Voice memos. Press passes. Lunch checks.

Green Nikon. PJ. Big Canon.

Flash drives. Camera bags. Lenses.

SnoFlow. Google Drive. InDesign.

Rule of thirds. Subheads. Deadlines.

Work nights. Banquets. Editor meetings.

NYC. VHSL. SPFW. 

The soft, but often boisterous chatter of the newsroom is littered with jargon that is only understood within the comforting walls of room 1400. From the quote wall I graced with the statement “My Roman Empire is the Russian Empire,” to the bulletin board of shoutouts filled with anatomically accurate hearts for Valentine’s Day, within each quirk of The Blaze’s headquarters is an imprint made by a staffer. The many lamps that line each corner, combined with the background ambience of our cumulative playlist, and the iconic poster of Edgar Allen Poe that adorns the storage room door, all serve as a warm embrace each time I walk into room 1400 at 12:45 pm.

Just like in the hallway structure, room 1400 is the center of my high school universe. The first time I ever encountered my safe place, I was hiding behind a blank digital avatar. As a mousy freshman whose deep infatuation with TIME magazine led them to sign up for “Intro to Journalism,” I never knew that a simple lack of research on my part would lead me to the most defining trait of my high school career: being a part of the newspaper. While I enjoyed the Google breakout rooms and the few articles I took on in a very abnormal starting year, it was when I walked into the first classroom on the right my sophomore year, that everything began to fall into place. 

After so many changes to my timeline, newspaper remained my one constant. Each year when I picked my schedule, it was the only class I reserved a spot for, with no hesitation. As I learned the basics in room 1400, a new version of myself blossomed. From a young staffer learning the ins and outs of interview questions and camera lighting to the leader I am today, each stepping stone cultivated my skills into my proudest accomplishments. Room 1400 is where I got to see my normally useless extensive sports knowledge thrive as a guiding tool for one of our most read sections. Room 1400 is where that initial guidance grew into genuine love and care, as all my hard work allowed me to humbly stand in the position I am today as co-editor-in-chief of The Blaze.

I always joke to my fellow peers on staff that they are my kids. Regardless of how close or far they may be in age to me, that is how I view them, and how much I cherish them. Now, this is not something I use to demean them, but rather, the only way I can truly put into words how much they mean to me, and how they motivate me. Each time I help anyone on staff, it’s to see that similar spark that got me hooked to the neverending deadlines and stress that exhilarates all journalists. Whether it was their proud reaction at their first action photos coming out crystal clear or their confidence in their writing style reflected in their increasing desire to have a bigger role on staff, room 1400 is where I watched countless underclassmen’s “light bulb moment” change their lives. 

So thank you room 1400. For being the place I mourn when the moving truck of graduation takes all my memories and presence in you away. I will forever be indebted to you for bringing me two of my greatest friends in life: Sarah and Shaila. For all the laughs, like the time that Lucian picked up a lizard that was running around with one hand. For all those karaoke sessions that Maya, Ananya, and Shivu had that annoyed me outwardly, but soon became why I love them. For allowing me to experience the best of times with the most helpful examples in Rohan, Amelia, Alyssa, and Megan & Megan. For the safety you provided me when a hail storm was wrecking my aging car with its window open. For being the perfect environment to have limitless hockey discourse and heckle my favorite Sabres fan, Nidhi. For the many mornings I shared with James, Aarohi, and Mrs. Greiner in your concrete walls. For being the place I got to feel baby Luke’s tiny fingers grasp one of my own. For the delusional work nights that ended with all of us horribly recreating Fergie’s National Anthem cover. For being the only place I’ve willingly cried in public several times out of sheer admiration.

But most of all, thank you, room 1400, for being the literal and figurative pillar of support I needed when that of the greatest adviser ever was gone. You gave me a stage, not just to dole out group story assignments, but to guide, to teach, and most importantly, to have a voice I never had before. You prepared me for the real world, you forced me to remember what I do this for, and you allowed me a platform to educate the next generation on the necessity of news, cementing your place in my story and mine in yours.

However, room 1400 would not have become what it is to me today if it wasn’t for the person who made it what it is: Mrs. Greiner. While you prepare to leave the space you’ve so perfectly curated behind, just know how much your mark on it will never be forgotten. Every poster, every decoration, and every encouragement within it is not without meaning or purpose. I will never forget how often you celebrated us when I think about your UVA candy bucket. I will never forget the lifelong advice you gave me at each study hall I came there just to be in your company. I will never forget the happiness you exuded every day, because as you balanced so many things on your plate, you always made us your biggest priority, and I only hope I can emulate that someday. Although room 1400 won’t be yours forever, the impact you have made on me is something I know will last a lifetime. 

And to “my kids,” of course, I will be back to visit my home away from home.