I was mad. I was on the verge of bursting into tears. I felt desperate. I kept asking myself, “Why don’t they give me admission? Who else is more of a journalist than me? What the fuck is going on with the journalism school at the U.W?” referring to The University of Washington in Seattle.
It was a rainy summer in 2002, before Seattle was hit hard by the chaotic climate change.
I was alone in my 1-bedroom apartment. I kept talking to myself with a big lump in my throat. I couldn’t swallow the lump, neither could I cry it out. I was consumed with maddening anger
I checked the little box of ‘student of color’ every time I filed my application and paid the fee. “I’m sure they hate my Iranian background,” I said to Marian Siami, one of my close friends. “And, why do I need to check the ‘Muslim’ box under religion? I am sure they also hate that I am Muslim.”
“Why don’t you go and talk to them in person?” Mariam suggested.
I had already submitted my application for UW’s undergraduate journalism studies five times. Each time, I had to write a new damn statement of purpose. Each time I had to come up with new ideas for ‘Why I want to be a journalist in the U.S.’ and ‘What I bring to the school.
I was on the verge of bursting into tears. I kept asking myself, “Why don’t they give me admission? Who else is more of a journalist than me?
“Show me what you’ve written,” Mariam said once.
A revolution followed by a bloody war between two powerful Muslim nations in the Middle East marked my childhood and teenage years growing up in Iran. The situation intensified when Iran entered the social revolution in 1982. At the age of nine, I was forced to cover my hair, required to put on dark, baggy robes to hide my non-existent girly curves, and prohibited from sitting in the same classroom with boys.
…
Five years later, while a sophomore at Azad University majoring in business and economics, I was introduced to Mr. Mousavian who would become my first editor at the Hamshahri Newspaper. A few years into this job, I was asked to cover issues related to women’s rights under the Islamic Shariah Laws., Eventually I co-directed a documentary for a national TV channel featuring women’s struggles in the courtroom, the workplace, and in marriage. I soon, found myself part of a significant movement for women’s rights in Iran. By 1998, I had already won eight prestigious journalism awards.
“It is ridiculous that they haven’t given you admission,” Mariam said, with the statement you’ve written … they are so fucked up for not admitting you. Or, maybe because of your background and because you are an immigrant they overlook your application.” She continued. “You definitely need to talk to the head of the Journalism school. First, find out who she or he is. Send an email, make an appointment, and go see him, her, whoever the fuck it is,” she said.
UW Journalism school
I was lucky that the UW journalism school, or J-school as students called it, accepted applications every quarter during the early 2000s. I found out that Mike Henderson reviewed and decided on all the applications submitted to the program. I made an appointment to meet with him.
I met Amy Porter, a senior student at the J-School, when I took my new statement of purpose to the writing center to edit. Porter hated Henderson.
“He is an asshole. I never learned anything in his class. The problem is that he teaches all three main courses of news writing at the J-school. He acts like an editor rather than an instructor. When in the class, he thinks he is the Seattle Weekly. I’m not sure about his position there. I’ve heard he is one of the junior editors at the weekly. And that’s exactly what he does, editing. I don’t know why they don’t get rid of him. There are lots of bad reviews about him,” she said.
“You definitely need to talk to the head of the UW Journalism school. Send an email, make an appointment, and go see him, her, whoever the fuck it is,” she said.
I revised my statement of purpose, added a few more details, and got myself ready to go to the campus.
The evergreen U.W. campus is surrounded by large ancient trees. I could hear the chirping of nightingale, rubies, and other birds when I walked down the path toward the journalism building.
The meeting
I got there early. I was so nervous. I had been in this country for less than three years. My English wasn’t as good as I wanted it to be.
My heart was pumping too hard when I got into Henderson’s office. “Hello,” I knocked at his office door and gently opened it. “This is Sara Jamshidi. In our email exchange, you said that we meet here at 1:30 today,” I said, looking at the 50-something white man on the other side of a large desk.
“Oh, yes yes Ms. Jamshidi,” he said, and after a quick pause, “Sara, yes., Please come in and take a seat,” he motioned toward a chair on the other side of the desk. I sat down. “What can I do for you,” he said slowly while rubbing his hands gently with no smile or a gesture of friendliness.
“Oh my God, Sara, I think there has been a mistake here. You are accepted into the program right now.”
“I have applied to the journalism program more than five times. I wonder if you ever get to read my statement of purpose or look at my resume,” I said. “I took the trouble to come meet with you and hand you over my application myself,” I was saying when I pulled the statement of purpose from a large yellow envelope. I handed it over.
He took the paper and started reading it immediately. Only three seconds later … I can swear it was only three seconds, he said “Oh my God, Jesus, Sara, I think there has been a mistake here. Let me call Diane. I don’t think I have ever gotten your application. You are accepted into the program right now. I’ll call Diane to arrange your admission. Congratulations. You must have come directly to me. I’m sorry about that.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was admitted into the journalism program in the United States of America. Really … OMG!.
“Hey Diane, I have Sara Jamshidi here with me. I think we missed her application somehow. She is in my office right now. She is coming down for paperwork. Are you available?” I heard him talking on the phone receiver.
The admission
Henderson sent me to the second floor to talk with Diane Smith, the J-school administrator. I didn’t dare ask him about my previous applications. I didn’t want to ruin the victory I just got. I never learned the reason for rejecting my applications four times. Was it because I was Iranian, or I was Muslim, or an immigrant? Or, was it due to the mismanagement of the program?
After I filled out a few forms, she explained how to enroll and open a student account.
I left the communication building at UW thinking, “I wish I had come earlier and not wasted two years of my life guessing.”
I wasn’t mad anymore.
Please Pledge to Our Peace Journalism.
Goltune is editorially independent. We set our agenda. No one edits our editors. No one steers our opinion. This is important as it enables us to stay true to our values.
Every contribution we receive from readers like you, big or small, goes directly into funding our journalism. Please support Goltune, large or small.
Send your contributions to our PayPal account: [email protected]
Or, Click the link to pledge your support.
Thank you,
Goltune Editorial Team