Baby Leah always knew she wanted to be a precocious know-it-all from a very young age. Photo by Leah Ollie.
LEAH OLLIE | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF | lollie@butler.edu
Like any student journalist worth their salt in background, I’ve spent a significant amount of time poring over past Senior Sendoffs in my years at The Butler Collegian. I’ve smiled at inside jokes I wasn’t even there to understand, I’ve edited those of some of my closest friends and peers and I’ve watched with bittersweet pride as my own class began to sign off for the last time.
These examples — the labor and journeys of my fellow Collegianistas — have sustained my career at this paper, and powered me through some of the more grueling aspects of our jobs. Without this newspaper and the people who make it, I wouldn’t be the smallest fraction of the writer, editor, leader or woman I am today.
That is to say, when I arrived at Butler University, I would be unrecognizable to anyone reading this now. I was a terrified child, seeking belonging and affirmation in a new environment that didn’t quite reflect me. Fresh off of a childhood spent moving back and forth across the nation and 13 years of dancing my way into profound insecurity, I didn’t know much about who I really was, how to articulate my voice or find where it came from.
As anyone who knows me today can attest, I certainly found it. I found it in classrooms where I was handed the tools to criticize the norm and interrogate colonial realities. I found it in student organizations where my peers and I organized events, planned long-term strategy, built affirming spaces and cultivated new conversations. I found it advocating for our whole student body to be represented in programs such as New Student Orientation and the Morton-Finney Diversity Scholarship Program. Most of all, I found my voice in the hours spent writing, refining and editing my work for The Butler Collegian.
Though on paper there might be little material benefit to the work that we do — long hours and lower pay than most on-campus jobs — I have reaped incomparable joy and growth from the labor of love that is this newspaper. In addition to developing my skills as an interviewer, editor and communicator, I’ve learned to prioritize, manage my time effectively and balance long-term goals with short-term deadlines. I’ve learned from every single person I’ve worked with over the last four years, and I carry their insight, creativity and innovation with me into every weekly issue.
This path certainly wasn’t easy. There have been weeks during which I definitely spent more time in Fairbanks 210 than in my classes, and 4 a.m. pub night bedtimes that yielded to 7 a.m. Wednesday morning alarms. I’ve achieved the rare Collegian honor of the NOSCPDM — our EGOT, awarded to those who contribute to every section of the paper — and tried to apply my best to every assignment. I’ve sworn away all of my Monday and Tuesday evenings, as well as my Friday mornings. I don’t even want to talk about September of 2024, because I truly can’t unpack in this column the fortitude it took to wake up each day and fight for this paper during that period. In the meantime, each editor and staff member that I have the privilege of leading shoulders that load, on top of classes, internships, other jobs and more.
We’ve seen the underbelly of this institution in some of its darkest moments, as well as some of the most triumphant accomplishments and celebrations of its community. I’ve had the privilege and responsibility of covering both, and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank every source I’ve interviewed in my 53 articles; none of this work would be possible without your insight and cooperation.
Speaking of thank yous, this is my clunky segue into a list of acknowledgements, so heads up for anyone who wants to skim to the bottom. I’m about to get sappy — a once-in-a-millennium event much like our total solar eclipse.
To Emma Quasny and Mae-Mae Han, thank you for helping me develop my voice as a writer and editor. Culture is my first and longest love, and your leadership and encouragement have given me the courage to continue to aspire to new levels within this paper and beyond.
To every former editor-in-chief who has taken up this incredibly challenging role and instilled those around you with your leadership, thank you for your work, your time and your spirit. To Alison especially, thank you doubly for being as kind and committed of a friend as you are a leader — I’d couch surf and talk television with you any time.
To Owen Madrigal, thank you for walking alongside me and bringing your brilliance to the Culture section. I’ll forever be proud of what we built, and proud of getting to call you a partner and the closest of friends. In the same vein, to Isabella and Annie — thank you for being my sisters, and for the laughter and joy you bring to my life, the same as everyone else you meet.
To each editor I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of serving with — thank you for the work you do to simultaneously juggle editing, reporting, organizing, strategizing and so much more. Your work does not go unseen or unnoticed, and I salute it.
To the leadership team who has literally and figuratively held me together this year, we did it. On days when I lost faith in circumstance or hope in myself, I was constantly renewed by your ideas, work ethic and commitment to showing up. Thank you for bearing with my Slacks, texts and emails. I wouldn’t want to have done this with anyone else, and don’t think we could have if we tried.
To 835, thank you for being my home away from everywhere else. I’ll always be down for a sweet treat run or 24-hour round road trip.
To Abby, thank you for being my partner in crime — there’s nobody else I’d rather run a media monopoly with.
With all of this gratitude in mind, it’s impossible for me not to be entirely wrecked with sadness at the thought of leaving this paper behind. Throughout my time at Butler, the Collegian has remained a constant, an inspiration, a motivator and a cornerstone. Thank God it was, and I can only hope it continues to be so for other storytellers who walk through its doors for another few centuries to come.
