Hearing the word "journalism" sends me back to my childhood in the 1950s.
My father was a reporter for The Washington Star newspaper in Washington, D.C. He worked long hours and was always on deadline, readying his copy to go to the Editor for publication in the evening edition of the paper, The Evening Star.
As Daddy's little girl, I idolized him and his writing ability, all the while accepting I could never be a reporter. I was a female child and so the opportunities, he explained, were limited. He didn't like it, but that was the way it was. And indeed, that was the way it was. My mother, trying to console me as mothers do, broadened my prospects by saying I could be a nurse or teacher until I married, or if I wanted to go into business, a secretary.
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