Personal Narrative

The first time I read a death threat levied against someone I knew, I was sixteen-years-old. 

One of the less explicit messages was, “I am really glad I do not know this far-left anti-merit egotistical, criminal donkey. When she dies, it would serve her right to be buried in an unmarked grave and forgotten, along with any of her achievements.” The statement, alongside the death threat, was published as a comment underneath an article, one that had a clear subject and line of reasoning. They targeted the now-former principal of my school, Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology, Dr. Ann Bonitatibus. The subject? A delay in the distribution of letters of commendation. 

During sophomore year, my school made national news: the “War on Merit” headline was everywhere, from the Washington Post to Fox News, accusing the administration of waging a war on individual achievements by delaying the distribution of the National Merit Scholarship Corporation (NMSC) Letters of Commendation. I was shocked. As a student journalist and somewhat self-proclaimed professional, I assumed I had a fairly decent grasp on the conversations and regular worries of Jefferson students. Yet not a single student in the past two weeks had muttered a concern, nor complained about the letters. In fact, many hadn’t even known the letters were delayed in the first place. 

I was a few months into my beat on the principal, four instances into my monthly interviews with Dr. Bonitatibus. I could not fathom how an error—regardless of its extremity—warranted death threats. The confusion melted into anger, then sadness, then single-minded focus. I had the right, the responsibility, as a journalist to tell the stories of those who cannot tell their own, to give a voice to those who do not have their own—in this case, tell the stories of the Jefferson student body. I had a platform, and I was determined to use it. Thus, I began writing a news article. 

Lede. Nut graph. Quote. Transition. Quote. 

There was no fear, just the words as they were. No one could critique me because the ideas were not my own—they were the facts of the situation. Dates, emails, screenshots, links. I did my due diligence and interviewed the lawyer who sued the school for four hours on Saturday morning, sending five separate Zoom links as the time slowly ticked down. 

The story began as news, then became a feature, then a staff editorial, at my advisor’s recommendation. It went through 18 rounds of edits before publication. 

Ten days later, my editorial received a comment: “As an example of how to curry favor with the administration to get good college recommendations this is a superb exemplar. As high-integrity commentary it is rather deficient.” My world opened up and imploded all within the same hour. Everything I had feared for so long came to fruition. The editorial was an opinion, not the safe, dependable facts of news. And my first one was on a national scale. Rather than debate the arguments presented in the editorial, my character was attacked, the integrity of my publication questioned. Commenters called for my advisor to be fired, to place tjTODAY under review, and even to rid Jefferson of the whole publication. 

I doubted my place as a student journalist and began to tread lightly. How could I get something so wrong? 

Fast forward three months later, I wrote an article about the rampant cheating at our school as the cover story for the print issue. What began as an angle looking into integrity violations morphed into a question of why. Why did students cheat? What drove them past communicating with teachers, past asking for help, and to cheating? Over the course of more than two dozen interviews, I strove to answer those questions. I interviewed counselors, teachers, students; I collected data and made graphs; I talked to friends and strangers alike. 

My curiosity overtook my lasting fear of judgment. The story became something I wanted to know, wanted to share. Needed to share. It no longer mattered to me what strangers on the internet and across the country thought about my journalistic integrity. I had another fight to survive, the worn battlefield of the past irrelevant. 

The three months of constant reporting drew me to one conclusion: stress. The cheating was a result of academic stress, a culmination of extreme pressure from parental figures, teachers, college admissions, and an overall utter lack of support. This hit close to home, a direct situation that my peers experienced daily. And I had an answer to my question and a solution to the problem. After combing through 27 pages of notes and interviews, cutting a 3,000 word feature down to 1,300, and designing three spreads, the magazine was distributed. 

I still faced criticism: comments on articles published in the Washington Post and Fairfax County Times condemned Jefferson’s dropping ranking and new admissions system. People across the country still criticized the focus on mental health, calling students “weak” for wanting a better balance. 

But simultaneously, I heard whispers in the hallways from counselors and teachers, who felt seen by the article; students who realized they were not alone in their struggles. I learned to isolate the voices that matter and the ones that don’t. It remains a constant battle within me, to determine who is worth listening to. 

I trust myself and my instincts, honed through four years of rigorous reporting. That confidence, ultimately, is what sets me apart from the masses. The angry comments were just that—comments. The comment on my editorial that broke my drive sat above another, posted by the president of SGA affirming the message. 

I no longer fear judgment. I am willing to brave the heat of battle and dig beneath the surface of the battlefield to see what lies beneath it. Every person has a story, and every story is worth telling. I have a duty to fight for them.