Sheep Savvy

As I am soon returning to New Zealand I felt it time to start a discussion about one of my favourite topics: Sheep.  Fluffy, cute, tender when chewed..what's not to love.   We count them so we can go to sleep, we grew up watching them in our favourite television shows (okay well in particular one, Lambchops.  I know you now all have the theme song stuck in your head..) and we sing about them in our favourite nursery rhymes.  Poor Mary had a little stalker. 

I guess it can be argued that sheep are not so much a topic as a favourite pasttime.  Returning to New Zealand, I look forward to basking in the sun counting my endless supply of ewes.  But let me relay to you the disappointment I experienced when I first traveled halfway around the world to the land of unlimited sheep and the lesson which I have since taken away....

As you may or may not know, the ratio of sheep to people in New Zealand is 10:1.  That is right, TEN sheep PER person.  People population: 4 million.  Sheep population: 40 million.  Upon arriving at customs, I demanded my ten sheep to maintain the proper ratio.  I was denied my request and instead fined two hundred dollars for having an apple in my possession.

Fine, that second part is not true.  However, it did happen to a good friend of mine.  Despite all the signs and warnings (including on our immigration cards) that foreign fruits were CONTRABAND, she somehow managed to 'forget' that she had an apple in her bag.  Apple-less and two hundred dollars later, she was allowed to enter the magnificent Aoteoroa- The Land of the Long White Cloud.  I on the other hand, had worn my dirtiest pair of white shoes. My aunt had told me that to prevent the spreading of foreign contaminants, they wash your shoes.

I entered New Zealand sheepless and with a pair of filthy sneakers.


Stepping out of the airport into Auckland, New Zealand I awaited what should have been sheep haven.  I had pictured flocks of them blocking traffic, or laying splayed on the side of the road basking in all their glory.  I pictured sheep herding MEN, what with such a ridiculous ratio.  The squirrels of America (hopefully with a bit less roadkill).  As I took in all the sights and sounds of the city, to my dismay...not a single sheep was to be spotted.  No mayhem, no mischief.  Not even a man with ten sheep to greet me upon my arrival.  Sheer disappointment.  Heavy hearted and feeling slightly misled, I decided perhaps better prospects awaited me in Wellington, my future home.  I flew to Wellington, and with high hopes at witnessing the rumbling hills surrounding the city, knew I would finally find what I'd been sheeping..uh..searching for.

Let me tell you.  For a country who supposedly is overrun by its mutton I once again felt nothing but utter dismay at what I encountered.  Not a SINGLE sheep.   How absurd.  I felt cheated.  I had dreamed of collecting all the abandoned, lonely ones from the side of the road in Wellington  to create my own petting zoo/nursery (I feel my residence may have been slightly unhappy with this).  I was going to be the Mother Teresa of the flock kingdom.  I was going to change the world one adopted sheep at a time!

In fact, it wasn't until a month later, when I went on a car ride about 10 kilometres outside the city, that I finally stumbled upon my first Kiwi clan.  Sheep started popping up on every hillside, at every turn, on every corner.  I turned to my friend and stated, "THIS is how I pictured New Zealand!  Why have I not seen a sheep before now??", to which my friend replied, with clear conviction in her voice,  "Kallan, there are no sheep in the cities!  That'd be silly"   I felt sheepish..I should have known that.

So lo and behold, imagine to my surprise when recently, an article surfaced on Stuff, New Zealand's online news source.  "Sheep runs wild in Wellington streets" (http://www.stuff.co.nz/oddstuff/5294966/Sheep-runs-wild-in-Wellington-streets).  HA!  Somehow I'd missed this moment myself, but hearing about it was enough.  Like a prisoner apprehended for his crime, the roaming animal was captured, cuffed and taken to jail (No joke, read said article).   The offender's statement was not included in the piece.  Which brings me to my almost final point; think of sheep on a farm like mormans in a segregated community; sooner or later, one of them is bound to want to experience a little bit more of what life has to offer.

My closest encounter with one of the fourty million happened while driving on a dusty, windy road to Queenstown.  While chatting with Martha, I all of a sudden shrieked as she slammed on the brakes.  The most beautiful ewe, with a matted mane of golden locks, had somehow blended into the yellow road that led us to the city.  She did not move, but instead stared deep into my eyes.  As our gazes interlocked, I understood.  Were it possible, our fingers would have entwined in some sort of silent agreement.  Freedom.  Sheep are not meant for petting zoos, or for lamb stew, or even for plush coats.  They want to live their life in peace, just like us.  Our eyes connected only for a second, but in that moment I gave up my dream.  These beautiful animals co-exist in this world just as we do.   What they choose to do with this freedom is up to them, be it lazing in a field of grass or wanting to take a walk alongside the Wellington Waterfront. 

"Run free my friend" I whispered.  And then, we drove off.

My Autobiographical Essay for King's College

My Journey to Journalism: The Tale of the Wandering Writer

Growing up, kids love to role-play and dream about their future careers.  Most of the time it’s standing in front of a classroom assigning math homework to your sister, or running around the ‘hospital’ with a stethoscope nursing your teddy bears back to health. While I have to admit I did get sucked in to handing out bad marks to my sister every now and then, a good portion of my childhood was spent fantasizing about becoming a news anchor.  A friend and I would write news stories, add in some commercials, set up our news desk and would broadcast the six o’clock news to our parents.   We were the future Peter Mansbridges’; the infamous Connie Chungs’; the next Anderson Coopers’.  We were the future of journalism. 

I was abandoned in our pursuit, as my co-anchor has just completed teacher’s college.  I however, never strayed too far from the world of writing and broadcast. This essay is a chance for you to get to know me; as a person, as a writer, and as a potential candidate for your program.  I feel there is no better way to write about my life than to start at the beginning.   

In junior kindergarten my parents received my report card.  “Kallan is a lovely child”.  My mother was ecstatic to know that Mrs. Gilbert thought so highly of me.  On second read, however, Mom noticed that the extremely delicate handwriting was slightly deceptive; it in fact stated “Kallan is a lively child”.   This is indeed the statement that has haunted my existence and is part of the reason I know I can succeed in journalism.  My enthusiasm and drive are part of the reason I am so inquisitive.

 In senior kindergarten my mother received an angry phone call from another teacher, who was upset that I hadn’t finished my Easter basket on time.  Apparently I spent too much time socializing and not enough being handy at arts and crafts.  My mother laughed it off.  What can I say; glue and scissors are much more suited for impromptu hair styling.   Now, more than ever, I am grateful for these social skills.

With three siblings, I always strived to be the best at something.  My brother was the all-star football player who received a full scholarship to an American university.  My older sister was a beautiful dancer.  My younger sister is a varsity rugby sensation. Their trophies line the mantels, gleaming with the success that would make any parent beam about their child’s accomplishments. 

My parents’ undying love and support have made it possible for me to be as unsuccessful as possible in a plethora of activities over the years.  The time, money and perseverance they put into driving me from one activity to another meant I was given every opportunity to find something I truly loved.

At age four my mother put me into dance class.  My class was too small so they amalgamated us with my older sister’s group.  On the night of the performance, I ran from the wings into the middle of the dance floor, scanning the audience for my parents (might I add this was while our number was on) and enthusiastically jumped up and down shouting “Hi Mom!!” Needless to say, I didn’t actually perform and my mother decided it was best not to register to me for the next session. 

Next was gymnastics.  I spent too much time chatting with other kids and no time learning how to properly do a handstand or cartwheel.  To this day, I’m still so inflexible to the point that I cannot sit cross-legged.  I should have practiced my balancing acts more!  That was the end of my parents envisioning me as a future gymnast.

Oh martial arts.  When you put an extremely lanky, uncoordinated child into an activity that entails force and their full attention, it is bound to be a disaster.  Three years into Tai Kwon Do I had graduated three levels and still could not defend myself if my life depended on it.  In my defense, my family moved cities and I was not put into a new program.  It was probably for the best. I was more likely to trip over my own feet than be able to kick someone else’s out from under them.

The search continued.  I was enrolled in swimming lessons with hopes of becoming a lifeguard (I still have an awful front crawl), hockey with the dream of becoming the next Cassie Campbell (for nine years running my team lost every game) and acting classes with the dream of becoming, well, anybody.  I did have a brief stint of success in track and field but it was extremely short lived.  Somehow I hit high school and kids half my size could lap me.  That’s what I get for refusing to take gym class past the 9^th grade.

Throughout high school I dreamed of being the athlete, the scholar with top marks, the artist, the singer, the class president; anything that would acknowledge I had a purpose.  I was not any of these.   It wasn’t until my final year of high school, when I took a class called Writerscraft, that my interest for writing and broadcasting was re-ignited.  Somehow, in all my years of extra-curricular, I had lost what had always been my passion.

My writerscraft teacher, who I will always be immensely indebted to, rejuvenated my love for writing.  I wrote short stories, poems, plays; I joined the school newspaper in my final year and wrote a long piece on a World War II memorial project this specific teacher was heading.  I applied for journalism at Carleton University and Ryerson.  I was accepted to Carleton and was waitlisted at Ryerson.  I chose Queen’s.

Turning down a decent scholarship offer at Carleton was the hardest decision I ever made.  It was also, ultimately, the best decision. I was a miserable English student my first year at Queen’s, living at home with my parents.  Then I discovered Queen’s Television.  QTV gave me the outlet I needed to stay involved with my passion and learn a few things along the way.  It also brought me back to my childhood dream.  This time however I was able, for the first time, to actually broadcast to a large audience!  I also wrote occasionally for the school newspaper and was chosen to be on the editorial board of the local paper.  I researched, shot and interviewed for a segment on uranium mining protests in Sharbot Lake and the arrest of Robert Lovelace, who was my professor at the time and the chief of the Ardoch Algonquin First Nation.  This year, I found out that it is being shown in an environmental studies class.  That piece, I feel, is my proudest moment.  It made me truly understand how journalism is not just a profession; it can also be a tool for education and social change.

I changed my major to Global Development Studies and now dream of either being a travel journalist or an international correspondent for someone like CNN.  My writing significantly progressed from fictitious news stories about the Queen having poutine for the first time in Ottawa to submitting editorial pieces drawing attention to issues of race in Kingston, or the importance of volunteering abroad and in your community.  While my focus has changed, my drive has only been ignited.  This is the field for me. 

Throughout my time at Queen’s I’ve traveled to England, Central America and Australasia.  I’ve made some amazing connections and I’ve blogged about my adventures.  My sisters always used to bug me “Why do you ask so many questions?”  Today, I feel it is a gift.  Combined with what I’ve learned from such an incredible undergraduate degree and experience, I want to keep learning.  I plan to use writing, film and media to create social change.  This summer, I have been given an incredible opportunity working as an intern for Journalists for Human Rights.   I get to be part of an organization that demonstrates how media can change lives.  After years of searching and finding my strengths, I am ready to learn from the best to become the best.  My journey, after all, is just beginning.