Sophia Brockmeier: Harbinger taught me that I didn’t have to quit one passion to pursue another

Dear Harbinger,

Here’s a little recap of my high school relationships: married at 11 years young, divorced by 16 and remarried at 17. 

And who was the lucky groom? None other than Mr. Clarinet, the dashing flute and charming oboe — a.k.a. music. 

I’ve had quite the love life. And yes, I know it might not sound like a Hollywood romance to you, but to me, it was unforgettable.  

In fifth grade, I said “I do” (rented a beginner clarinet from the school), and by sophomore year, I filed the divorce papers (dropped band). The reason for this messy breakup? None other than a 32-page homewrecker that kept me up constantly — The Harbinger.

We didn’t take it slow. 

After savoring every moment of the infamous Intro to News Media class (sorry, not sorry), I launched myself into Adobe InDesign, Google Docs drafts and meticulously crafted highlights pages. Quickly, I tried to patch up the music note-shaped hole in my heart with the Harbinger’s deadline dinners and late-night snack runs. But something was missing from my writing. It was flat.

Then, in my darkest time with The Harbinger — a junior-year week full of three AP tests, an ACT, my birthday and a 1,400-word story — I discovered something: writing, and Harbinger, are musical.

Our student teacher at the time, Bill Bell, taught me that good journalists don’t look at their article as a vomit of words on a page but as sounds, rhythm and melodies all working together to shape a story.

And that’s when my words started to sing.

The flow of my articles changed when I learned to write as John Williams conducts.

Short. Phrases. Are. Powerful.

But long sentences can be poetic and can flow as they flesh out a story. 

Just like that, I remarried music, but this time as a “jerd” — a self-proclaimed abbreviation for a journalism nerd.

And my year as a head print editor, along with Libby, has been nothing short of a symphony as we’ve learned to orchestrate an ensemble of 77 budding journalists. 

I harnessed each staccato (getting canceled by a group of 30 angry, teenage boys in the fall) and major chord (Tate finally called a spread I wrote “solid” in the spring).

With 16 choruses (each issue of The Harbinger) and a steady rhythm (support from the best editor team a journalist could ask for), we made it through the publicity crises, lack of a printer and 5 a.m. deadlines.

So thank you, Harbinger, for showing me that I didn’t have to give up on one passion in pursuit of another.

Love,

Sophia