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Local Journalism Project

    SUMMER JOURNALISM FELLOW

    Kiran Johnson Wants To Explain This Place

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    The Provincetown Independent, in collaboration with its nonprofit partner, the Local Journalism Project, last week welcomed its fifth cohort of summer journalism fellows for 10 weeks of work and learning in our newsroom. The program, which has produced award-winning reporting, is made possible by gifts from readers and supporters of the Outer Cape’s only independent newspaper. We are delighted to have them introduce themselves to you. —The editor

    Kiran Johnson backpacking the Browns Lake trail in Larimer County, Colo. (Photo by Kiran Johnson)

    Kiran Johnson
    Chicago, Illinois
    Northeastern University, Class of 2026
    Journalism and Environmental Science

    I recently learned that Cape Cod was formed by a glacier 25,000 years ago. I can now explain that the glacier left little glistening kettle ponds that we swim in today, and how the large boulders carried here by the glacier, like Eastham’s Doane Rock, remain for people to climb and sit and picnic on.

    Before coming to Provincetown, I worked in Morocco for five months at the High Atlas Foundation, a nonprofit focused on sustainable development in rural communities. There, I learned how argan trees are ideal for farming in Morocco because they can withstand extreme heat and drought, and how apple trees are better for planting in the mountains, where the climate is cooler. And I can explain climate change to farmers in a way that encourages them to care about these trees for their environmental benefits — not just the income they will bring.

    I spent last summer working in the Conservation Corps in Colorado. With damp leather gloves my crew and I backpacked through the wilderness, shouldering six-foot crosscut saws that we’d use to clear entire trail systems of fallen trees. Our goal was to make the backcountry accessible for hikers. In doing this work, I became able to explain how alpine ecosystems are highly susceptible to human disturbances because of the extremes in climate these areas endure and why a pine forest might need a controlled burn.

    As a moss-lover and mountain-climber, I have always enjoyed being able to understand and explain the natural world around me, but in a world of climate change I believe learning to communicate effectively about science has become paramount. That’s what drives my interest in journalism.

    At Northeastern University’s Science Media Lab, I joined a small group of journalists scouring the school’s research portal for innovative studies to write about. I stretched my explainer muscles describing how species’ future biodiversity can be predicted using computer simulations in one article and investigating the circular relationship between TikTok and body image in another.

    From Morocco’s red and gold desert landscape, with the hazy outline of the High Atlas Mountains dividing the sky and land, I’m now adjusting to Provincetown’s buttery sea breeze and 360-degree ocean view. And I wonder what else I’ll be able to explain about Cape Cod before I leave.

     

    SUMMER JOURNALISM FELLOW

    Molly Reinmann Measures Life In Stories

    By

    The Provincetown Independent, in collaboration with its nonprofit partner, the Local Journalism Project, last week welcomed its fifth cohort of summer journalism fellows for 10 weeks of work and learning in our newsroom. The program, which has produced award-winning reporting, is made possible by gifts from readers and supporters of the Outer Cape’s only independent newspaper. We are delighted to have them introduce themselves to you. —The editor

    Molly Reinmann at a pick-your-own flower farm in Rhinebeck, N.Y. (Photo by Rachel Klein)

    Molly Reinmann
    Chappaqua, New York
    Yale University, Class of 2026
    American Studies and Education Studies 

    As a freshman in high school, I was cast in the ensemble of a local production of Rent. Six years later, I still ruminate on the lyrics I sang each night: How do you measure a year? How do you measure the life of a woman or a man? The song “Seasons of Love” suggests that we measure our lives in love. But I have always preferred a slightly different metric: stories.

    When I reflect on my own life, I think of the personal anecdotes that define it and the local, national, and international stories that color its perimeter.

    My desire to seek out and produce stories of all kinds has put me on a path that has led me from theater to oral history to archival work to journalism — and delivered me now to the Indie. Lives, and, I think, communities, are immeasurable save for the stories we tell about them. I believe in the ability of journalism to do for both what little else can. Its traditional role is to hold the powerful accountable, and it can deliver steadfast truths. It can also start meaningful conversations and give a voice to the silenced.

    Last year, I covered admissions, alumni, and financial aid for the Yale Daily News, taking over the beat just after the Supreme Court struck down affirmative action. I spent much of the year digging into issues of access to higher education, asking questions about which students might be deterred, implicitly or explicitly, from attending a school like Yale, and what can be done to circumvent such systemic roadblocks.

    Alongside my pursuit of a certificate in education studies, my beat year fueled my interest in issues relating to education policy, access, and administration. This summer, I hope to zero in on the issues that face the students, teachers, staff, and parents in schools on the Outer Cape.

    Come fall, I will say a temporary goodbye to New Haven and take a gap semester to head to Madison, Wisc., where I will cover the 2024 election for the Wisconsin State Journal.

    I consider it a gift to join the Independent this summer and contribute to the stories that can help measure the life of this beautiful — and I am already learning, complicated — place that I am so excited to learn more about.

    SUMMER JOURNALISM FELLOW

    Cam Kettles Sees How News Connects People

    By

    The Provincetown Independent, in collaboration with its nonprofit partner, the Local Journalism Project, last week welcomed its fifth cohort of summer journalism fellows for 10 weeks of work and learning in our newsroom. The program, which has produced award-winning reporting, is made possible by gifts from readers and supporters of the Outer Cape’s only independent newspaper. We are delighted to have them introduce themselves to you. —The editor

    Cam Kettles at the Government Center subway stop in Boston on her first trip to the city. (Photo by Kate Kettles)

    Cam Kettles
    Dallas, Texas
    Harvard University, Class of 2026
    History and Economics

    Until a few months ago, I knew almost nothing about the Outer Cape except for one thing: that it has a good newspaper. As local papers continue to struggle to protect their financial independence and retain staff, this is one publication known at least among reporters at Harvard as a shining example of successful local journalism.

    Since I moved to Truro last week, I’ve had a glimpse of what that can mean: I’ve overheard people discussing the headline issues, or upcoming concerts, or profiles of neighbors. I think about the connection people feel to each other and to the place they live because of the Independent.

    This is the second time I’ve had the chance to become part of a newspaper that’s working to fulfill its mission to become a necessity to the people it serves.

    My first taste of journalism was at the Harvard Crimson, where starting in 2023 I reported on the university’s unions and employment issues. As a new college student unsure about my skills as a journalist, I was caught off guard by how inspiring that work was. The responsibility meant enabling Harvard workers — postdoctoral researchers, graduate students, clerical staff, security guards, dining hall workers, and janitors — to see themselves reflected in our pages. I wrote to bring their lives into the minds of everyone connected to Harvard.

    I now cover Harvard’s university-wide administration, a job that bears very little resemblance to the labor coverage I had done, but I feel a familiar sense of urgency about it, trying to nail down the definitive account and explanation of what happens at Harvard. I know firsthand that in moments of crisis, that kind of local journalism can attract a national spotlight, though it is rarely recognized for the necessary service it provides every day.

    My own home in Texas is completely unlike the Outer Cape. The politics, weather, and lifestyle in Dallas are all different from what I am just beginning to know here. Also, the speed limit is lower here and there is no H-E-B. I will learn more about this place every day, and I hope I can add something meaningful to the understanding of people who may have lived here their whole lives.

    By the work’s nature, journalists are temporary guests in the lives of other people, there so their stories can be told. As a guest here for the summer, I thank you for having me.

    LOCAL JOURNALISM PROJECT

    An Introduction to a Summer of Reporting

    By

    This week the Independent welcomes five young journalists from across the country to its first summer fellowship program, made possible by donations and grants to its nonprofit Local Journalism Project. We asked them to introduce themselves by writing something about their journeys here from New York, Virginia, Illinois, California, and Hawaii. —Edward Miller

    Allyson Birger
    Hillsborough, Calif.
    Tufts University, Class of 2022, studying sociology with a concentration in data analysis and interpretation. Here with thanks to the school’s Tisch Summer Fellows program.

    Allie Birger
    (Photo courtesy Allie Birger)

    “Final call for New York J.F.K. at Gate D9, final boarding call” echoes through San Francisco International Airport on the morning I depart for Boston after three months at home. Going to the airport felt almost normal, and at moments I was able to forget that there was a global pandemic. But the few people in the terminal speak in hushed voices and I am reminded.

    I’m from the Bay Area and my home county was among the first six in the nation to implement a shelter-in-place order. Few cases followed. People around me during my layover in Seattle, however, do not seem to have gotten the memo that everyone at home had. Finding a personal space bubble in an airport is difficult enough, but even more so when you’re trying to avoid hordes of maskless individuals. That’s when I begin to wonder about the distinct narratives that different groups of people are receiving about Covid-19 around the U.S. Are certain people perpetuating the problem? Are some complying with government demands without recognizing quite why they do so?

    Boarding the plane to Boston, I cross my fingers in hopes of feeling a semblance of normality in heading to the last place I had been before the pandemic, hoping the sacrifices that we have all made will be worth it. Then I remember the mask covering my face.

    Josephine de La Bruyère
    New York, New York
    Princeton University,     Class of 2022, studying history, with minors in journalism and Italian. Here with thanks to Princeton’s Ferris Grant for Student Internships in Journalism.

    (Photo courtesy Josephine de La Bruyere)

    My father took issue with the outfit: green felt slippers, a grease-blotched sweatshirt, checked men’s boxers, size XL.

    The ensemble was nothing new, a weekend variation on my quarantine theme. But to my Frenchman of a father — staunch defender of collared shirts at mealtimes — it was unacceptable.

    His line: What if something goes wrong, and you’re stuck on the side of the road somewhere, waiting for car help, wearing that?

    Mine, served with a side of eyeroll: Get over yourself — nothing will go wrong.

    Here are some things I can do flawlessly: juggle, unicycle, juggle on a unicycle. Put on a New York accent. Make quiche. Glare. Three months scooping ice cream off the coast of France taught me to make a perfect whipped-cream swirl. From three months of overpriced driver’s ed? I learned to trash-talk Tom Brady. So, some things I do poorly: shift, merge, exit roundabouts. Drive, generally.

    When an icon, orange and ominous, lit up with a ping on my dashboard, self-sufficiency flew out the window. I pulled over and dialed my parents. “The tires,” my father said.

    The mechanic was busy. “And besides,” he said, “coronavirus.”

    Then, in my rear-view mirror appeared eight masked middle-aged men, beards and paunches formidable, on motorcycles.

    Did I need help? I did. Well, if I’d back up six feet they’d have me on my way in no time. Which they did. I thanked them, and, liberally Purelled, entered Massachusetts.

    Here I had a close encounter with a compost bin, stalled twice in Boston, and almost caused a ruckus at the Orleans rotary before arriving in Provincetown, where, to the ire of my neighbors, I parked the wrong way in our lot.

    But here I am, parked correctly, suitcases unpacked, my excitement to be writing for the Independent unparalleled. I’m better on two wheels than I am on four; anyone care to lend me a bike?

    Sabina Lum
    Vienna, Virginia
    George C. Marshall High School, Class of 2021. Video news production, speech and debate, volleyball.

    (Photo courtesy Sabina Lum)

    A bumpy ride to Truro is something of a tradition for my family. When we came from the Czech Republic or Vietnam or Hawaii, there were 3 a.m. cab rides and airport sprints on tight layovers. When my dad was a kid, the trip meant being stuffed into the back of a Chevy Suburban for 10 hours with four younger siblings and a few cats. Going back even further, my ancestor John Howland spent 66 miserable days aboard the Mayflower. He was thrown overboard during a gale and managed to survive by grabbing a trailing rope.

    It seems as though a pattern of disruption and incommodiousness can be found in my genetics. Finally old enough to make the drive myself, I wondered what my own contributions to that legacy would be.

    But the strangest thing about the journey was how very normal everything looked. Children fought over toys in back seats, and every roadside Starbucks had a drive-through line wrapped around the building. It isn’t until you notice that, in the car next to you, a kitschy dashboard ornament has been replaced by a mask, dangling by its strap from the rearview mirror, that you’re reminded everything is different.

    I drove past the 24-hour diner in Connecticut that my dad has stopped at on every road trip since he was a kid. I couldn’t afford to have any wacky adventures. Those are for the times when the world isn’t abnormal enough on its own.

    Cana Tagawa
    Honolulu, Hawaii
    Tufts University, Class of 2022, studying political science, English, civic studies. Here with thanks to the school’s Tisch Summer Fellows program.

    (Photo Rabiya Ismail)

    It took me weeks to come to the conclusion that my internship with the Provincetown Independent should start with a nonstop flight from Honolulu. If we were going to be working mostly remotely, maybe I could log onto Zoom meetings at 4 a.m. for the summer.

    At my hometown airport, the demeanor of the TSA agents is not differentiated from the laid-back culture of the islands. Nothing about them seemed to be overly worried, although outgoing travelers had an air of timidity, seeming apologetic and even guilty for taking a trip.

    The gate was teeming with people. As I tried to plan how I would stand at the right distance from others, a stream of people exited the aircraft I was about to board, directed by police officers to queue up. The line extended the length of the terminal, with no social distancing taking place. These people were waiting to fill out paperwork agreeing to the terms of their mandatory two-week self-quarantine, punishable by state law if not observed.

    The Boeing 737, with 33 rows of three seats on each side, had all middle seats unoccupied. But the boarding process was still an awkward morphing of bodies in too-small spaces, making all efforts to socially distance seem futile.

    In Seattle, where I was for a four-hour layover, one group of young women stood out — was it really a bachelorette party?

    The contradictions along the way left me befuddled and aware in a way that perhaps we all are: what exactly is necessary for us to carry on our lives in a safe manner?

    Olivia Weeks
    West Frankfort, Illinois
    Harvard University, Class of 2022, studying social studies and Russian. Here with thanks to the Harvard Club of Cape Cod.

    (Photo courtesy Olivia Weeks)

    My journey to the Outer Cape began in the parking lot of a rural health clinic in the village of Goreville, Ill., where a nurse gave me a painless finger prick and, 10 minutes later, some peace of mind. There have been only 19 confirmed Covid-19 cases and no deaths in Johnson County (population 12,000), near where I’m from.

    As we awaited our results, the nurse informed us that she was “anxious to see a positive test,” and that contact tracing is a ploy by big government to get its hands on our bank statements. Maybe to her dismay, neither of us tested positive for a past or present case.

    I would next drive 14 hours to New York to stay with a friend and her family for a few days before making my way to the Cape. They had been strictly quarantined since mid-March. I would be the first nonrelative in their apartment since the crisis began, and I took that responsibility seriously. We decided that throughout my all-day journey I would not enter any indoor public spaces, which left me repurposing my McDonald’s cups and looking for shady parking lot corners.

    In some ways it was another unspectacular day in quarantine: I chatted with my friends from school on the phone, listened to several hours of podcasts. My back ached.

    Somewhere around New Haven I realized that Provincetown probably wouldn’t resemble my pre-corona daydreams. But on a journey from one quarantine site to another, I found myself newly thrilled by the once commonplace feeling of going somewhere.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

    Writing Thursday

    By

    It’s “Giving Tuesday” as I write this, and I can see from looking at the online posts of local nonprofits that people really are giving. We know firsthand about this generosity because so many of you have contributed to our own Local Journalism Project, helping us to build up the resources that will be needed to support young journalists here and make the Independent a stable and sustainable local news organization. We’re still at the beginning of that work, but the signs are encouraging, both from donors and from subscribers — more than 900 of you already.

    There’s another area, though, where we wish our readers were more generous: writing letters. We know you’re busy. And you probably think that anything appearing in print over your name has to be a masterpiece of rhetoric and wit.

    We know you are reading what we write. We hear you talking about it. At Monday’s special town meeting in Provincetown, it was clear that many people had read in these pages Paul Benson’s amazingly complete and digestible history of the VFW parcel at the heart of the controversy. And we see plenty of comments about our work on Facebook.

    But it’s so easy to post a comment on Facebook, you say. Well, we make it easy, too. Just send us an email. We’ll work with you to make your letter even better, if you like. That’s something that Facebook won’t do.

    Sometimes I wish you could all sit in on our weekly editorial meetings here, when we talk about the last edition and the articles that people are working on. It’s very different from my last newspaper job, because this group has so many more voices with varied points of view. It changes and deepens the way we understand and report the news.

    That’s why we need your letters, so that your voices become a part of that conversation. The direct encounter between people with different ideas and opinions who actually listen to each other is the foundation of good journalism — and good government as well.

    After town meeting this week, Fire Chief Michael Trovato, who was on the losing end of a close vote, was none too pleased to be approached by reporter Paul Benson. He gave Benson an earful because, he said, the Independent’s editorial last week had hurt his cause and he had taken so much abuse for his position on the VFW. Benson, ever curious, listened and asked questions about how the town might move forward to address its public safety needs, taking notes for the next story. Soon the two were shaking hands and sharing ideas for the spring town meeting.

    Here’s my idea: Writing Thursday. When you sit down with the latest issue of the Independent and read something that gives you an idea, write it down and send it to us. It’s a gift we’ll make good use of.

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