Once upon a time, I wanted to have the top column on this page today. I wanted to be in charge. I wanted to run meetings, be the president of the company, be a visionary leader for this organization.
So last year, I ran for editor of The Chronicle-and I lost.
And for several days-most acutely on a tear-filled night last February-the loss stung and stung badly. Everything seemed to be changing so rapidly around me-I had no summer plans and my best friend had suddenly become my boss.
But out of that loss came perhaps the greatest success I've had in my life: what I consider an extraordinarily successful-although not perfect-year as managing editor.
And although I'd love to spend the rest of this column telling a heartwarming story about how my efforts or my faith in God or something brought me to success, that's not what happened. It was the new editor's faith in me that brought me back into the fold and the staff's trust in me that kept me happy and productive all year.
Before I applied to be managing editor, I thought very seriously about doing what many Chronicle seniors and many editor election losers before me have done: spending Thursday nights at the Hideaway, January nights in a tent and all of Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday nights in my bed.
For a while, I wanted to finish my term as university editor and move immediately into Chronicle legendhood, becoming to unknowing freshmen more a story than a person.
But then I had a series of conversations with the brilliant woman whose words are placed right above mine. She convinced me that the 95th volume would not be as successful if I were not her right-hand man, or, as she now calls me, her "gal Friday."
So I signed up, and with an exciting set of priorities and renewed energy, headed into another year of sleepless nights, distant friends and incomplete schoolwork.
But I had a major obstacle to overcome: my perception of the staff of The Chronicle. As managing editor, I would be expected to, well, manage them and edit them, but that sad night in February always stuck in the back of my mind. After all, I often thought this year, a majority of the people I'm working with voted against me, essentially telling me that they did not want me as their leader.
How did I get through it? Two ways. One-I never pretended to be a leader. I see myself and the managing editor's role as the glue and the oil of the organization, making sure everyone stays together and everything runs smoothly. Important decisions? I don't make them. I give my opinion, and often end e-mails to my colleagues with the word "Thoughts?" When there's an important call, I pass the buck to the boss.
Second-and most importantly-the talented, large-minded people who make up this paper's staff have treated me with the utmost respect, a respect I hope I have returned. Everyone on this staff asks me for help with writing or editing, for advice on coverage and for phone numbers of administrators (I have one of those wacky, numerically oriented memories. Jim Siedow left the Allen Building months ago, but I still know 684-4523 by heart.)
To this day, I still have no idea who argued and voted against me last February and I hope I never will, because that knowledge would minimize the happy memories I have of this year.
It's strange to begin thinking of this year as full of memories and not full of active moments. But on May 14, everything I've done here for the last four years instantaneously becomes a memory.
So now, hundreds of issues after I first set foot in this office, it's time for me to say goodbye. Goodbye to DSG endorsement interviews and interminable budget meetings. Goodbye to dinners in the lounge and Rolly's dirty jokes. Goodbye to piles of Diet Coke cans and catnaps. Goodbye to the clicking noise the office doors make as they open. Goodbye to the sweet sound the zipper on the big envelope makes when we finish the paper each night.
This process of leaving The Chronicle scares me. As a journalist, I've been trained to think extremely carefully about beginnings, about drawing readers in with the perfect lead, crafting the ideal opening sentence.
But they don't teach us how to finish our stories. They're supposed to be written so they can be edited simply by lopping paragraphs off from the bottom. There's no such thing as a journalistic conclusion, no proper ending.
Of all the things I've learned at The Chronicle in the last four years, I still have not learned how to leave.
Richard Rubin, Trinity '00, is now managing editor emeritus of The Chronicle. He's got two words for next year's staff: Carry on.
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