I don’t know what to say. Is there any possible combination of words that could sum up my feelings about The Observer that hasn’t already been said by older and wiser? Samuel Beckett learned to write in French because the enormity of James Joyce constantly loomed over any English-language craft; Joyce had already solved the problem of English. How the hell am I going to solve the problem of The Observer?
That’s really what being a director at this paper is about: solving problems. Write a new front page story because the scheduled one is completely unfinished. Facebook message the subject of your expose because the writer forgot to reach out for comment. Make sense of the Cuyahoga County Clerk of Courts website—which looks like it hasn’t been updated since 2009—so the paper doesn’t get sued. Your printing company refuses to deliver. Make a timeline of the Epstein emails. Draw a full colored graphic in 20 minutes.
And, of course, we can’t forget the minutiae of final editing: change the width of lines from 0.75 to 0.5; manually remove the white background of an incredible illustration without ruining it; deconstruct and reconstruct a rectangular crossword puzzle to fit into a tiny square; delete the spaces around backslashes; squabble about 13-point versus 12-point bylines; deciding, once and for all, how we’re going to format television seasons. Is it season 1, Season 1, season one or Season One? Who knows? Who cares? We’re probably going to forget by next issue. Do it all in the wee hours before your Thursday morning film class, where attendance is mandatory and participation is militant.
Why would anyone do this? Moreover, why would anyone do this to themselves, willfully signing up and losing a sweet gig?
Like many Editorial Board members before me, I joined on a whim. Someone sent an entry level position opening in the Discord of a club I was barely in, and I thought, what the hell, sure. I spent hours writing a terrible cover letter. I updated my portfolio and polished my sparse resume. I got the interview call and prepped disproportionally hard, trying to figure out how I could spin elementary school swim instruction into relevant experience for graphic design.
What I didn’t expect, however, was to have a 10-minute chat with one of the warmest people I have ever met. Shivangi Nanda, former executive editor, told me she liked my art and that her biggest concern was people staying through production night long enough to actually talk to each other. Reader, I don’t know how else to express how much my expectations were wrong. The days before, I was obnoxiously speculating to my friends if there were going to be multiple rounds of interviews to pass.
This is where my story diverges. Unlike most of my predecessors, my early years at The Observer were extremely low-stress, high-energy and straight up fun. Every Wednesday, I got to come in, thumb through the zany opinions my peers desired deeply to share and create my own equally zany illustration to match. Whether that was a piss yellow front cover split by a page-spanning apartment building, or Eric Kaler leaving students in automobile dust, or a hot pink femmebot scrolling TikTok or a photorealistic diagram of the “Spitball” sculpture covered in graffiti, I could do anything and everything I wanted, show it to some of my favorite people in the world and figure out how to make it even better. No rules, no expectations, just play.
That’s what got me through college. Through two major changes, one broken leg, one new pet, the entire LSAT, tens of job interviews and countless, countless emotional ringers, The Observer has always been there. No matter what anxiety, exam or tournament was terrorizing my brain, I knew I could walk into the UMB Office at 5:30 p.m., pull out my dying MacBook and get my closest friends to help me focus on some great fucking art. That’s why, every night (and sometimes early morning), without fail, I would leave that building with a hundred percent exhaustion and a thousand percent contentment.
This is why I became a director. If I could provide that same experience to even just one other student, I knew I would leave CWRU with zero regrets. Every 3 a.m. redesign of the Fun section, every inane debate about hyphens, every emergency edit that demanded I run to the UMB office after class the next day, was just a drop in the immense ocean of debt I owed to the people in this organization.
Because that’s what’s truly important about The Observer—the people in it and everything I feel towards them. It’s honestly insulting that I’ve barely mentioned any of my co-staffers until this point. There’s Shivangi, Elie Aoun and Clay Preusch, who tolerated every stupid first draft I showed them and lent me countless hours and thoughtful feedback until each hare-brained idea became polished chrome. Lizzy McHugh, Bowen Zhang and every other past design team member, who’d share a meal, an ear and a laugh with me before we dove into our respective labors. Then, there’s everyone on my current team—Anna, Jana, Kristina, Shareen, Kiera, Reva, Nithya and Sahar—who never, ever fail to impress me by how much they raise the bar, week by week. Each of you have the rare combination of resilience, creativity and boldness that makes great design possible. I would say the sky is your limit, but even that feels narrow, so instead: I hope at every crossroads next year, you choose to go big.
Finally, there’s my directors. I would be an utter wreck, each week, both in and out of this organization, without all of you. Hannah Johnson, who has the sharpest, quietest wit, is always able to see what I can’t and kindly mock me for it (deservedly). Tyler Vu, my day one, ride-or-die co-artist, who wears his heart on his sleeve; he’s as cutting as he is earnest and probably the toughest person I know. I wouldn’t trade those panicked food pickup car rides for anything else. Darcy Chew, who was dealt one of the worst hands in Observer history, and, through endless patience and iron determination, spun straw into gold. Anjali Bhuthpur, my wonder-twin, so good-naturedly radiant that you sometimes have to look away from her brilliance, is the solid rock I lean on, over and over again. And of course, Auden Koetters. I think you know how I feel, but I cannot help but be a broken record. The reason my time here has been any fragment of what it is, is because of your inhuman ability to bring light, levity and attentive guidance to each of our myriad problems. The reason I’ve made any art worth a damn is because of you and your ceaseless encouragement, keen eye and unyielding honesty. The reason I stand as a director now is because I learned it all from you. You, and everyone who is and ever has been on this board, have made this ridiculous campus my true home. What bright things the future holds for The Observer, I cannot say, but I know that—that will always be true.
Okay. I think that’s enough attempts to capture it. Signing off.