Before I go: a message from your editor-in-chief

My faded black Jimi Hendrix T-shirt was drenched in sweat as I walked across UF’s campus on a blistering August day.

The heat was made worse by my attire: black top, long bottoms, heavy bag packed with scribbled notes, textbooks and a laptop.

It was 2015, and I was on assignment as a journalist for the first time. My mission: Hike from Library West to UF’s Entomology and Nematology Building, a roughly 3-mile trip; interview a researcher about a pathogen prone to stagnant waters; and find as many dogs as I could (the pathogen liked dogs).

My notebook resembled a playbook. My haphazardly scrawled interview questions were ranked categorically by importance, with No. 1 being a must-ask and No. 20 being one for the road.

I repeated my most pressing questions — Are the dogs going to be OK? — in my head over and over again, my feet burning from walking. After about an hour, I made it, surprisingly on time.

After notifying the front desk of my appointment, I ducked into the bathroom to change my shirt, from the Hendrix tee to something more presentable. I think it was a blue button-up.

I used paper towels to pat myself dry, fixed my hair and re-entered the lobby, awaiting my first-ever interviewee. I recorded the whole thing: roughly an hour of jargon, broken up by an assortment of hmm's and I see's. I then scoured the campus for dogs. I found three.

I wrote 900 words. It was powerful. It was a masterpiece. It was all mine.

It ran the next day at 200 words.

It was nothing to call home about. But I did. My mom was gushing with joy. Well, I was. She just politely said "Wow" and "That's fantastic" a couple of times, trying as hard as she could to slow me down.

"I think I like this," I said.

Fast forward four semesters, roughly 257 articles, and dozens of panic attacks and downward spirals, I stand before you today, a soon-to-be graduating senior with eyes fixated on a career as a journalist.

Nothing will ever compare to your first. But somehow, I kept coming back. I became a staff writer, then a cops writer, then a metro editor and finally editor-in-chief.

It all flew by. Looking back, my tenure here seems shorter than that 3-mile walk I made on my first assignment.

I guess time flies when you’re trying not to get sued for libel.

I didn't get here alone. I must thank my editors, specifically Emily Cochrane, who molded me into a capable reporter through her signature trial by fire; my parents, a cardiologist and physical therapist, for encouraging me to pursue a career fewer and fewer kids want to pursue, one that evokes disdain in the minds of many Americans; and my colleagues at the Alligator over the past two years, who put up with my rants, flaws and pestering every single night.

Some may say it's all been for not.

The Alligator is fake news. It's a liberal rag. It's a bias-confirming waste of space, and ink and labor.

I may be biased, but I think they're wrong. While our paper isn't perfect, we try to be. It's why we harp on every single mistake we make, why we work long hours pouring over articles some may never want to read.

Yes, we make mistakes. Some bigger than others. But we don't ignore them. We get to their root and talk them out.

As I write this, my hands are clammy and my mouth dry. I feel like I'm removing a part of me that has burrowed and festered beneath my skin for so long.

I won't cry. If I do, you won't see it. When that final paper hits the stands, and I leave my desk one final time, I'll be walking away from the most important thing in my life.

But it's time. The paper is in good hands. This staff won't stop, the printing press won't stall, the coffee won’t cease to flow.

In the morning, the lights will go back on, and a new day will begin.

By then, I’ll be old news. And I’m OK with that.

It’s high time for someone else to make that fateful trek across campus.

Cheers.

Martin Vassolo served as the Alligator’s editor-in-chief this semester.