In Between the Black and White, there’s Crimson

“What’s black and white and red all over?” I quipped, just waiting to deliver the punchline of my third-grade riddle.

I was sitting around a common room with nine other Crimson news executives as we posed probing questions to the aspiring members of the next executive guard.

I thought I’d lend some levity, perhaps inanity—something playful—to the five-hour interrogation that had begun to dribble by with all the speed of a snail. But I stumbled as I jumped to the punch.

“A bloody newspaper!” I shouted, completely, um, butchering the joke.

The thing is, there are actually two answers to the question—either a bloody zebra or a newspaper, period. But in my haste, I combined the two.

We laughed. It was funny. And eerily right on.

This bloody newspaper!

And not just because it’s called The Crimson; that’s only the beginning.

Not a single writer, photographer, or designer could confess to a pure love of this place, this institution, this almost incomprehensible club. Call it what you will, the Crimson is swollen with passionate people who both love and hate the time they spend here.

It’s hard to be a casual member—believe me, I’ve tried. This building either sucks you up or spits you out. As a freshman, I came in unaware. Surrounded by a pool of budding journalists and overanalytical overachievers, I wrote stories because it was fun and new and I sort of liked seeing my name in print, even if I didn’t read back over my articles. By the time I became an elected editor, worthy of the Crimson Staff Writer byline, I had already grown slightly sour on the whole experience. I didn’t quite jive with the daily rush of the newsroom, didn’t quite click with the legions of older editors. “Who are these crazy people?” I used to think.

Now I guess I’m one of them.

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment that things changed for me, and to be honest, I sometimes still feel like an outsider. As I slogged through sophomore year, writing stories less than fascinating, I considered moving on to some other organization. I didn’t quite fit in and wasn’t sure I wanted to. But every time I prepared to step away from the Crimson brick road, I found something to reel me back in. I questioned if I could really take on the slew of responsibilities granted to each news exec, and if I could do it my way. Competition mingled with curiosity to keep my interest and enthusiasm alive. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was hooked.

Believe me, there are aspects of the organization I’d change in a heartbeat, late night hours that I’d love to reclaim. But even when I escape the building at 4 a.m., cursing “bloody Crimson” on the bleak walk home, it only takes some recovered slumber for me to remember how astounding this place is.

Five days a week, a group of students come together at 14 Plympton, The Crimson’s own red brick mansion, to put together a newspaper that reaches not only bored breakfasters, but also a troupe of alumni and sometimes even those beyond the Harvard bubble. Not bad for a gig between classes.

Of course, not everyone thinks of it that way. For some, the Crimson comes first; it’s an obsession, coursing through their veins. But I’ve never been able to approach it as such. For me, it’s a constant balancing act, and I’m left feeling bad when The Crimson lands on the lighter side of the scale. Often, it’s a question of time, both my schedule and fixed deadlines.

Luckily, almost ironically, in the race against the clock, time is on our side. Or history, at least. No issue miraculously writes itself and squirms through the presses; each is carefully sculpted by time-honored traditions.

Take proofing FM, for example. By the time I get my hands on a page on Tuesday night, it’s already been devoured by dozens of eyes. Hours have been poured into comp seminars to instruct the writer on how to interview sources and structure the story. After editing, a slightly improved version emerges that still has to jump the hurdles of further inspection. While writers and editors sweat through words, designers and photographers unite to make the page look appealing, obsessing over spacing and lines. By the time the story reaches my desk, always later than I’d expect, it’s just a couple of flicks of the red pen, a couple of changes, and it’s ready for press.

Wednesday I recover, or retreat to similar responsibilities for the daily, but Jannie and Elizabeth trudge forward. By the time people read the magazine on Thursday, the next issue is already underway. And the beat goes on.

The whole process hinges on institutional memory and forward thinking. New ideas and fresh perspectives flesh out and dress up the structural skeleton we’ve inherited.

Sometimes it’s tempting to rely on the bare bones rather than take the extra strides to make a story sparkle. When it comes to The Crimson, I guiltily confess to choosing function over fashion, but as my tenure winds down, I regret not taking more time to accessorize. I’m inspired by the devotion of my peers who have logged longer hours, battling unwieldy technology, cheering unhappy staffers, and not settling for lackluster ledes. All to put out a quality paper, day after day.

I’ve witnessed tool-kit-toting truancy, endless enthusiasm, deficient dancing, frustrating follies, ceaseless commitment, and witty wording. An alphabet of alliteration can’t quite spell out the experience. I’ve loved it and I’ve hated it.

It’s not black and white. But hopefully read all over.

Wendy D. Widman ’06, a news executive editor, is a chemistry concentrator in Mather House. She likes both zebras and newspapers.