I was sitting in a small, dark room with two long tables of seven students each. Standing in front of us was a small, artsy professor talking about the joy of short films. I couldn't have cared less. And I realized in that moment that I did not want to be a film major. I am not interested in making interpretive Claymation features. I am not a poet or an artiste. I am interested in photography, in still images, in telling stories.

Later that same day I sat in my adviser's office, trying to explain what I want to do. Journalism, she said. You should try journalism.


I was a late bloomer in the world of journalism. I hadn't had any internships or any plans for a job after college. I thought that the real world would never intrude upon my sheltered college life.

During my final year at Penn State, I enrolled in a photojournalism class with John Beale, former chief photographer for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. I fell in love with capturing moments in people's lives and sharing those moments with others. That class was a sentinel moment in my life. No one had taught me more than Beale. That was the case until I arrived in St. Petersburg, Fla., where I spent six weeks with some of the most amazing people I'll ever know. And John Beale was the reason I made it there.

I was sitting at my computer one night during the fall semester, browsing through e-mails from the career adviser, deleting one after another. Internship opportunities and job openings for public relations, advertising and media companies filled my inbox. Junk.

One promotion caught my eye. It said: Get a better job in journalism. I immediately went to Poynter Online to read more about the program. As I researched the fellowship, I knew that it was for me. The possibilities gave me butterflies.

I sat in John Beale's office while we looked through hundreds of photos to find the 10 that I would send with my application. After burning the CD and writing the essay, I threw it all into an envelope and rushed to the post office. It was five minutes before close on Nov. 15 - the deadline for postmark. Then I waited. Some days I was confident. Other days, I felt unworthy.

The week before Christmas, I was in Virginia visiting family. We ate ham, drank wine and listened to Christmas music. I didn't have my phone on me, but when I checked it around 11 p.m. I missed a call from an unknown number. Hello, Kenny Irby.

Kenny's message told me that the staff at The Poynter Institute would love to consider me for a place in the summer fellowship program, but unfortunately the CD with my photos wouldn't open. He had tried three times.

I was fortunate that Kenny called to give me the chance to e-mail him what had been on the CD. Usually, if an employer can't open a CD or a Web site, they just toss your application aside. An old friend of Kenny's wrote my recommendation letter. Thank God for John Beale.

When I got home the next day, I frantically searched for the thumb drive that I prayed still held my Poynter photo submissions. On Dec. 23, 2006, at around 5 p.m. I clicked "send" and left my future in the hands of cyberspace.

Four days later, I got an e-mail:

December 27, 2006, Kenny Irby to me: "Congratulations! Thanks so much Ashley, I hope that you had a very Merry Christmas and if not, allow me to make your day and offer you a spot in the Poynter summer fellowship program. HAPPY NEW YEAR! Peace, Kenny."

The taste was sweet. From then on my mailbox was full of e-mails to and from John Beale preparing me for my time at Poynter. He told me about Kenny and often sent me links to articles he had written. I learned that he was one of the most connected photojournalists nationwide and, most of all, a visual rock star. It left an impression. I wanted to impress him.

At first, like many of the other fellows, I was unsure if I belonged or if I was good enough to be at Poynter. But I bonded quickly with my team and started to feel comfortable.

Three weeks later, I was standing in the dining hall with my group in front of the rest of the fellows and some faculty. We were being debriefed by the group on the last week's work. We had just finished eating another catered breakfast and my stomach was turning. I was proud of my photos of a local dying artist, Jack Barrett. I had captured him painting what could possibly have been his final piece. It hit deep.

My teammate Shoshana and I told our colleagues what it was like to do a story on a dying man. As I stood next to the computer, Kenny Irby pulled up the page with my photos and the story. I was anxious to hear what everyone had to say. Roy Peter Clark said my images were powerful. Lara Cerri, a photographer at the St. Petersburg Times, looked back at me from the table she was sitting at in the middle of the room. She placed her hands on her chest and mouthed the words, "It's beautiful." At that same moment, Kenny leaned toward me, smiled, and touched his fist to my arm.

He'd given me a "pound." I got a Kenny Irby pound.

"Nice work," he said. In this short but sweet moment, my teammate Joey later told me, my face lit up with a glowing smile.

That's what I came here to do. I impressed Kenny. I finally felt like I belonged.

As soon as we finished presenting our project I ran to a computer. I messaged John Beale telling him how I felt -- like a rock star.