When people think of censorship, they often picture a dramatic moment – a book banned, a protest silenced, a headline pulled from the front page. But censorship isn’t always loud. Often, it’s quiet and personal – it happens in ways that don’t make national news but still change the course of someone’s life.
Before I ever felt the weight of censorship myself, it had already left its mark on my family. My experience was personal, but not entirely new.
My mother is Cathy Kuhlmeier, one of the students involved in the landmark Supreme Court case Hazelwood v. Kuhlmeier. Growing up, we were told the story of my mother’s experience in fighting against censorship as a high school student, leading to a case that made it all the way to the Supreme Court. That case set a precedent for how schools could control student journalism – a precedent that would come back around years later, in my own high school experience.
I was the editor of our school magazine. It wasn’t always investigative journalism or hard-hitting exposés instead it was student-led storytelling, photography, and features that made our school feel like a community. My censorship experience revolves around a light-hearted but competitive squirt gun game, meant for the seniors to enjoy their last semester before graduation.
One of the most anticipated traditions among seniors was a game called “Assassins.” It was a non-school-sponsored, off-campus water gun game that had been going on for years, administrated by a committee of seniors each year. Every spring, seniors would sign up, get assigned a target, and try to “eliminate” them by squirting them with a water gun — all outside of school grounds and school sponsored activities like sports or clubs, even off school property. When you “assassinated” your target, you acquire theirs, reload your H₂O, and set your water gun sights on your new assignment. It was silly, competitive, and something we all looked forward to since our freshman year.
We decided to write a short article about it as part of our series which highlighted activities that students did outside of the classroom, athletic fields and hallways of the school — just a half-page feature explaining the rules, how to sign up, and a few fun illustrations. Our journalism teacher approved it. A student wrote a great piece, complete with interviews from the admin committee, original artwork and photos of past winners. It was lighthearted, creative, and a fun intro into what would be a bigger piece following the events to come in the next few weeks.
Then the new principal got involved.
The magazine was sent to her for review before going to print. A few days later, we were told the article had been pulled. The reason? The word “assassins” and the imagery of water guns were deemed inappropriate. The concern was that it could be interpreted as promoting gun-related activities at school even though the game was explicitly off-campus and had nothing to do with school property or events.
It wasn’t a major exposé that would win awards or uncover some great conspiracy theory about the cafeteria pizza. But it stung. It stung because it was our work. It stung because it was our voice. It stung because it was taken away without a conversation.
Some of us pushed back. We asked questions. We wanted to understand. That’s when things got serious.
We were called into a no-phones meeting with our journalism teacher. She was visibly uncomfortable. She told us, in no uncertain terms, that if we continued to push the issue, there would be consequences — detentions, revoked letters of recommendation, and potential impacts on scholarships and college admissions. She knew it was censorship. She knew my family’s history with it. But she also knew she could have professional repercussions. And at that moment, she chose to enforce the censorship rather than challenge it. She likely did challenge this in private with administration, but when the decision came to the students, we were censored.
The article didn’t run. The rest of my senior year continued, I didn’t win “Assassins” and journalism class was noticeable less energetic. My passion for photography and storytelling faded. That was the end of my journalism career – before it ever really began.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t public. But it was real and it mattered.
Years later, joining the Cathy Kuhlmeier Foundation has reignited something in me. It’s reminded me why student journalism matters. Why young voices matter. And why censorship, even the quiet kind, needs to be challenged.
I don’t want other students to lose their passion the way I did. I don’t want them to feel like their stories aren’t worth telling. Journalism is more than just reporting; it’s about curiosity, creativity, and courage. When we silence young journalists, we risk losing all three.
Censorship isn’t always a Supreme Court case. Sometimes, it’s a pulled article. A quiet threat. A missed opportunity. But every time it happens, it leaves a mark.
That’s why I’m passionate about this foundation – to help make sure the next generation of student storytellers don’t lose their voice.
Cathy Kuhlmeier Foundation 