The same internal drive that fuels all of my writing dragged me up the hill between our high school and the University of Kansas.

 

   It seemed harder to climb than ever before, but the Spencer Research Library was the only place where I could find any information about the Harvey brothers. Every online resource had been exhausted, but I felt compelled to learn more about the three Black siblings who served in the military at the turn of the century, fought for the rights of a young Langston Hughes and were among the earliest Black athletes at KU. The library closed in an hour, but the piece I had been working on for a month was due that Friday. While I was used to relying on interviews for my reporting, that was a challenge when profiling men who had died decades earlier. I needed a few of the oldest physical records kept in the depths of the university library.

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   After combing through the laminated photos and documents, I found exactly what I was seeking: a detailed memoir by Sherman Harvey. When I got home, I saw my mom and burst into tears. It was the most difficult piece of reporting I’ve ever done. I was telling the story of men whose mother was born into chattel slavery — men who took every opportunity to better the African American community. And I was sick. My push to work led me to ignore my fever. It hit 101 degrees before my mom sent me to bed.

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   Earlier that year, our journalism staff had celebrated our dedication during a staff wedding. My passion had led me to uphold the vows of “in sickness and in health.”  

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   I often think about how this passion for writing was ignited, and my head immediately fills with vibrant artwork filling a black chalkboard. A river bending into the shape of an R. A tree with branches making the letter T. As other first-graders in more traditional schools were beginning to read, I was studying the meaning behind letters. I was gifted with a sense of the wonder, purpose and power possessed by each letter during my Waldorf school education. Sometimes, as most 6-year-olds do, I became impatient with this style of learning. All I wanted to do was write like “normal” kids. However, long since the crayons and chalk turned into a computer and keyboard, I still know the power each character holds. The longer I have been a writer, the more impactful my words have become. I blinked, and the cryptic letters I learned became breaking news stories about gun violence and in-depth reports featuring overlooked people of color who deserved recognition. 

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   My internal passion is my greatest strength and weakness, but it also is a display of who I authentically am. My passion flows freely when I have a sense of purpose. High school journalism fulfilled my passion for writing in a way I didn’t believe was possible. It began with the first story I wrote highlighting the girls’ gymnastics team, which was saved from elimination by community outpour and questions about Title IX. It continues when writing about the Harvey’s, part of a series seeking to push our alumni to diversify our school’s Hall of Honor. My passion led me to a leadership position in the journalism classroom as the editor-in-chief of The Budget, our print newspaper during my junior year. For me, however, being a leader meant more than editing stories. It meant showing my staff what journalists are capable of. 

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   During my second semester in a leadership position, I got the opportunity to prove it when my journalism staff went through the challenge of standing up for our rights against school-administered invasive AI technology by the name of Gaggle. By reviewing every document, photo, video, email, comment or calendar alert students made with their Google accounts, school officials said they would save lives. We saw something much more dystopian. Not only did this threaten student journalists’ First Amendment rights, but it also pushed my primary publication — the newspaper — to the side with our adviser's attention focused on ensuring we had fundamental rights moving forward. However, I didn't let my frustration at the newspaper consume me. Instead, I decided to join the fight. I helped my staff band together in silent protest by wearing black armbands — an homage to the Tinker v. Des Moines case which determined students have First Amendment rights at school. 

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   As I wore the black armband around school, one of my friends looked at it and commented, “I don't know why we should care.” It was disheartening to see how truly oblivious my peers were to the problem. How could they not see the scanning of all of our documents as anything other than a direct violation of multiple constitutional rights? It just made me determined to fight harder.

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   I immersed myself in this case. I covered my fellow students negotiating terms to protect journalism students. I screamed in frustration at district administrators from the safety of my home as I covered the school board decision to renew Gaggle for $53,000. Then I was offered the opportunity to become a plaintiff in the case. While this process has just begun— no litigation has yet been filed — I finally feel like I am doing something to help remove the gaze of this system from over our shoulders. 

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   Although lawyers had begun to ask questions about Gaggle, I still felt a lingering itch that there was more to this story. It urged me to keep investigating Gaggle. I submitted an open records request, asking my district for data recording the frequency with which students were flagged, the urgency of each alert, and the extent of administrative and sometimes law enforcement intervention. Kansas law requires a reply within five days, but our district administrators did not respond. I emailed them repeatedly during the next two weeks. 

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   No response.

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   Nearly two months later, my adviser forwarded me a string of emails from the district containing a Google spreadsheet with all the data I had requested. Our district’s communications director had sent the data to me several times and noted in her email, “I am curious whether Gaggle is preventing you from receiving my emails.” For months, “gaggled” had become a verb at our school synonymous with “censored.” Now, I realized that Gaggle had “gaggled” top district administrators — intentionally or unintentionally blocking me from seeing data I’d requested. The spreadsheet showed oddities like a student being called into the office for writing “I wanted to die,” which sounds serious until you read that the student was wearing Crocs during a running test. I also saw that images from a photography class assignment were forwarded to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, confusing the school administrator who didn’t find them inappropriate. This inspired me to write an editorial not only explaining the massive amount of data provided I received, but detailing my experience with being censored by the service.

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   With the challenges and experience of covering this, I have seen the true power of storytelling. I wish I could show my impatient first-grade self that by looking at a Google Doc full of black Times New Roman and instead seeing a landscape of trees, rivers and valleys, she would be able to not only write a story, but truly tell one. I have been able to uncover the past and prepare for the future with only a pen in hand. I have been able to challenge authority and push for change. I have fallen deeper in love with this skill every day. Each year during our staff wedding, I have vowed to commit myself to the journalism program. Now I personally vow to commit myself to my journalistic skills. 

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   ‘Til death do us part.