
A wee Rose O'Keeffe stands clutching her Kit Kittredge doll next to her mama, Rebecca Jones, before the first day of school in September 2011. O'Keeffe was always drawn to Kit the American Girl because of her dream to be a reporter. Photo provided by Eamonn O'Keeffe
Kit Kittredge was my favorite American Girl doll.
I still recall my first trip to the flagship American Girl Doll store on Michigan Avenue during a day trip from Milwaukee. The store was imposing and awe-inspiring to six-year-old Rosie, but the real significance of that day was getting my very first dolly.
I loved everything about Kit. She had moxie, drive and a strong sense of integrity. But what I admired most about this fictional Great Depression-era doll wasn’t her kindness, sense of style or resilience to the onset of poverty in her community.
Nay, what I admired most was that Kit wanted to be a reporter.
Like Kit, I’ve always been fascinated with the news and enamored with the idea of telling important stories.
That’s not to say I always wanted to be a reporter. Not at all. Like many little girls who grew up dancing, I wanted to be a ballerina. Then there was a small stint in my elementary school years when I wanted to be a nurse (odd, considering I dry heave at the sight of fake blood on “Grey’s Anatomy”). Even as recently as senior year in high school, I was determined to make it as a working actor. Needless to say, none of those short-lived “dreams” materialized into any sort of reality.
In addition to the fictional Kitt Kittredge, I idolized morning talk show host Kelly Ripa. Truth be told, I’m still vying for her job.
Whenever I fall into crisis mode about what I am going to do with my life, my dear mum always reminds me, “You just need to be Kelly Ripa. You’d be so good at that, honey.” If only there were a clear pathway from lowly college student to morning news personality.
Through all these passing fancies on the way to finding a true vocation, being a journalist has always been appealing. However, I never really understood what being a real reporter — being an architect of the first draft of history, being the fourth estate, being an emissary of truth — really meant until I came to DePaul.
My first ever journalism class was winter quarter freshman year. I’d always loved writing, but had never heard of AP style, let alone a “lede” or a “nut graf.”
I had great teachers here at DePaul who showed me the way and made me a better writer. I am so grateful for their influence in my life and work. Without the likes of Jake Cox, Lucia Preziosi, Lilly Keller and the incomparable Martha Irvine, I’d still be writing 2,000-word stories with flowery words no one understands. Now I write 600-word stories about the pope with my eyes closed!

My colleagues at The DePaulia not only put up with my long-arse stories, but they put up with my incessant shenanigans: Scottish accents, Irish accents, transatlantic accents and occasionally rolling on the floor. Herculean tasks to be sure.
Being a reporter is a beautiful calling, and arguably one of the most important professions in a functioning democracy. Reporters must be tough, tactful, quick on their feet and most importantly, creative.
Like Kit Kittredge realized, reporters keep society accountable, notice trends and tell unsung stories.
Though I struggle with determining my purpose and often feel unmotivated and sometimes even feel untalented, I cannot deny the feeling I get when I write a story: a feeling of sublime creativity. A feeling of duty. A feeling of love. I never want to lose that.
I never knew that feeling before coming to DePaul.
DePaul made me a student of journalism, but The DePaulia made me a reporter.
And for that gift, I will always be grateful.