Like no other

“That’s why I hate bittersweet chocolate. I don’t even… what’s the point of that?” – Michael Scott, The Office

I’ve been both dreading and looking forward to writing this Lettitor for a good while. I’ve written and rewritten and written and rewritten time and time and time again. It’s not easy to say goodbye to something that’s been such an integral part of one’s life for such a significant period of time.

After five years at the Other Press I am finally following the parade of individuals, much more talented than myself, out the door. And not to get self-indulgent about it but this truly feels like a changing of the guard in the office. All the faces that welcomed me in 2011 (save the remarkable Jacey Gibb, now on the periphery of the paper as our distro man; and Angela Ho, our stalwart accounting wizard) have moved on. I was always the one green around the ears, regardless of age, and now I’m much closer to being considered one of those “dinosaurs” of student journalism. Whenever your name can be associated with extinct beings, it’s a good time to exit.

Inasmuch as I’d probably scream a hole through a pillow were I to find myself buckling down for another year at this newspaper, I know I’ll miss it. It’s impossible not to. The obvious effects of Stockholm syndrome aside, this place has been everything to me.

Sure, in the grand scheme of things, five years is a relative drop in the bucket, but it’s the timing of those years that has made the OP so special. Not to discount my education—I have had some marvellous teachers and classmates—but some of the most important events in my life have existed within the context, and been direct consequences, of the OP. I am certain that I am not unique.

The Other Press is so much more than a newspaper. Yes, you get practical training and build a portfolio of published work, but those points reduce it all to being just a job—and if you ask anyone at the paper that’s probably the last word most would use to describe it.

At the expense of invoking pop philosophy, the OP was the first time that I really felt like I belonged somewhere. There was a sense of community, of comfort, of support, of validation even, that I realized I had been missing.

I’ve come to meet interesting folks across the country, pick up and develop skills no class can ever teach, experience enough wacky anecdotes to fill a lifetime, and make some of the best friends a guy could ever ask for. It wasn’t what I signed up for at my first meeting, and I’m infinitely grateful for that.

Yes, everything comes to an end. And all the countless hours spent poring over Word documents covered in the red of “track changes,” emailing until you’re fairly confident you have no other job duty, and putting out the constant fires that pop up, really mean nothing to anyone other than yourself when it’s all said and done. It’s apropos, and more emotional than I’d like to admit, that my dear pal Cody Klyne, the EIC when I arrived, is sitting in as layout manager for the final issue of Volume 42. Almost no one in the current mess of OP staffers knows who he is, but I know without him and the many other treasured friends along the way, my own journey would be quite different. While future generations of the OP never remember their alumni, there is no doubt in my mind that the opposite is always far, far from the truth.

So, as I leave the paper in the capable hands of Lauren Kelly, I cannot thank everyone enough who has been along for the ride this year. The hard work that this fantastic staff put in for 31 issues is truly appreciated. Not to leave anyone out, thank you, the reader, for giving our words meaning. And now, since one cannot ever really say it too many times:

Danke danke,

Eric Wilkins