We all have limits in our heads. Limits on who we can be, set by who we think we are. Limits on what is possible based on what has already been done. Limits we put in place because we are afraid of finding out what our actual limits are. Limits others put onto us because they know no better, because we’ve shown them no better.
We forget, however, that limits can be changed. We forget that they are meant to be tested. To be moved. Erased and redrawn. We forget that they are malleable — more of a guideline than a rule.
My limits didn’t account for me becoming a humor columnist, let alone the humor editor. They didn’t account for what those roles meant or what they entailed. Maybe my limits were caught off guard because, as I remember it, it all just sort of happened.
Limit #1: I am not a writer.
I came to the University wanting to be an English major but had absolutely no confidence to take on such a task. Sure, I liked writing, but I was no writer. I could craft coherent sentences — sometimes — but couldn't anybody? This led me down the STEM route, destined to become a doctor like my siblings. Writing could stay a hobby.
However, in a turn of fate, I became a humor columnist in a panic-filled frenzy during the spring semester of my first year. After realizing that I had joined no communities on Grounds, I decided to apply to this thing called “The Cavalier Daily.” Having no experience with any form of journalism, I decided to give the humor desk a try.
My limit said I couldn’t be. It never said I couldn't try. But trying, as I’ve come to learn, is doing. And doing, more often than not, is what leads to becoming.
I did apply. I did get in. And I did write. I am a writer.
Limit #2: I can’t say something important.
A semester went by, and this whole humor columnist thing was kind of fun. Still now, my woes as a first year are immortalized and published for all to see. Who knew that my experience would be so similar to that of others? You’re telling me I wasn’t the only one who had a sleep talking roommate? Or the only one falling in love with someone they barely knew?
Relatable humor is what they call it — the type that makes us realize that we’re not so different after all. And that is something, in a world full of chaos and division, that matters.
But don’t get me wrong. While my experiences were relatable, they were still unique to me, and that’s what made them mine. In the past I held my tongue, unsure of what my words could add to the eternal void of what had already been said. However, each tongue twists words in its own way, and each keyboard is covered with its own set of fingerprints.
It took me a long time to figure out that my subjective thoughts and feelings were worth speaking, and even reading.
Limit #3: I am not a leader.
I was appointed humor editor. No opponent, no race, no nothing. Six hours of my Saturday spent on a Zoom with my camera off and stomach growling. And all they did was call my name at the end. I had been endowed with a title I barely knew anything about.
And sure, in hindsight, I'm thankful for the editing, publishing, managing and — insert other LinkedIn buzzwords — experience being a humor editor gave me.
But, if I am being honest, the biggest thing the role taught me was responsibility. And not the be home by 9 p.m. and do your dishes kind of responsibility, but the type that requires TLC. The type that makes something, the desk, become a whole bunch of someones — the writers. It's like looking at a finished puzzle long enough to make out each of the individual pieces. These weren’t just humor desk writers anymore, they were my humor desk writers. My responsibility.
I wasn’t perfect though. Trust me, I made plenty of mistakes. Let people down. Disappointed writers. Disappointed myself. But the thing with these mistakes is that they hurt. They made me realize that these weren't just silly little mistakes because I could emotionally feel each one. Not only because the work was important, but because the people were. Every mistake forced me to do better, be better.
Responsibility makes you change, but no one changes alone. I couldn’t have done what I did without the patience and support of my writers, as well as my little buddy — I mean the 135th executive editor, Naima.
Being an editor, as I slowly learned, is not about who you are. It's about who you can become.
Limit #4: I can’t enact change.
Many people look at the humor desk and say it’s not the “most important” part of the paper. I am not one to get upset over a subjective take or argue the contrary, but I do wonder sometimes why it matters if it’s not the “most important.” As I see it, there are still people putting out articles, repping the humor desk, squirrel obsession and all. The Cavalier Daily was never about the importance of the humor desk. It was about community.
And even though the humor desk might change in the future and everything I put in place might be removed, at some point in time, we were there. Me, my staffers, we were there. And it happened. And I think that is important enough.
Limit #5: I can only reset my limits momentarily. Change only lasts as long as required.
Retiring from the humor editor position, immediately, felt like a relief. No more needing to worry about what needed to get published when. But as time went on, as it so often does, I found that I couldn’t look at the humor desk the same as I did before I became editor. In my eyes, something about it was still mine. Even if just for a little bit.
This May, The Cavalier Daily is sure to be on my mind as I toss my graduation cap up. Sky’s the limit.
Wardah Kamran was the humor editor for the 135th term and humor columnist for the 133rd and 134th terms of The Cavalier Daily.
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