The powerful printing press echoed through the warehouse as I headed towards the massive machine.
The smell of fresh ink mixed with cigarette smoke from two lady employees struck my nose as the breeze from the open warehouse door hit my skin.
I had only been at my new job for a few days, and I had just worked up the courage to go where the printing press of the Delta newspaper I worked for was located.
Asking for permission, I grabbed a copy of that afternoon paper. The print job was still so fresh, the wet ink smeared over my fingertips as I scanned for my name on the front page. It was the first real news story I was allowed to cover after I begged to do something bigger than fundraisers and pet contests.
And I found it.
Bold with registration black ink, my name appeared above my first real news story. I grinned the entire way back to my cubicle, clinching that paper tight into my hands.
Ever since I was a child, I knew I wanted to be in the newspaper business. From writing poetry to short stories, the night I uncovered a vintage typewriter in my grandparents’ closet my love for the written word took on a new meaning.
I created my first newspaper on that metal typewriter. I covered anything from lost cigar pipes to visiting relatives, selling each paper to my neighbors for a quarter a piece.
With Crayola markers and an index card, I created a “press pass” that I stuck in my hat, much like I had seen in those old black and white movies. I was already in the business before I could learn to tie my shoe right.
And now I was at a daily newspaper, at my own desk, with fresh ink smeared across my fingers.
I was broke, barely making rent. But I had a paper I could mail to my mother with pride.
Little did I know that at that very spot would be the place I was offered a job at The Clarion Ledger. Taking the offer, I felt like I had made it to where I was supposed to be…the largest newspaper in the state.
But to be honest, something wasn’t right.
It wasn’t until I joined The Yazoo Herald that I realized I wasn’t meant for bustling metro-dailies. I was meant for community newspapers.
Community newspapers like The Herald are vital to the area it serves. We provide a platform, a voice for the people. And I am grateful that I am responsible for capturing those voices through pen ink and paper sheets.
Not only do I help celebrate a kid’s birthday or a couple’s anniversary, but I showcase civic projects and star students. I bring crime news to the front page, injustices to the light. I hold public officials accountable. And I share my own story in a weekly column.
Not only do I work for the community, I am part of the community. I am a wife, a mother, a friend, a church member, a volunteer. I believe in the community that believes in me. And I have plenty of ink to share that.
As I continue to work in Yazoo City, I often reflect back on that first quarter newspaper I created or that day I smeared ink across my hands, searching for my name.
From the first press of the typewriter key to the first ink-smear across my face, I was hooked.
You can’t wipe the ink off or tune out a voice that wants to be heard.
It’s in the blood of every journalist, every newsie, every reporter.
It’s sweat, blood, tears, laughter and ink.
It’s the business, and business is good.
