Prayer of thanks to the journalism room. My haven. My sanctuary between early morning seminary and the first bell.
Prayer of thanks to the journalism room. For the red lights amidst darkness that hid tears of break-ups and hurt feelings. For the scent of developer that overpowered any indication of nervous pheromones.
Prayer of thanks for Mr. Moore, who whispered when he “had enough” of rowdy boys who played air guitar. Who whispered when lessons had to be repeated, and when students arrived late. Who whispered anytime anybody else would have lost his shit.
Prayer of thanks for the one day I heard him raise his voice in response to hearing me say, “I hate my father.” A statement to which he refused to stay silent.
Prayer of thanks to the journalism room and its lifeline. When cell phones weren’t yet imagined and private calls were hard to carry-on at home.
Prayer of thanks to the journalism room. For the color darkroom—where forbidden kisses were at times given freely, and other times stolen.