People really hate cherubs. I came to this conclusion rather quickly on my first real day of reporting, when the other journalism cherubs and I invaded downtown Evanston in search of interviews. The topic? Fourth of July plans. The response? Nonexistent.

It was the first really humid day. I’m from Arizona, and the phrase “dry heat” is used so often there that it’s clichéd. The beads of sweat rolling down my neck were as much as a turn-off to me as they were to any potential subjects.

So I marched down Sheridan Rd with a red face and clammy hands, asking befuddled passersby if they would mind talking to me and answering a few simple questions. As trying as my interviewing experience turned out to be, I did meet several delightful people.

The first person I asked had long black hair tied up in a bun. I never learned her name, but to me she looked like a Heather. So she didn’t end up granting me an interview, but she gave me a nervous glance before hurrying away. Thanks, Heather. You made eye contact, and I appreciate it. I shook off the encounter and moved on.

My next target was a middle-aged man with neat gray hair and deep smile lines around his mouth and the corners of his eyes. He looked kind and respectable, so I proceeded. Now as pleasant as Heather was, this man (I dubbed him Jerry) really charmed me. Jerry threw his hands up in the air and shook them as if I were some sort of bug that needed to be swatted.

After four hours of walking, running and occasionally skipping, I got the three interviews I needed. I had asked more than 15 people, and only six would talk to me. Of those six, only three agreed to give me the personal information I needed to write a credible article.

After a cold shower and a few deep breaths, I forgave Heather, Jerry and the others who had brushed me off. Journalists face rejection every day, and if I was to succeed at the cherub program, I would need to get used to it.

Rejection isn’t pleasant, but stories of rejection can be very entertaining.