By Karen Galatz
RENO, Nevada — With apologies to Ponce de Leon and plastic surgeons, I have discovered the real Fountain of Youth. It’s spending time with young people
I made this fortuitous discovery just the other day as I peered into the glowing, unlined face of a student I was working with. Actually two things hit me. The first was that I was 50 years her senior! Five-zero. A half a century. Yikes!
Now, no matter how you look at it. A 50-year-age spread is a Grand Canyon-wide age difference but still, sitting there, elbow-to-elbow, I realized how alive, vital and most important of all, needed I felt.
I was working with her because I’m lucky enough to be a writing coach at my local university’s journalism school.
Two days a week, come rain, shine or snow, I help fledgling reporters hone their skills. We discuss how to write compelling headlines, conduct interviews, and organize stories.
This coaching gig is a late-in-life new experience. I boast no august professorial title and so, I get away with saying non-professorial things like, “Oh, this is boring. Really, if you were scrolling through articles on your phone, would you read a story with a headline like this?”
Somehow this non-nurturing honesty works! The students, in fact, love it. They appreciate the truth and because they genuinely care about their writing, they lean forward, eyes bright, ready to improve their “copy.” They want people to read their articles. So, fixing a dull headline matters. Improving a long-winded “lede” paragraph does too.
As for their work ethic, it is astonishing. Even after they get grades on assignments, they bring their stories back. “Let’s go over it again. I want to make it better and try to get it published.”
They tackle big subjects. Their sense of justice and injustice is profound. They examine sexual abuse, hunger, gender rights, and homelessness on campus and in the community. And they don’t just detail problems, they seek out solutions. They are hopeful.
The students don’t write in the abstract. They write from experience. Many come from broken homes. Some have known abuse, poverty, and hunger. Golden, protected childhoods seem in short supply.
And because of challenging personal lives, schoolwork isn’t all we talk about.
These fledgling journalists always start discussing the challenges of their latest assignments, but faster than you can say “Breaking News,” their conversations frequently veer into the personal — the deeply personal.
In whispered voices in the noisy public Writing Center, they confess fears and problems.
It takes my breath away how open and vulnerable they are. And it scares me how much confidence they place in me, a stranger, to help them.
One girl came out to me, saying she had no one else to talk to. One boy told me he was being bullied because of a speech impediment. Still another said he felt “rootless.” At first, I didn’t understand. Then, I did. He needed mental health counseling, probably quickly. I gently suggested that and gave him the numbers for the crisis/suicide hotline and my cell phone.
Another wrote about coping with grief and loneliness as a first-semester freshman on campus when her grandmother died. She hadn’t made friends yet. Didn’t know about campus or community support services. Her story detailed those services to ensure no one else experienced similar isolation.
A soft-spoken 5’1” 115-pound girl wanted to buy a knife because she felt unsafe walking to work at night. We talked about better options.
After conversations like these, I worry. Did I say the right thing, or did I stumble? Overstep or not do enough?
Yet, don’t get the wrong idea. These sessions aren’t all serious and sad. Many students write spirited stories full of possibilities, intellectual, artistic, and entrepreneurial.
And we laugh a lot too. In fact, “my” students laugh at me a lot
One wrote about “reels” which as any young adult can tell you relates to Instagram, TikTok, and short films. I didn’t know and when I asked, the boy couldn’t stop giggling for five minutes.
The other day I asked a student about their colorful sweatshirt and the cartoon character displayed on it. They rolled their eyes at my ignorance and delivered a 20-minute “lecture” on anime. It’s now the subject of a feature story they’re writing.
Each time I walk away from these sessions, I find myself humming “Getting to Know You,” Anna’s song about her students from The King and I.
“It’s a very ancient saying,
But a true and honest thought,
That if you become a teacher
By your pupils you’ll be taught.”
I’m certainly learning from my students. Mostly, though I’m re-learning optimism and the value of resiliency. My students also remind me of the Torah’s admonitions to be kind and compassionate — the most important lessons of all.
I may not have known what reels were, but thanks to these half-a-century-younger-than-I students, this job keeps things real for me. It — and they — keep me focused on the present and the future, not the weepy past. With them, I forget about my aches, pains, vanities, and fears. They truly are my Fountain of Youth.
*
You can read more of Karen’s work at Muddling through Middle Age or contact her at karen@muddling.me.