I didn’t join The Daily because I wanted to. I joined because it was the only club that would take me.
When I got to Northwestern my freshman year, I was the most depressed I’d ever been. I felt lost, looking for a home on campus that somehow resembled the tight-knit group of friends I’d had in high school. In my head, I mapped out the best places on campus to cry, and would visit them in between classes (if you’re interested, the willow on the Lakefill is wonderfully semi-private).
In my quest for meaningful friendships, I tried to join as many clubs as possible, though everyone who knows me knows I’m not particularly passionate about satire or tennis or fashion writing. But I’m sure recruitment chairs could smell that desperation, and I was rejected again, and again and again (and again, and again and again). So I went to the one place I knew had an open door policy: The Daily Northwestern. I wrote my three stories, graduated devo and watched upperclassmen chit-chat in the newsroom while I sat on Norris’ third floor couches.