Special Section: Literary Edition

FEATURED INSIDE: GOLDEN FORK AWARDS

I went to see you the other day. There were purple flowers growing above where you lay. Not everywhere, just for you.

I said purple was always my favorite color, but it wasn’t really. Not until you said it was yours. It used to be pink.

You sang to me on my birthday and gave me a present. Two purple bracelets. I heard it, even if you weren’t there.

I used to hate the way I looked until they told me I looked exactly like you. When you left all I could do was buy a new mirror, so I could still see the look on your face, telling me you’re proud of me.

because I missed my mom. It feels just like kindergarten all over again, but you’re not here to get me off the bus and tell me that I made it through the hardest part. The hardest part is this.

I want to say goodbye to the you from before all of this, because the one that we had was not good enough.

I need to live out all your unfinished dreams, but I forget all you ever wanted was to be a mom.

You lived out your dream, but not long enough.

I don’t know what happened. We were just together, weren’t we?

I say I can’t be another day without you every single day.

You Are Here Emily Burditt Purple Flowers Emma Reilly

I thought I could take care of you, just by being there like you always were. At least now I know I can look up and be there with you, whenever I go outside.

I cried on my first day of kindergarten,

I don’t know what tomorrow will be like. Maybe you’ll find your way back somehow.

I don’t know how this ends. Can’t you just call me and help me understand?

I promise I’ll pick up.

Life is tough

My muscles ache, and there’s never enough time to finish my laundry

Yet I’m never unaware of its looming feeling of purpose

The world slotting into place

I hear it every day when I walk home

Dead earbuds in my pocket

Listening to dry leaves skid on the pavement

And for a brief moment

Before the wind whips my sunglasses off my head and onto my nose

The world crashes together

And the symphony of city sounds makes me lose my breath

It’s inescapable, the feeling of peace I have

This is all meant to happen

Untouched plates Kaleigh Hunt

“I love when people I don’t like anymore get fat and ugly,” a friend says at dinner, scrolling past photos of beautiful, size 2 girls.

I notice my half-eaten plate and the way my stomach has been spilling over my jeans while I’ve been sitting, my heart sinks.

I wonder if she, too, has noticed this.

If she’s noticed the areas that can’t be sucked in even if I tried (and I have.)

The disgust in her voice as she said that replays in my head as she asks me,

“Are you going to finish your food?”

“No, I’m full.”

To Gampy & Brad xoxo

CONTACT

Hannah Stanley, editor-in-chief

editor@kykernel.com

Abbey Cutrer, managing & photo editor

managinged@kykernel.com

photo@kykernel.com

Gray Greenwell, copy & features editor

features@kykernel.com

Casey Sebastiano, news editor

news@kykernel.com

Reaghan Chen, opinions editor

opinions@kykernel.com

Cole Parke, sports editor

sports@kykernel.com

Samantha Money, assistant sports editor

Ali Cetinok, assistant sports editor

Akhila Nadimpalli, designer

Gracie Moore, digital editor gmoore@kykernel.com

Kaci McCarthy, social media & newsletter manager

Giana Gallo, broadcast & podcast manager

Bryce Towle, TikTok manager

KENTUCKY KERNEL

photo by Abbey Cutrer

art by Bethany Abebe

Funeral Song Sawyer Mustopoh

i’m singing & your can’t hear it i’ll say it again with scraped knees holding each other horizontally heaving— your head on my chest, listening to it until it doesn’t

you talk, i listen.

i laugh at life & silly positions till everything is rust & blood & what’s left when you finish grieving

The Sword By R.M.

There are three key items every knight needs. These items are essential, not only to the knight’s reputation but to his success as well. First he will need a squire, a youth who serves both as servant and charge. The knight teaches the squire everything he needs to know about knighthood, and in return the squire teaches the knight responsibility.

Next he will need a horse. A good mount can be the difference between life and death. Chargers, impressive warhorses bred for their size and unshakable character, are optimal. Finally, and perhaps most important, he will need a sword. A sword is an extension of the knight, the only thing that stands between him and his enemy. Every good knight must have an equally good sword.

Those teachings had been carved into Elwyn’s mind since she’d been young. Sir Avel, the knight who had taken her as his squire, had drilled them into her from the moment she’d entered his service. He himself had never strayed from them. Sir Avel had ridden a powerful dappled charger named Moondancer, and his sword had been the legendary blade Protector. Elwyn had only held the sword once; the handle had been hot to the touch and the weapon seemed to whisper to her. Upon seeing her enchanted look Sir Avel had eased it from her grasp. He answered none of her questions about the sword’s strangeness.

Elwyn herself had used the same sword from squirehood to the day she was knighted. A typical unassuming weapon undeserving of a name, it had served her faithfully for many years. Dragonfire had taken it from her, turning the metal into a molten silver pool. Dragonfire had also taken Sir Avel.

“I have heard your work is the best in the land.” Elwyn had learned to pitch her voice low and speak softly so as not to reveal the true nature of her identity. Even now, standing in a blistering forge where the roar of a fire nearly drowned out her words, she kept her voice quiet. The woman to whom she was speak-

ing stood across from her, muscular arms crossed, her dark skin tinted red by the fire. Elwyn had been searching for this blacksmith for weeks. Those she had spoken with had warned her that her quest was a waste of time. They had called the blacksmith aloof and unfriendly. Indeed she radiated a standoffish energy that was nearly as intense as the heat. Her tense body language and dark glare would certainly drive off someone with less nerve.

Unfortunately for her, Elwn had nerves of steel. When the other didn’t deign to respond Elwyn continued.

“I am looking to have a sword made.” She was beginning to sweat under her armor. The dampness growing at the nape of her neck threatened to trickle down her back any second. The blacksmith was more adequately dressed in a sleeveless shirt and baggy pants stained with soot, her hair held back in many braids. Compared to Elwyn in her polished armor, she looked dull.

In fact, the entire workshop looked dull. The great forge supplied heat and streaks of warm color but the rest of the room was stained and mute. Old wooden workbenches were shoved against the walls. A myriad of tools hung from the walls by hooks and on makeshift shelves. A battered anvil and a large cooling tub stood shunted to the side. Despite the fact that the room itself was open to the outside it felt stuffy, shut off from the rest of the world. Any outside air drifting in from the wide entrance was smothered seconds upon entry. The blacksmith finally spoke. “I’m not for hire.” Her voice was hoarse and deep. “No amount of flattery will change my mind. Find someone else.” Her brown eyes met Elwyn’s flatley from beneath lowered brows.

“I offer you no flattery,” Elwyn replied evenly. “Just a job and coin.” A memory rose to mind, one of her late master. It had been he who had first spoken of the blacksmith, for it was she who had forged Protector. She is abrasive but she is talented, his words

echoed in her head. Patience is a virtue. “I first heard of your skill from a knight named Sir Avel Heyeram. You made him the famous blade Protector when you were still an apprentice of the forge.”

She caught a flicker of recognition in the blacksmith’s eyes. “He carried that sword until the day he died,” Elwyn said. Grief tugged at her heart at the mention of his death. After months of tracking, Sir Avel and Elwyn had finally cornered the Great Terror Behemex, a dragon that had been tormenting the southern regions of Vathin. Sir Avel had used Protector to deal the creature a fatal blow, but it had cost him his life.

The blacksmith studied the knight closely now. There was something strange about him. He was tall, slender, narrow in the shoulder where most knights were broad. His face was sharp, with high cheekbones, piercing eyes, and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. His red-gold hair was long and bound. He had ridden up to her home on a massive red roan stallion with no squire in sight. He introduced himself as Sir Elwyn Thevareon, and when he spoke his voice was low and subdued.

The blacksmith hadn’t taken a commission in months. It wasn’t like she needed the coin; those she did decide to work for always paid her handsomely. Her extreme distaste for human interaction led her to turn would-be clients. Elwyn’s fate lay entirely in her crafty hands. “I’ll do it.”

She led Elwyn through a door that led to the inner part of the workshop. The smaller room was stuffed with large chunks of wood, blocks of precious metals, and jars of glittering jewels. From those piles Elwyn picked the materials for her sword and stood by silently while the blacksmith began drafting designs. She estimated it would take a month to complete her month and promised Elwyn she would send word as soon as it was done. The knight left just as the sky was beginning to darken, her heart and her purse much lighter.

A month later, Elwyn’s Master of

House brought her an ash stained letter sealed with dark blue wax. She set out from her home immediately, this time accompanied by her young squire, Harin. They rode hard, stopping only when they or their mounts needed rest, and reached the blacksmith’s dwelling in less than a fortnight. The blacksmith herself was nowhere to be seen when they arrived, but outside the entrance to the forge sat a scabbard upon the stump of a tree. Elwyn wasted no time in drawing her new blade. The hiss of metal on metal was like music to her ears as she pulled the sword free. The hilt, made of a deep copper metal etched with golden flames, fit perfectly in her hands. The blade was made of a darker metal, whorls of amber and ochre swirling deep within its red depths. The last rays of the setting sun caught its deadly edge and for a split second the sword looked as if it were wreathed in flames. It was perfect.

She returned the weapon back to its scabbard and attached it to her sword belt. The weight at her hip was already familiar. She felt complete.

“What will you name it, Sir Thevareon?” Harin’s voice was eager, his bright blue eyes large from the swords magnificence,

She considered his words, resting her hand upon the hilt gently. “A name will come when the time is right. We need only wait.”

In the end it wasn’t Elwnyn who named the blade, but the people of Vathin. They told stories of the stoic Sir Elwyn Thevareon, Knight of Flames, who rode the roan stallion Foxchaser and brandished a sword made of fire. When she slew the Dread Demon, an evil that had tormented the land and its people for centuries, people claimed that she’d plunged the blade into the dragon’s heart and it had emerged bathed in a mystical fire. Thus the sword was named Dragonfire, and along with Sir Elwyn blazed a path of glory the likes of which history would never forget.

Pharoah's Dance Chase Myers

I’m writing chicken scratch again about people who don’t exist and concepts

I have no idea about.

Miles Davis is playing in the other room.

Vinyl bought on a whim like a kid holding some dead branch because they can.

And it sounds like the red sea. Like...yes, these timid melodies are awakening from exile, yet, just as suddenly, great waves, some cacophony of sound, engulf the whole thing like Egyptian armor bashed against sea rocks in a god storm.

Yes, Pharaoh’s Dance. One where awkward limbs are sprouting to the ceiling and neither party has enough liquor in them to do this without some shame pricetagged onto it.

The rooms really sweating now!

The man keeps glancing at the band because surely, they’re joking.

“And are they on coke?

I mean, so am I, but really! How unprofessional!”

And he’s focusing his footwork but it’s all stumbling.

And the girl is real focused and just noticed the

bari sax took off like its throwing chewing tobacco at the wall to see what sticks.

“Berry? Barry?

God, I’m like a butterknife...

Ugh! You’ve lost it again!

Don’t invite thinking to a table of jazz, sex, and money.

Focus, now!”

Left, left, left!

Scuff!

Left?

Right?

Right, right!

Scuff!

Oh, now you’ve done it!

Heel marks on his Vuitton paints an ugly picture.

“Ugh, I can’t dance to this!”, you say, but the band is outside of time so you’ll never reach them.

Every instrument at a train station hailing for cabs and forging passports in Amtrack queues.

The destination is no better.

The trumpets are screaming at Wall Street because they’re all terrible gamblers. The bass is arguing over Manhattan cocktails with some forgotten German philosophers who’s book jackets are warm with dust.

The saxophone can’t read the room and is crying drunk like, “a solo is a solo so let me at ‘em!”

And the guitar wasn’t invited but is too embarrassed to see himself out, so he makes polite conversation with the doorman. All while the drum looks on with a joint half-askew in the maw with a steady foot. And all the while the dancers throw awkward box steps at each other like hot jabs! And smiles fil the whole room because they were listed on the dress code,

and laughing a formality, and no one can dance, and the dancers will die, and the band will never die, and no one questions anything anymore, and can a thruple dance?

And what makes you better?

And where are the shots I ordered?

And oh! I’m no good in public, and I just need a minute, and where’s a coatrack?

And let’s never talk about sex, and yes, he’s doing well, and it’s all just cracked oysters, and it’s all just heavy drinking, and smiling, and dancing, and dancing, and laughing all while you try to catch the Pharaoh’s Dance.

But it’s outside of time. And you’re out of step.

And the dance floor chokes with silence, for no one dares admit they don’t understand the Pharaoh’s Dance.

photo by Lia Royer

MOST LIKELY TO GHOST YOU: SOPHIA ROSING

Still to this day, it is unsaid how this yearly tradition of a “Golden Fork” came about, but from our understanding, it looked a little something like an angered editor vowing for revenge against this almighty university. Whether that is true or not, your guess is as good as ours.

In reality, though, the Kentucky Kernel’s concept of the superlative evolved from the April 28, 1989 edition of the

KERNEL’S NO. 1 FAN: UK SPOKESPERSON JAY BLANTON

Golden Forks awards and is now a end of the year favorite for Kernel staffers.

As college students, we have plenty to complain about, so we figured why not take the opportunity to leave the year on one last hurrah. That being said, take a seat, enjoy our tongue and cheek — and for legality reasons, our entirely satirical — writing, and have one last laugh with the graduating 2024 class.

From the moment you took the reins as the Kernel’s editor-in-chief in 1989, it was inevitable that you’d become one of our paper’s biggest supporters. Since then, it’s like you never left. As of this year, we’d like to deem you an honorary member of our newsroom — or better yet, our No. 1 fan. Yes, you may be the university’s spokesperson and answer to President Eli Capilouto, but after being at our beck and call 24/7, you sure do deserve the honor. We can’t thank you enough for answering our endless texts, calls and emails no matter day or night. In return, we’d like to recognize you for the overtime work here at the Kernel. We hope you enjoyed your visit to our Blazer Dining basement, and know that our doors are always open for you.

Don’t lie, we all use dating apps. There’s no shame in logging on to actually find a date rather than stalk your dining hall crush. For crying out loud, we use our phones for everything else. However, if you are trying to find “the one,” there is one girl we must warn you about. If you come across Sophia Rosing, a blonde, 23-year-old girl whose bio says her stance on drinking is “YES,” and her current education status says “banned,” don't even bother swiping right. While you may match, you will not get a DM, let alone a first date. Rosing’s sta -

BIGGEST DILF: GOV. ANDY BESHEAR

Many a politician can find his or her way onto our TVs and into our headlines, but none can do so as gracefully as Kentucky’s own Gov. Andy Beshear. The impassioned incumbent won not only his bid for re-election this past November but also our hearts, making our cheeks turn red and our hormones run rampant as he fought to secure a better future for his lovesick supporters in the commonwealth. Not a believer? One look into Beshear’s

tus hearing has most recently been postponed to June 7 after being postponed multiple times since its original date of May 26, 2023. But hey, if you want to spend a year rescheduling an Italian dinner and a movie, by all means, swipe right.

twinkling, media-trained eyes and you, too, will fall head over heels for this family man and boy scout.

BEST ENEMY-TO-LOVER: CAMPUS CONSTRUCTION

Now, hear us out. We know we haven’t always been kind to our campus construction workers (and we’ll keep the stories coming), but who could blame us? Have University of Kentucky students, staff and faculty ever known peace? At this point, construction is to UK as peanut butter is to jelly. But while we wait for a day when this campus can rest, free from excavators and contractors, there’s one project underway that all of us over here at the Kernel can’t help but be gung ho about. That’s right, we’re getting Pence Hall — complete with an au courant newsroom, whitebox studio, writing lab, podcasting studio and editors’ offices. Suck it, Blazer Dining roaches. It’s just a shame we’ll all be ash before we get to see it.

HOTTEST STUDENT ON CAMPUS: CHELLGREN HALL

Looking for a hot date? Boy, have we got the perfect “match” for you! Consider hitting up the Chellgren Hall resident who intentionally set two separate fires in the central campus dorm building this past January. This spontaneous student is sure to heat up your love life, as they enjoy throwing housewarming parties and the element of surprise. Don’t get too attached, though — this love’s raging inferno can keep you warm, but it may end up setting you ablaze. Taylor Swift wasn’t wrong when she said “So it’s gonna be forever, or it’s gonna go down in flames.”

POSTSEASON CHAMPION: KYRA ELZY

While Kentucky women’s basketball has had a handful of underwhelming seasons since the hire of now ex-Kentucky coach Kyra Elzy, it’s safe to say she could always be counted on to see some wins in March. The same cannot be said for fellow ex-Kentucky coach John Caliapri. Since Elzy was hired in 2020, the coach racked up nine postseason wins, including one NCAA Tournament game win and one SEC Championship. Also since 2020, Calipari added up to just two postseason wins, including one first round NCAA Tournament win. It’s safe to say Elzy lapped the hall of famer in this race.

BEST SLED: STARSHIP ROBOTS

As the first snowflakes of the year dusted the bowl in front of Willy T., campus came alive. Amidst this flurry of excitement, students seized multiple novel modes of transportation, including shopping carts, caution signs and even park benches. This is nothing new. What’s new is the poor Starship delivery robots being used and abused, toppling down the bowl. Day after day they serve us, delivering meals to the laziest on campus, getting food right to your doors thus sparing you a five-minute walk, and this is how they get treated? What did these poor robots ever do to you?

MOST LIKELY TO WOO A PIG: JOHN CALIPARI

Following Kentucky’s shocking first round NCAA Tournament loss versus Oakland, many fans called for Kentucky men’s basketball head coach John Calipari to be fired. That wasn’t going to happen, athletic director Mitch Barnhart made clear, hosting Calipari on television to discuss and confirm that “Cal” wasn’t going anywhere … or so he thought. See, behind his loyal partner’s back, Mr. Calipari had found himself something more exciting in his mind. Something that swept him off his feet. And thus began his quest to woo a pig. Or something like that. Long story short, Cal fell in love with chicken money and arguably one of the most forgettable states in the U.S. and sought divorce from Barnhart so he could move to the one and only Fayetteville, Arkansas. When will the new wedding be? Will there be a wedding at all? Is this just a fun honeymoon phase for the new couple? Nobody knows.

MOST USELESS KERNEL INTERN: BURTON THE DOG

Just kidding, we love you buddy. Each week, the Kernel gets a lovely visit from broadcast reporter Gabriella Mercedes and her 4 Paws foster dog, Bur ton. As he rushes in to make his rounds with a smile on his face, we usually can’t tell who’s more excited who (in all fairness, we’re usually more excited to see him). Down in our windowless basement office, time stands still and days can get real dreary. But Burton’s the perfect pickme-up. He may not be able to write an inverted pyramid news story or record a postgame standup, but he’s our honorary mascot and might as well be the entire newsroom’s emotional support animal.

photo by Hannah Stanley photo by Kaci McCarthy

From a dream to reality and now a farewell: Letter from the editor-in-chief

By Hannah Stanley editor@kykernel.com

Out of all the stories I’ve ever written for the Kernel, this has been the most challenging.

It’s not hard to thank everyone who’s helped me along the way and given me more memories than I’ll ever be able to remember, but saying goodbye to a place that was home for four years is nearly impossible.

Little Hannah — who was Zooming in for a staff reporter position her freshman year — would have never predicted she would be running the show a mere three years later.

Well, grown-up Hannah can’t believe it either.

From the endless late nights in the office, and I mean LATE nights, to countless round trips and conferences, there isn’t a single moment I won't be thankful for. Sure, I could have done without the amount of years and sleep taken off from my life, but all of these brought me just another wrinkle to remind me of the love I have for the chaos of journalism.

“ The blood, sweat and tears — I can confidently say all happened repeatedly over the past four years — were worth it.”

The blood, sweat and tears — I can confidently say all happened repeatedly over the past four years — were worth it.

If you ask me that right now, though, I will deny that claim. Don’t be fooled, however, I do love the Kernel with my whole heart and am eternally grateful for fulfilling my fifth grade dreams of becoming a writer.

It does seem that I knew myself a bit better back then than I thought, but gosh I sure hope I exceeded my young self’s expectations, you know, by being

a multinational award winning journalist and all — oh, and I can’t forget the growing success our newsroom has had in the last year.

Let’s see some of those statistics, shall we?

As of April 2024, the Kernel has over 42,000 followers across four social media platforms, over 110 local and national awards, including a Multiplatform Pacemaker, multiple individual Pacemaker recipients, as well as multiple Pacemaker and Pinnacle finalists and a newsroom of over 100 talented student journalists.

Today, I can look in the mirror and tell the same dweeby, 11-year-old bookworm that we made it, and anything really is possible.

We went through damn near hell and back, and we still came out smiling and stronger than ever. There is no telling how successful this newsroom will be, but with all the might, I know we are only just beginning to showcase our endless talent.

From switching to a special sections media outlet to implementing an entire digital team, we are leading the convergence of online and print storytelling for all those who follow in our footsteps.

There is not an ounce of my body that I believe I could have done all of this alone, and with that said, I believe I owe a few thank yous.

First, to my family, especially my parents and younger sister Grace. I know I haven’t always made things easy, let alone given you all my full attention in the way I have with this newsroom, but you’ve supported me through the journey of college journalism. To Grace alone, thank you for always having my back, being the best little sister I could have ever asked for and learning why the Kernel has been so important to me.

Now, to my second dad, best friend, advisor and biggest supporter both inside and outside the newsroom, Ryan Craig. I owe you more thank yous than I will ever be able to repay. You are truly the reason I was able to get through every day the last four years. You have believed in me at times when I couldn’t myself, treated me like your very own daughter and the driving force behind every success story I have. And to that, I will forever look up to you and hope one day I can do the very same for someone else.

Although this next one isn’t a direct Kernel member, I’d like to believe him to be an honorary Kernelite — Andrew Harvey. For those of you who don’t know, Andrew has been my rock-of-all-rocks the last year and a half. Yes, he is my boyfriend, but by all means, no label will give him the credit he deserves. It feels like just yesterday he was letting me sleepover after 2 a.m. Wednesday production nights when he had to be up at 7 a.m. the next morning — gosh, how the time has gone by. Now, even though we’ve shifted from the late nights (or as best as possible), you’ve put up with the second love of my life that is journalism. You’ve exuded patience that I didn’t even know existed, supported me through the toughest of times and provided me with so much love and care that I could live a lifetime off of. While the future remains untold for my journalism career, I know ours is set for a lifetime of love and endless laughs by each other's sides.

Continued on page 13

PHOTO BY MATTHEW MUELLER

Continued from page 12

Speaking of laughs, who could forget my best friend, Ella Zombolo. Oh, where do I even begin? If you said freshman year, the two of us would be best friends, I would have laughed so hard in your face. Safe to say, I’ve gotten to share my laughs with you for the last four years, and fortunately, a few miles down the road back home. Not sure how we got so lucky, but I hope you know that after all our crazy college stories, our much needed glow up and inseparable friendship, you’ve carried me through the stress of school and newspaper somehow, someway, and I love you so much for it.

The once former editor-in-chief but current UK Spokesperson Jay Blanton — an ironic thank you

to some, but undoubtedly needed — I must express my gratitude to you and all your help to not just me but the Kernel as well. Our endless banter about all things UK has taught me to understand things far beyond just journalism and how much of a prominent role you play at the university. While my time as editor-in-chief may be coming to an end, I’d like to think our work friendship is still just beginning.

Lastly, a few extra thank yous to some very special members — Bryce McNeil, for coming in guns blazing to a new newsroom and sharing your time with our Kernel family just as much as your own, and David Stephenson, for providing me with the opportunity to learn about all things photo and even get my hands on a camera at Picture Kentucky.

The one and only Rayleigh Deaton, for being an amazing former editor-in-chief to follow, Gray Greenwell, who gave his whole being to this newsroom and became one of my closest friends, Abbey Cutrer, who will be leading the newsroom next, best of my luck my dear, it’s no easy task, but it’s an incredibly rewarding one. Cole Parke, for quite literally building a sports entity in our newsroom and never ceasing to amaze me, and Giana Gallo, who I’ve gotten to know in such short time but has shown more success and dedication than any new member I know and has yet to even touch the tip of her potential.

Now in just some time, I’ll be walking across the stage in a blue gown and Kernel stoll that thanks to everyone in my four years at the Kernel, I will be wearing ever so proudly in the success that we’ve shared.

a bittersweet goodbye

Hannah Stanley

I still wonder why I came back when I was nothing but attacked being dragged into my worsts with such little remorse

you laughed in my face without an ounce of grace treated me as I had no worth while you set on forth

I did everything you would ask even at the point of collapse craving for your attention and not even given a mention

Now you’re just a name and somebody to blame

for the hate you put into my body was simply for a nobody

I’m so glad to see you gone as you were just a pawn in this long game for which you had no shame

I am no longer chained to that shall not be named and it is with great pleasure that I’ve found my one true treasure

It was a love worth fighting for as my feet are back on the floor now a place to call home to which I’ve quickly outgrown

No longer something to forget and leave with regret but something to hold dear as everything is now clear

It was never about you or what you put me through but to prove I could do it and to never submit

I can now walk away proud after all things endowed and with a teary eye you’ll always be a bittersweet goodbye

Learning how to jump without looking down: Words from a graduating editor

By Gray Greenwell features@kykernel.com

There’s an image of myself from my freshman year of college that’s remained plastered to the folds of my brain since.

In it, I sit with my parents on the bed in my newly-decorated dorm room as we wipe sweat from our foreheads and admire our handiwork of perfectly hung band posters and T-shirts folded neatly in drawers.

I’m dead silent, because the only word left to say is goodbye. And yes, I was unashamedly one of those freshmen who didn’t want to leave their parents.

They waited with bated breath for me to give them the go-ahead to depart, but I felt like I was on the edge of a cliff, my eyes trained to the bottomless pit below while I should have been focusing on pulling off an Evil Knievel-style jump to the other side and sticking the landing. As fine of a student as I was, I wasn’t sure I had what it took to start this new journey.

Despite my overwhelming nerves, I would eventually hug my parents and say goodbye, but the next four years of my life would be chock-full of cliffside moments just like that.

I’ve never been a particularly confident person, and the reasons for which should probably be saved for a therapist, but let me tell you — college without confidence is hard as hell.

And if you’ve ever seen me trip up a flight of stairs in White Hall or heard my innumerable self-deprecating jokes, you know I may just be the most qualified person to make that claim.

Even so, I knew that I couldn’t spend all of my years here marred by the same distrust in my own capabilities I had in my life prior.

Looking to prove myself and learn a thing or two, I did what any journalism major should do and dipped my toes into our student-ran publications.

I proudly told everyone that I wanted to work for Rolling Stone one day (naive, but I miss this Gray’s optimism), and I put all the effort I could into my journalism courses, absorbing a wealth of knowledge from my brilliant professors so that I could excel in the newsroom.

However, just as hard without confidence as college is student journalism, it turns out.

I approached a familiar cliffside when I entered our

offices. I constantly asked myself, “Am I a good writer and editor? Do I have anything important to say? Does everyone around me think I’m a bumbling idiot?”

Being surrounded by talented and intelligent people when you’re still trying to determine whether or not you are talented and intelligent yourself is a war I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

But let me give you a piece of advice that I so desperately needed as I began my career: stop giving a shit about what everyone else is doing and just, you guessed it, jump.

I did just that, starting to write wordy reviews of the music I loved and features about the people and places from the city I now called home. I took on my first of many editorial positions early, but I was riding a high that others were taking note of.

Anytime we printed a newspaper or magazine, I rushed it home to my family to show off, not unlike a cat flaunting a dead mouse to its owner. The foreign feeling of genuine pride in myself anytime relatives saw my bylines in print or complimented what our media outlet was

doing meant the absolute world to me.

I forfeited my sanity to copy edit stories at parties, behind the wheel (not proud of that) and on the sides of roads (when I realized that editing while driving is a bad idea). I spent many late nights meticulously combing through newspapers and 100-page magazines.

“The foreign feeling of genuine pride in myself anytime relatives saw my bylines in print or complimented what our media outlet was doing meant the absolute world to me.”

And while the work might have seemed unfathomable (at times, it was), it was never dreadful. My brave jumps landed me among peers who made things much easier, not only viewing me as a valuable contributor but also a friend. I decorated a desk but more often found myself sitting among them at a shared table.

To be seen like this did wonders for that scanty confidence I started with. For the first time in my life, I could tell others without hesitation that I was good at what I did and, in turn, accept their praise.

Make no mistake — I still trip up every flight of stairs, but now I do so with a smile on my face. And I’m no stranger to jokes, but lately they haven’t been at the expense of myself. A lot of that is probably just growing up, but I believe I have this newsroom to thank for the rest.

I have a lot of people to thank, actually.

To my parents, who’ve given me the entire world and never once doubted what I’d do with it. I hope that I’ve made you proud, because I’m really, really tired.

To Hannah, you leave behind a legacy not quite like any other. They’ll have to pry print out of my cold, dead hands, but the path you laid out for the future of our media outlet is paramount. Thank you for being both a fearless leader and a wonderful friend. You are the fiercest Chicagoan I know.

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To Abbey, my sun and my stars. This paper will thrive in your more than capable, uber-passionate hands.

To Gracie, the best co-host of our three-episode podcast, to Akhila, my favorite pop-timist and designer, to Kristen, the finest features desk heiress I could ask for, and to Alexis, Jack, Reaghan, Kaci, Casey, Giana, “Little Bryce,” Nate, Natalia, Lilly, Adah, Matthew, Zaida, Liberty, Ava, Delaney, Courtney, Quézia, Peyton and so, so many more talented people — thank you all.

To Cole, Sam and Ali, I may not be a big sports fan, but I am a Cole, Sam and Ali fan. So many of my favorite moments in the office include the three of you. I couldn’t be more grateful for your humor, your passion and your heart.

To Rayleigh, if I had a dollar for every time I asked myself “What would Rayleigh do?” I’d have enough to buy a plane ticket to London and visit you. The kindness you showed me in an otherwise bleak semester continues to stick with me.

To my magazine girls from across the publication pond — Rana, Olivia, Emma, Laurel, Carlee, Sydney, Lily, Mal and the rest of you fashionable people — thank you for your patience and some of the most fun I’ve ever

had in a work setting.

To my inimitable friend Ryan, whose booming voice and boisterous presence once sent chills down my spine (and, admittedly, still does on occasion), thank you for your airtight advice, which I will always take, and for taking care of me when my kin couldn’t. If being my hardest goodbye was an olympic sport, you’d be going for gold.

To David, your insight has never gone unappreciated. For you, I will always put aside my deep-seated, nail-biting fear of pigeons.

To “Big Bryce,” who never let me breathe for loving The Smiths. Frankly, Mr. Shankly, I’m so glad you found your way to Kernel Media. We’re incredibly lucky to have you.

To my friends outside of our roach-infested basement, thank you for listening to my rants, even when it was so obvious you were tired of hearing about the pitfalls of student journalism.

To William T. Young Library, I’m sorry you were mad about my study spots story. I’m not, however, sorry that I said you weren’t “all that.”

To the University of Kentucky, if the Kernel’s showed me anything, it’s that you are a hot mess wrapped in so

much royal blue. But thank you for four bewildering, radical years. You’ve taught me things about myself that I never thought I’d learn.

To Kernel Media, thank you for literally everything. I will haunt you forever — in all the best ways possible, of course.

Wherever I go next, I’ll think of every production night, every story I edited, every AP Stylebook entry and every friendly face that crossed my path during my invaluable years here.

I’ll think of people like Emma Reilly, who may just be the strongest and smartest person I’ve ever met.

I’ll think of our news editor, Casey Sebastiano, who I sat in my lap on a computer every Monday this semester so she could meet with her reporters on Zoom as she studied and worked from Philadelphia with absolutely no complaints.

I’ll think of this dirty, smelly office and how I somehow found my way in here every day.

I’ll miss its flickering can lights, fridge of expired food, thick air, tchotchkes, boxes of newspapers and magazines, and — most importantly — all of its inhabitants who, like me, found it to be a pretty okay place to land after that initial Evil Knievel jump.

PHOTOS BY MATTHEW MUELLER

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