Editor's note: Journalism graduates across the country face a challenging job market this summer. Angel Jennings is a 2008 CoJMC news-editorial graduate who addressed the topic in a column published in July's UNITY News. 

I can’t imagine finding a more perfect job.

As a journalist, I get paid to be nosy. I love the privileges that come with the plastic Boston Globe press badge I proudly dangle from my shirt. It’s my VIP pass into people’s lives. Even as an intern, I’m trusted to tell their stories and add to the fabric of America’s rich history.

But as I prepare to report news for decades, voices across the newsroom echo in my head. And they are chipping away at my decision.

The naysayers tell me to get out while I can: Don’t invest time in a dying newspaper industry. Go to graduate school! Travel! Or – gasp! – go into public relations.

I’ve heard it all before. I know the journalism industry is in turmoil. Layoffs, buy-outs and high profile resignations have struck fear in the hearts of star reporters. Few people are immune.
But I’m not moved.

I realized this when I was on my way home from a 12-hour workday, with no overtime. (I am an intern.) As I sat on the subway, exhausted but smiling, I got into a conversation with Bryan Marquard, an obituary writer who creates poetry with every keystroke.

We had met a month earlier during the weekly meeting for summer interns at the Globe, where I have my own cubicle for another month. At that meeting, Bryan encouraged us, dissected our work and gave us hope. For this group of interns, he was our Barack Obama.

Every subsequent speaker who addressed the bright-eyed, lily-fresh interns provided old news and no solutions. I guess they were our John McCains.

On that train, I told Bryan about the story I had just spent all day laboring over. It was my baby, a solid article accompanied by my first professional multimedia piece. I couldn’t help but grin.
It was then that I realized how much I love my job. I’d rather have a roller-coaster marriage with journalism, filled with love and passion, than an empty relationship in law, PR or business, where there is money, but no sparks.

And reporting the news does more than fulfill my own selfish need to be in the know.
Journalism needs writers with pigmentation.

We journalists of color are the Picassos of the written word. (Yes, Picasso, a Spanish genius, was one of us.) Telling the story of history – our history – would be compromised if we abandoned our posts.

And like any great artist, sometimes we need to suffer for our craft. There is always a period of questioning and uncertainty. But journalism is not for the weak of heart.

I’m willing to ride this wave out. And while everybody else lets fear cripple and consume them, I will continue snooping and prying information out of officials – and making ends meet however I can.

There might not be a job waiting for me next year. Who knows, in five years newspapers might be obsolete. But people still need to be informed. And I will be there: Giving the people what they want, in whatever form they will consume it.

I’ll be there, even if I’m standing alongside a homeless guy on Michigan Avenue with a sign: Will write for food.