consumerism –– on the suburban streets of Indy.


No purchase necessary.

Sarah Moreland, Entry #6

“Generation ‘Y-Are-We-So-Obsessed?’”

Call me old-fashioned, but sometimes I’m at war with modern society.

Bet you didn’t expect that confession from a “millennial”— someone born and raised in the generation of mass-produced technology. My age group is associated with typing, texting and Twittering so much that a recent article in Time Magazine calls Generation Yers “the generation that shunned cursive” and killed the art of handwriting.

Well, only some millennials are murderers. The rest of us commit only small felonies against the pre-Internet world, like drowning out reality with our mood-boosting iPod playlists and using informal e-vites to important coming-of-age events.

These crimes of modernity aren’t just follies of my generation. Baby boomers have also been hit with the obsession. This year, instead of driving 10 minutes away to watch Fourth of July fireworks near Geist Reservoir, my father watched them on a real-time online stream. Sure, it’s convenient to not worry about finding a good parking spot or deal with heat and crowds, but where’s the ambience, the fellowship, the air vibrating with each colorful burst and the subsequent “Oohs” and “Aahs” of the people around you?

Of course, technology has its good points. Using inventions from people much more tech-savvy than me, I instantly uploaded this blog entry for all interested Internet users to read. Thanks to improvements in speed and technique, we can write, edit, design and create Indianapolis Woman from the comfort of our Macs and distribute it in digital form with a few mouse clicks. (Check out our main page for a link to the new July 2010 issue.)

But as my mother recounts how — in the good old days of the late 1960s —friends stayed in touch via the nearly ancient pastime of snail-mail letter writing, I sometimes pull out my iPod earbuds so that I can listen. Not because I particularly want to hear her reminisce, but because her sermon about how technology makes communication so easy isn’t completely true.

We millennials have our problems, too. We blindly assume news of a relationship status change or last-minute get-together will reach our friends through Facebook before the next time we see them. Instead of carefully checking our texts for ambiguous language before hitting the send button, we add an emoticon and hope a winking smiley face effectively relays our humor in an otherwise offensive sentence. And if ambiguity gets the best of us, we solve our problems with an apologetic e-mail, even if being social network buddies doesn’t guarantee a white-flag-waving reply.

Maybe we are a generation of murderers after all, guilty of killing technology’s potential to improve our interaction with others. Perhaps Generation Z and its descendants can learn from our mistake. Until technology is advanced enough to eliminate all of our communication problems, we’re still on our own.

Sarah Moreland, Entry #5

Want Some Ribbon with That? Weekend activities prove that real life mimics journalism

I turned the big two-two last Friday.

You’re probably mentally sending me congratulations, reminiscing about your own version of turning 22, or wondering, “Why is she even mentioning this?”

Hold on, I’ll get to that in a minute.

Let’s be honest. Turning 22 isn’t much of a milestone. In fact, it’s already been five days, and I still don’t feel any different.

To combat my apathy, I invited some friends to join me for swing dancing in historic Fountain Square. The invitations? Sent via Facebook. The event title? “Come to Sarah’s Second 21st Birthday!”

Luckily, my resistance to aging past 21 faded as my friends and I danced and played the “paparazzi-and-celebrity” game with my camera. Our night out resulted in sore feet and 200 Facebook-worthy photos, enough for a close friend to send me a message yesterday with this greeting: “Oh hello, Miss I've-Changed-My-Profile-Picture-Five-Times-in-the-Past-Five-Days.”

In addition to increased vanity, whimsical gifts and countless memories, I received an unexpected birthday gift this year: real-life wisdom. My birthday weekend of bad dancing, cake eating, hours of cornfield-bordering highway driving and 1990s love song singing at a friend’s wedding emphasized that journalism isn’t so much a skill as it is just a bunch of common sense principles.

For example:

Sometimes you just have to put yourself out there.

My all-female Fountain Square birthday posse (except for a friend’s plus-one) made swing dancing difficult. Too scared to pluck a few random dance partners from the crowd, we wallflowers hid in the ballroom’s shadows and wasted time watching others get their $10 cover charge’s worth of fun.

My inspiration came an hour later in the form of an 88-year-old man, clad in an old-fashioned red-checked shirt and wearing a black bowler hat. When the band called his name, he walked out onto the floor and, with no hesitation, started dancing with a pretty 20-something. As he switched partners throughout the song, his face showed no fear –– and he danced with more women that night than any other man in the 100-plus crowd of spectators.

Life is all about interaction with others –– and so is journalism.

Don’t assume.

I’ll admit, I’m a little Indy-centric. My knowledge of the rest of Indiana is abysmal –– for most of my childhood I thought South Bend was near Evansville, and it took me years to figure out how to pronounce Kosciusko County.

Mere hours into my second day as a 22-year-old, I traveled with two friends up to Mishawaka for a friend’s wedding. My road trip buddies and I, unfamiliar with northwestern Indiana, assumed Mishawaka was on central time. Big mistake –– one that cost us our best friend’s wedding ceremony.

In journalism and in real life, do your research, even if you think you’re right.

Follow your curiosity.

After apologizing profusely at our friend’s wedding reception, we headed back to our hotel to wallow in shame. As we turned into the hotel parking lot, we heard the unmistakable booms and cracks of professional fireworks. One question of wonderment and two eager nods later, we were zooming down Main Street in search of some Saturday night entertainment. It didn’t take long, and soon there we were, parked in a cemetery in central Mishawaka and letting one of the city’s summer attractions erase our mistake from our minds.

Curiosity is the fuel for discovery and change in perspective –– pursue it.

Who knew Pixar was so educational?

Sarah Moreland, Entry #4

Lessons from Toy Story 3 Movie proves that the path less traveled can be a good thing

I’ll be a ninth-semester graduate.

Yes, I’m that girl, the “super senior,” the student who’s stayed around so long she notices when college administrators recycle their convocation speeches. Despite the recent increase in students spending more time in college for a bachelor’s degree, there’s still a stigma stuck to the idea of passing that eight-semester mark without a diploma.

It’s only one semester, but sometimes it feels like I’ve been left behind. While my best friends head off to graduate or medical school and my fellow student journalists begin work at newspapers around the country, I’m still facing the same class/part-time job routine this fall.

Here’s some college math anyone can do:

1 college freshman + 4 years of classes = 1 diploma

But what happens when you add in variables, like double majors and study abroad programs? Sometimes absorbing all the opportunities college has to offer leaves you with too many unknown As, Bs, Xs and Ys to solve the problem.

I thought that by altering the above one-size-fits-all equation, I had somehow not lived up to expectation.

That all changed with a trip to see Pixar’s Toy Story 3 in 3-D on opening day with my boyfriend.

For you readers who aren’t animation aficionados, Toy Story 3 continues the journey of several toys with distinct personalities –– a proud cowboy named Woody, a sarcastic Mr. Potato Head, an anxiety-ridden dinosaur named Rex and a trio of little green aliens in blue spacesuits, to name a few –– as their owner, Andy, grows up and leaves for college. Andy’s move from home is the catalyst for changes the toys aren’t sure they’re ready for, and the movie chronicles the adventures between their old lives as Andy’s toys and the future they’re expected to take.

No, I won’t be that person who spoils the end of the story or gives away the best not-shown-in-trailers punch line. (Barbie’s compliment of “Nice ascot!” was probably my favorite, anyway.)

But in between the previews (also in 3-D!) and the final credits is a heartwarming story with a Robert Frost-esque moral: Sometimes the best path isn’t the well-trodden one. As with everything in life, there are more options than we think.

And there it was. My epiphany of reassurance in a theater full of children too young to know what an ascot is.

I’m not behind. I’m right on track. Just like Andy’s favorite childhood toys, I ended up on a less-common path –– the one best suited to me.

Because I haven’t yet graduated, I can continue my journalism education with my internship here at Indianapolis Woman. Because I haven’t yet graduated, I can still focus on the quality of what I do instead of the salary. Because I haven’t yet graduated, I have another semester’s worth of contributing to my college and community before I enter the “real world.”

So here it is, my revised, post-movie formula for the ideal college experience:

1 college student + valuable education (regardless of time) =

1 satisfied, real-world adult + 1 diploma + countless job prospects

Who knew Pixar was so educational?

Sarah Moreland, Entry #3