When people ask me why I chose to be the Visual Managing Editor of The Appalachian, my knee-jerk reaction is to say “I like being in charge.” Everyone who knows me can attest to how much of a control freak I can truly be. It’s true, I crave the power that being a senior editor grants me.
It’s a deflection — a defense mechanism. The authority, the meticulous process of editing and reshaping stories, is something tangible to control. Journalism is a medium for all, but The Appalachian is uniquely mine.
I hide behind my words, my camera and my flimsy lavalier microphone. I lose myself in memories of the shakiness of my knees — the loss of conviction in my voice. I look back at who I once was, a reporter, editor and Appalachian community member. Memories fade and warp, but stories remain far beyond our physical bodies.
Narratives are always suspended in time — a snapshot ready for you to relive. The Appalachian is my time capsule.
App State, at The Appalachian, cataloged this era of myself. The unsure freshman huddled in her dorm room during the height of the pandemic. The sophomore who took uneasy steps toward Plemmons Student Union room 217 for her first news desk meeting. The junior who finally slid into place here. And now, the senior who owns her worth and is unafraid of existing too close to others.
Every iteration of the woman you may know as “K. Slade” is sealed within my writing here at The Appalachian. She remains the mini adult navigating through the uncertainty of college. But, I will always be a proud member of The Appalachian and a sister to this community.
My time here seemed brief, a blip in the vastness of bound archives and internet pages. But, I exist. A moment that slipped through my fingers before I could truly grasp what I had.
So, this is goodbye for now. Gone, but never forgotten. My melodramatic close to the platform and community who allowed me to stand alongside them, pen and paper in hand.
