Frank Wildhorn and Chuck Jackson wrote Where Do Broken Hearts Go? for Whitney Houston, who recorded it in 1986 and released it in 1988.
The hit song produced, by Michael Walden, wasn’t a song Whitney was entirely thrilled about recording, even though she knew she had the voice for it, because she didn’t connect with the song.
She went as far as to say she ‘hated it’ in an interview she later did in the 2000s.
However, Clive Davis believed the song would shoot straight to number one, and it did.
At this juncture in my life, while I pursue a career I had dreamt of for so long, but never felt good enough for, I relished the joy it offered me and found myself asking where do broken hearts go?
Just as Clive knew Whitney would do well with the song, my mother knew I would do well in the Germiston City News newsroom, after I had just told her that I had received an offer from the publication in November 2018.
When I started in my position as a junior journalist, I had the zeal and qualifications but, I must admit, I was not prepared.
I thought I was courageous to start a new journey, but I was intensely wary of the future, which I did not believe would be great.
I was not prepared to sit across from grieving parents who had tragically lost their three-year-old son and dive into their innermost thoughts and fears of life.
I was not prepared to have peculiar encounters with racists, classists and sexists.
However, through the support I received from my editor and news editor I grew a thick skin.
I learnt how to defend myself and laugh through my writing, and laugh at myself because of my laughing (aren’t I gutty? Sorry, inside joke for the GCN editorial team).
Through this job, I enjoyed a cultural exchange in the office and in the Germiston community.
I made life-long connections which I will hold dear to my heart, and savvy financial decisions that ensured my pay lasted longer than my month ahead.
There could not have been a better place for me to learn about spiritual healers than to interview Gogo Alinah, who transported me to her journey and gave me a glimpse of her prophesy.
It was glorious to celebrate with an astute businessman as he realised his dream of owning a hotel, to learn new self-defence moves from an international boxer who grew up on these streets where my daily grind was located, and it was spectacular to see young talented dancers and musicians fan the flames of their dreams.
To fully know of any subject you have to write about it, and that is what journalism has taught me.
Though I am perplexed and cannot find the words to say goodbye, my heart is not the least bit shy in showing its cracks.
I don’t know where broken hearts go. I just know that as I move on in my professional career I will always remember the red-haired woman who changed my life in 2018 when she gave me the opportunity to write for her paper and moulded me into an FCJ (Forum of Community Journalists) nominated journalist. I will also remember the funny blue-eyed gal with tattoos who told me an inspiring tale about perseverance, a word which so aptly describes her.
Yours in Journalism
Kgotsofalang ‘Hard Rock’ (sorry – another inside joke) Mashilo.
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Contact the newsroom by emailing: Melissa Hart (Editor) germistoncitynews@caxton.co.za or Leigh Hodgson (News Editor) leighh@caxton.co.za
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