My journey to The Chronicle has likely not been unique. It was fall of my freshmen year, and while everyone around me seemed to have found their “thing,” I was left with a handful of rejections and uncertainty about where—and if—I belonged. Doors had closed, most definitely, but it didn’t seem like any had opened in their place. Having signed up for a flurry of listerves, I continued to receive information about campus groups and for whatever reason it was a recruitment email from The ready that caught my eye. And so I ventured up to the no longer intimidating 301 Flowers, reading to pick up my first story. I loved writing, but had zero experience in journalism. It didn’t matter, they said. I was welcome anyways.
That was—and is—the beautiful thing about The Chronicle. I didn’t have to be great, I didn’t even have to be good. All I had to do was show up, determined to write, and I would have the opportunity to do so.
I wrote my first news piece, and quite a few more after that. But I always knew my true interest lied in writing columns for the Opinion section. Columns were a little trickier, though, as you do have to apply to get in which made the possibility of rejection very real.
But I gave it a go and applied, fear brimming in the back of my mind that doing so would bring yet another failure. But luck—and I’d like to believe skill—was on my side and I was accepted as fall columnist for my sophomore year. And since my very first column, The Chronicle has become a defining part of my Duke experience, from a regular columnist to Managing Editor then Option Editor then Recruitment. I have spent more hours in 301 Flowers than I care to count, but with incredible people whom I will always remember and be grateful for; I've made dynamic friendships and thought provoking encounters, and even found someone I now call my best friend (and sometimes soul mate).
Then there were the columns themselves. It was this sheer act of writing biweekly and eventually copy-editing daily that has been transformative to my sense of self. I have always been a reflection-y type columnist, not so much someone who gives opinions on events but rather my own personal observations and the nuances of campus life. Self reflection is a deeply important quality for me, but the busyness—real or perceived—of college life can make it difficult to pause for a moment and genuinely reflect on one’s experiences. But writing a column forced me to actively sit and contemplate the state of my existence at least every two weeks, asking myself what recently caused me happiness, sadness, concern or excitement. For me, writing is calming and revealing and it’s The Chronicle that offered a platform for self-expression I don’t think I truly valued until now.
Vulnerability. It’s an interesting word that’s thrown around a lot now, especially here. Everyone knows vulnerability is important, and most of us have no problem telling others to go ahead and show. But for many, the gap between what we believe and how we ourselves behave has yet to be bridged. And that’s what brings me to the the title of this column—crying in public spaces, which is an ode to a rather recent phenomenon.
Until recently, I would reckon that not a single person had ever seen me cry before (except during sad movies where animals die). It was a quality I wore like a badge of honor—don’t tell too much, don’t show too much, don’t feel too much. These were personal mottos I held close to me. I could express surface level desires and concerns, of course, but anything too personal and I simply went silent. But in reading about others’ insecurities, and challenging myself to write about my own, I began to experience a shift. And now, I am ready to admit, I am a crier. I cry, not often but enough, and not in front of strangers—which would be easier—but people I care deeply about.
I cry, openly and unashamedly.
And yes, I am well aware there are many instances where crying is not appropriate—such as at work or EDM concerts—and that’s okay. I’m not writing this to argue that we should all cry all the time. But as someone who is often fiercely private about my personal life, my ability to cry in front of people has been a pivotal change.
While The Chronicle is not entirely responsible for that, it has played an integral role. It provided an outlet—gave me the confidence to express opinions both personal and political, even if at times I faltered to profess either effectively. I will always be grateful to those who messaged me or came up to me to tell me that something I had written to mattered to them, connected with them, made them feel something.
As I’ve written before, on a campus of 7,000 undergrads, it is shockingly easy to feel completely alone here. But I have found that no matter what I’m going through, someone else has likely been through something similar. There is power in not feeling like we are alone, but often that requires us to give something of ourselves first—to open up, to be exposed, to be vulnerable.
And so for my final concluding college remarks and perhaps the last time I’ll ever write on an online platform again, I say this. Self-reflect thoroughly and thoughtfully, and be afraid to be vulnerable but then do it anyways. Oh, and cry in public—it really is quite cathartic.
Michelle Menchaca, a Trinity senior, is a bi-weekly columnist and former Editorial Page Editor, Managing Editorial Page Editor, and Recruitment Chair during her four years at The Chronicle. She would like to thank everyone who made her time here special and worthwhile, particularly when layout went until 1 a.m. or later for reasons she still cannot understand.
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