This is an instructive case of crafting narrative out of a quick-turnaround assignment. Here’s what Hallman wrote us about the story:
“I was working the weekend shift and was assigned to cover a college graduation. The school sent out a press release touting the story as one about a professor who was retiring and receiving honors. I called the P.R. department looking for something better. I asked if there were any unusual students graduating. They told me there was an older student, Juan Morales. I called him and in one minute knew there was a story. I told him I would meet him at his house and go to graduation. The entire story, from reporting to writing, took about two hours.”
With its good reporting (not just interview, but observation), its concrete, telling detail and its engaging story and backstory, the piece does its subject justice—despite the quick turnaround.
Read this narrative »
Copyright The Oregonian. Reprinted with permission.
The house is just outside of Portland, the last one on the right side of the street, not too far from the freeway and just across from a self-service car wash. Patches of moss cover part of the roof, some of the siding is missing, and the grass hasn't been mowed in weeks. With each knock, the front-door glass rattles and threatens to fall out of the frame.
The man who answers the door has hands that are tough and calloused. The hands of a man who uses them to work. On this Sunday morning, he wears a suit he bought a day earlier at a used clothing store for $8. He borrowed a blue tie with red stripes from a friend. The white shirt and the black wingtips are his. He bought them at what he calls a real store, a good store. He pulls them from his closet only when he goes to church. Or for special occasions.
"This is where I study," says Juan Morales as he leads the way to the kitchen, which has cracked counter tops and a sagging floor. Next to the microwave is a stack of World Books published in the 1960s. He bought the set at a used bookstore. When he eats, Morales randomly selects a volume and reads. He does not care what he reads. Any subject will do.
"I wasted too many years," he says. "Too many years dreaming, wandering, not doing anything."
He shakes his head.
"Let me show you something," he says.
He walks into the living room and points to a dirty wall that needs paint. Earlier this morning, he pounded a nail into the wall.
"That," he says, "is where the diploma will hang."
He nods firmly.
"That wall," he says. "That nail." His mother makes first trip to U.S. He returns to the kitchen and sits at the table. He looks at his wristwatch. He does not have to be at Lewis & Clark College in Southwest Portland until 10 a.m. to meet his mother. She has made her first trip to the United States to witness his graduation. He thinks now of his mother and of the old man, the stranger. Today, he feels the old man's presence. Without the old man, he would be on the streets.
In 1984, Juan Morales, the youngest of eight children in a poor family, decided to leave his hometown of Torreon, a city in northern Mexico, to come to the United States. He had heard stories of people who had come north and found the good life.
"I was naive," he says with a chuckle. "I believed them and all their stories of the lush life. I sold some things to get the train fare to the El Paso border. I walked across the border by myself and then asked which train tracks led West. I jumped on a freight train to Los Angeles."
The train was later stopped and searched by officials, who sent Morales and others back to Mexico.
"I crossed and recrossed the border eight times," he says. "I didn't know what else to do. There was no life in Mexico."
Morales eventually ended up in Oregon, in Washington County, working the fields as an illegal migrant farm worker. He later drifted to Portland, living on the streets in Old Town. Each morning he'd scrounge up money and walk across the Burnside Bridge to a McDonald's restaurant on the east side of town.
"I'd wash my face, clean up and then have something to eat," he says. "Somehow I became friends with an Anglo, a man who was a regular there. He was in his 70s. I never knew his name, but we became friends."
In time, the two men ended up sitting together. The Latino with the poor English, the Anglo with too much time on his hands.
"He told me that time is wasted on the young," Morales says. "Most young people, he told me, wander without direction. I told him that was me. I told him my life was hard and that I was not sure if I could do anything remarkable with it. He talked with me about the importance of education. He said I should go to school."
The stranger suggested Morales enroll at Portland Community College to take a course in English as a Second Language. The man helped Morales enroll and find the money for tuition.
"Then he passed away," Morales says. "I did not know of his death until weeks later when I found out from others at McDonald's. I was angry. I felt he left me. I really needed his advice and guidance. Suddenly, as I was beginning to pursue something, he was not there."
His adopted family
The telephone rings, and Morales excuses himself to take the call. He returns to the room, smiling. His mother, he says, is excited. She will be brought to Lewis & Clark with a couple that Morales considers his adopted U.S. family. He met them when he was picking strawberries and people from their church brought food to the workers in the field.
"My mother is proud of me," he says. "But I don't think she really understands what I went through."
After Morales' mentor died, he continued to go to school and held down several jobs to earn tuition. He worked at the McDonald's and as a busboy at a truck stop.
"I took whatever came around," he says. "I would work, save money and go to school. Then when I ran out of money, I would quit school and go back to work."
In 1993, he found work as a janitor at Lewis & Clark. He later took an opening in the library, working the graveyard shift. And he learned that employees were eligible to take courses at reduced rates.
"My English was better, but not good," he says. "I wandered around the campus, scared. I was just a poor man. Who was I fooling? But I found another mentor—a history professor who remembered me from cleaning his office. I decided to take his class. I became enchanted and decided that I wanted to study history."
He took classes when he could. He worked full time on the graveyard shift in the library and held down other part-time jobs, scrimping and saving for food and books. At times he thought he could not make it, that he did not belong. But on Sunday, he would join them.
Juan Morales, 38, the youngest child of a poor family, would receive his bachelor of arts degree in history.
"I wanted my mother there to watch," he says. "In March, she went to the U.S. Embassy for a visa. My family and I all chipped in for an airline ticket for her. Tonight, I plan on taking her to dinner.
"The money?" he asks.
He smiles and rolls up his right shirt-sleeve. He points to a dark spot on his skin.
"I am very familiar with the plasma clinic," he says. "I got $25 yesterday. We will use the money for dinner."
Graduate school a possibility
He closes the door to his home in Fairview and walks to the car he bought for $100. To start it, he must connect two wires under the dashboard. He lets it idle for a while. Blue smoke pours out of the tailpipe as he heads to Lewis & Clark.
He is not sure what he will do now. He plans on getting a job this summer to pay debts and to save money. Graduate school is a possibility, but the tuition frightens him. He has considered teaching history, but he finds he is drawn to somehow working with high school students.
As he pulls into the campus, a Latino security guard spots Morales and gives him a thumbs up. He stops Morales, shakes his hand and then pounds on the roof of his car. The guard can't stop smiling. Morales parks his Datsun 210 next to a Volvo and joins the hundreds of young graduates making their way to the student center.
"I know every single office on this campus," he says. "I cleaned every one of them."
In the student center, he goes to the restroom to wash his hands. He looks at himself in the mirror, in his cap and gown.
"I cleaned this bathroom," he says. "Me, Juan Morales."
He adjusts his cap and joins the other graduates. He receives his material and learns that he will be student No. 247 out of 404 to receive a degree this Sunday. He clutches his number close to his chest and walks away, quickly swallowed up by a roiling sea of black.
The house is just outside of Portland, the last one on the right side of the street, not too far from the freeway and just across from a self-service car wash. Patches of moss cover part of the roof, some of the siding is missing, and the grass hasn't been mowed in weeks. With each knock, the front-door glass rattles and threatens to fall out of the frame.
The man who answers the door has hands that are tough and calloused. The hands of a man who uses them to work. On this Sunday morning, he wears a suit he bought a day earlier at a used clothing store for $8. He borrowed a blue tie with red stripes from a friend. The white shirt and the black wingtips are his. He bought them at what he calls a real store, a good store. He pulls them from his closet only when he goes to church. Or for special occasions.
"This is where I study," says Juan Morales as he leads the way to the kitchen, which has cracked counter tops and a sagging floor. Next to the microwave is a stack of World Books published in the 1960s. He bought the set at a used bookstore. When he eats, Morales randomly selects a volume and reads. He does not care what he reads. Any subject will do.
"I wasted too many years," he says. "Too many years dreaming, wandering, not doing anything."
He shakes his head.
"Let me show you something," he says.
He walks into the living room and points to a dirty wall that needs paint. Earlier this morning, he pounded a nail into the wall.
"That," he says, "is where the diploma will hang."
He nods firmly.
"That wall," he says. "That nail." His mother makes first trip to U.S. He returns to the kitchen and sits at the table. He looks at his wristwatch. He does not have to be at Lewis & Clark College in Southwest Portland until 10 a.m. to meet his mother. She has made her first trip to the United States to witness his graduation. He thinks now of his mother and of the old man, the stranger. Today, he feels the old man's presence. Without the old man, he would be on the streets.
In 1984, Juan Morales, the youngest of eight children in a poor family, decided to leave his hometown of Torreon, a city in northern Mexico, to come to the United States. He had heard stories of people who had come north and found the good life.
"I was naive," he says with a chuckle. "I believed them and all their stories of the lush life. I sold some things to get the train fare to the El Paso border. I walked across the border by myself and then asked which train tracks led West. I jumped on a freight train to Los Angeles."
The train was later stopped and searched by officials, who sent Morales and others back to Mexico.
"I crossed and recrossed the border eight times," he says. "I didn't know what else to do. There was no life in Mexico."
Morales eventually ended up in Oregon, in Washington County, working the fields as an illegal migrant farm worker. He later drifted to Portland, living on the streets in Old Town. Each morning he'd scrounge up money and walk across the Burnside Bridge to a McDonald's restaurant on the east side of town.
"I'd wash my face, clean up and then have something to eat," he says. "Somehow I became friends with an Anglo, a man who was a regular there. He was in his 70s. I never knew his name, but we became friends."
In time, the two men ended up sitting together. The Latino with the poor English, the Anglo with too much time on his hands.
"He told me that time is wasted on the young," Morales says. "Most young people, he told me, wander without direction. I told him that was me. I told him my life was hard and that I was not sure if I could do anything remarkable with it. He talked with me about the importance of education. He said I should go to school."
The stranger suggested Morales enroll at Portland Community College to take a course in English as a Second Language. The man helped Morales enroll and find the money for tuition.
"Then he passed away," Morales says. "I did not know of his death until weeks later when I found out from others at McDonald's. I was angry. I felt he left me. I really needed his advice and guidance. Suddenly, as I was beginning to pursue something, he was not there."
His adopted family
The telephone rings, and Morales excuses himself to take the call. He returns to the room, smiling. His mother, he says, is excited. She will be brought to Lewis & Clark with a couple that Morales considers his adopted U.S. family. He met them when he was picking strawberries and people from their church brought food to the workers in the field.
"My mother is proud of me," he says. "But I don't think she really understands what I went through."
After Morales' mentor died, he continued to go to school and held down several jobs to earn tuition. He worked at the McDonald's and as a busboy at a truck stop.
"I took whatever came around," he says. "I would work, save money and go to school. Then when I ran out of money, I would quit school and go back to work."
In 1993, he found work as a janitor at Lewis & Clark. He later took an opening in the library, working the graveyard shift. And he learned that employees were eligible to take courses at reduced rates.
"My English was better, but not good," he says. "I wandered around the campus, scared. I was just a poor man. Who was I fooling? But I found another mentor—a history professor who remembered me from cleaning his office. I decided to take his class. I became enchanted and decided that I wanted to study history."
He took classes when he could. He worked full time on the graveyard shift in the library and held down other part-time jobs, scrimping and saving for food and books. At times he thought he could not make it, that he did not belong. But on Sunday, he would join them.
Juan Morales, 38, the youngest child of a poor family, would receive his bachelor of arts degree in history.
"I wanted my mother there to watch," he says. "In March, she went to the U.S. Embassy for a visa. My family and I all chipped in for an airline ticket for her. Tonight, I plan on taking her to dinner.
"The money?" he asks.
He smiles and rolls up his right shirt-sleeve. He points to a dark spot on his skin.
"I am very familiar with the plasma clinic," he says. "I got $25 yesterday. We will use the money for dinner."
Graduate school a possibility
He closes the door to his home in Fairview and walks to the car he bought for $100. To start it, he must connect two wires under the dashboard. He lets it idle for a while. Blue smoke pours out of the tailpipe as he heads to Lewis & Clark.
He is not sure what he will do now. He plans on getting a job this summer to pay debts and to save money. Graduate school is a possibility, but the tuition frightens him. He has considered teaching history, but he finds he is drawn to somehow working with high school students.
As he pulls into the campus, a Latino security guard spots Morales and gives him a thumbs up. He stops Morales, shakes his hand and then pounds on the roof of his car. The guard can't stop smiling. Morales parks his Datsun 210 next to a Volvo and joins the hundreds of young graduates making their way to the student center.
"I know every single office on this campus," he says. "I cleaned every one of them."
In the student center, he goes to the restroom to wash his hands. He looks at himself in the mirror, in his cap and gown.
"I cleaned this bathroom," he says. "Me, Juan Morales."
He adjusts his cap and joins the other graduates. He receives his material and learns that he will be student No. 247 out of 404 to receive a degree this Sunday. He clutches his number close to his chest and walks away, quickly swallowed up by a roiling sea of black.
Tom Hallman, Jr., is a senior reporter specializing in features at The Oregonian. He joined the paper in 1980 and covered the police beat for a decade, longer than any reporter since the 1950s. While covering cops, Hallman began writing feature stories—at first off the beat, then the stories of everyday people. He won the 2001 Pulitzer Prize in feature writing for "The Boy Behind the Mask," and was a Pulitzer Prize finalist in beat reporting in 1995 and in feature writing in 1999. He has won the Ernie Pyle Award for human-interest writing, the ASNE Distinguished Writing Award for nondeadline writing (twice), the feature-writing award from the Society of Professional Journalists and the Livingston Award for Young Journalists.