The Persistence of Legacy {Women’s History}

It will surprise no one that I was a newspaper nerd in high school (it actually started in junior high). I was on newspaper staff as early as I could be, and I spent all the time I could in the journalism room, which was actually two rooms, complete with a bathroom, a darkroom (in those days we used film cameras!) and a loft.

The back room was the realm of the newspaper staff, where we had computers lining the walls and old-fashioned (even then) light tables and gluing machines for literally cutting and pasting the paper together. The front room was where the photography classes were taught and where a lot of hanging out on the part of newspaper, yearbook and photo staff people took place. It was Mrs. Akin’s room.

I never actually took a class from Mrs. Akin, but she was as much of an influence on my young life as any of my favorite teachers. She ruled her domain, letting us run wild and be teenagers and think that it was our domain but still requiring respect of her, our space, and, when she could manage, each other. A big feat when the high emotions of high school combined with the high emotions of creative people.

The journalism room was the go-to place for newspaper, yearbook and photo staff kids to hang out. We’d be in there before school started (yearbook was first period), during lunch (newspaper was right after lunch), after school and whenever else we could get away with it. I think of Mrs. Akin as the cool mom who always wanted the neighborhood kids to hang out at her place. It was a room of silliness, drama, learning and fun, a happy home that more than a few of us lacked otherwise.

And Mrs. Akin was always there. She unlocked the room in the morning, and seemed to always be sitting at her big metal desk, set diagonal in the corner of the room, behind her peace lily that managed to bloom even though it got no natural light. Behind her, a giant sheet with a tie-dyed peace sign hung.

She was a source of peace and calm, a touchstone. She taught so much more than how to take a good photo (“needs more contrast” was her mantra) or effectively disguise your identity (every year she made up a name for herself to use on photos she took, as an inside joke to those of us in the know). She taught us how to get along with people we didn’t like, to do the hard work we had to do around all the fun stuff, and, I think, how to be better people.

My junior year she wrote in my yearbook “Dear Sarah, In all our Journalism Room madness, you are that rare level-headed person who always helps us get this back in perspective. You’re a pleasure to have around. I’m looking forward to our continuing adventure.”

We took for granted that adventure would continue for a long time. I think we all imagined coming back to the journalism room, while we were in college, maybe, or perhaps years later, and seeing her still there, still sharing her wisdom and fun with the next generation of teenagers. Possibly still with faded notecards of Spanish vocabulary and her giant Murphy’s Law poster on the walls.

But that was not to be. The next spring, in May of 1996, Susan Akin died of a ruptured brain aneurism.

Memory is foggy stuff, but I remember this: I saw her briefly after school the day before she died. I’d only just come back to school after attending my grandmother’s funeral, but I didn’t go to class because I had a day-long AP test. I popped into the journalism room after, and I don’t remember who else was there, but I know she was, and we talked about my grandmother’s death. That was our last conversation.

We knew something was wrong when Mr. Teague, the newspaper teacher, came to unlock the room that morning. There’s nothing to say about a death that comes out of nowhere that isn’t cliché, but that’s probably because the cliches are all true. It was horrible, crushing, life-altering.

We got through it together, skipping class for a week, laughing too loud at stupid movies, with more tears and hugs than you would have thought possible from a bunch of jaded teenagers. And a few weeks later, we pulled together and got the yearbook out. There was a bookmark we also distributed noting her passing, and a bunch of us wore purple ribbons in her honor when we graduated.

It’s been 15 years, which seems as impossible as the idea that high school was 15 years ago. We’ve been through 15 years without those school visits, without getting to tell her what we were up to, introducing her to our kids. It still hurts like a death in the family. I know I’m not the only one who feels that way.

I also know that Mrs. Akin has influenced my life in ways she could never imagine. Because of her influence (and Mr. Teague, of course, but this is a women’s history story) and my love for my time spent in that room, I became a journalism major. Which led me to editing, which led to freelancing and all the unpredictably awesom things that have happened since. Her legacy is still here, in each of us who still share a love of words and a sense of silliness. I know I’m not the only one who feels that way, either.

 

Sarah E. White is a freelance writer, editor, blogger, wife and mom of a 2-year-old based in Fayetteville. She’s the Guide to Knitting for About.com and writes about her crafty life at Our Daily Craft .