A journalist's lament: Of breaking news, and breaking hearts

Well, I face a career conundrum, one increasingly hard to ignore.

A couple years ago, through the vagaries of the shrinking, constantly morphing newspaper business — and through no choice of my own — I found myself returning to reporting on crime, fires and other "breaking news" that comprises so much of the new "online journalism" model these days.

 

This past week reminded me of why I was so relieved to have left that aspect of my profession — or, so I thought — 16-plus years ago when I quit The Associated Press for the flagship newspaper of my region.

Every day, I am reporting on someone's crisis or grief. A death by accident, or crime; loss of a home to fire; critical injuries in a crash that, if not fatal, leave the victims crippled or in a coma.

It just never stops, this well of our species' pain and suffering seemingly without bottom, refilled every day with stupidity, greed, rage, avarice and hubris.

You get hardened to it all. Gallows humor thrives in the newsroom, a tool to maintain your sanity in having to report such events day in, day out, week after week, month following month, year after year.

Then, a "routine" story turns on you, taking a chunk out of your heart.

We do dozens of "missing person advisory" type stories in a month's time. Kind of a public service, in cooperation with police, to help locate people in crisis -- runaway teens, seniors with dementia, people with urgent medical problems, etc.

Usually, it ends well: someone sees the photo, calls 911, and the person is safely recovered.

This past week, a missing 14-year-old girl was the subject of such a story. But there was no happy ending.

She was found, having apparently hanged herself, near an irrigation canal.

In most cases, our paper does not report suicides unless they are accompanied by a SWAT standoff or are highly public, such as someone jumping off a downtown building as hundreds watch.

But this young woman had been the subject of a major police search effort, so we had to followup. Reporting the cause of death, suicide, could not help but further traumatize the family. 

I did not name the child, though her name had been out there from earlier reports when she was "missing." The grieving family wanted to insist it wasn't suicide, despite the clear and overwhelming evidence that it was.

"Denial," is a stage of the grieving process, after all.

Police initially provided some incorrect information, too, which didn't help. That was reported, though clarified as soon as the details changed.

Still, by doing my job, I added to the pain of this grieving family. Intentions mean little in such situations. Sure, the door was opened, so to speak, by the public appeal for help finding the girl, the extensive search, etc. Professionally, we had to to report the outcome.

But in my gut, I wonder how much longer I can do that particular job.

What is more important? Getting the beat on a tragic story over others just as determined to air dirty laundry? Or, even if you cannot be a healing hand, at least not being the source of more injury?

It's not the first time I've asked myself this question over the years. And, I sigh, more deeply each time, as I consider it likely won't be the last.

 But I wonder. Will there come a time when it is?

On a melancholy day, Jupiter provides perspective -- and a cure for the blues

Some days, you just feel like you flop out of bed in the predawn darkness only to painfully crawl into the day.

It's "Hump Day." That mid-week marker of futility that reminds you that Life has settled into a routine of work that, thank God, pays the bills, but has long since ceased to challenge.

There was a time when in-depth reporting, well-crafted writing and meaning imbued your job -- but with the decline of the long-form narrative in newspapers in favor of the quick-hit, short digital briefs posted to the Web, those days are pretty much gone.

And, occasionally, on days like this one, you mourn the meaningful past and lament the shadow your journalistic career has become.

You reach out, freelancing editing and writing. For a while, that works. An up-and-coming media company gives you three years of steady work; it's fun and it pays well.

But success leads to larger staff. The need for freelancers disappears with more full-timers on board. Progress for them; back to the drawing board for you.

And on this morning, trudging through the dark and cold and snow to the train, you realize that THIS has become the "now." And, it sucks.

Yes, you have a job when many do not. Gratitude is expressed to the heavens. And yet . . . melancholy.

Suddenly, the mist puffing from his scarf-wrapped mouth, a fellow smiles and asks: "Do you know what that star is, just to the right of the moon?"

You look up. The moon is nearly full. Next to it is a sparkling, aqua-to-bluish light twinkling. It is cold, distance and . . . amazing.

"Actually, that's not a start at all," the man continues. He points to the light. "That's Jupiter!"

He continues, his enthusiasm infectious. Jupiter has 40 moons, and counting. Jupiter has two and a half times the mass of all the other planets of the solar system, combined. 

 

Jupiter is . . . huge. You could fit, roughly, 1,400 Earths within the gas giant's mass.

"You can tell I'm an astronomy buff," he finally says.

I look up and smile. The moon is a shimmering silver orb, Jupiter hanging off its shoulder like a cosmic broach.

No only are we on this planet not at the center of the Universe, but our lives are both infinitesimally small and uniquely precious and fragile, all at the same time.

Perspective.

Life.

Not so bad, after all.

Journalism and Janitors: Dirty birds of a metaphorical feather

 When I was a poor preacher's kid working my way through college, I had gigs as a dishwasher at Holiday Inn, and as a janitor on campus. 

Thirty-plus years later, I realize it was the latter job that prepared me best, mentally anyway, for a career as a journalist.

Living the dream, folks. I rise before dawn, get to work when the sun rises and essentially shovel away the "crap" left over from nightside, leaving the news porcelain seat clean for the day's Buns 'o' Destiny.

When you get down to it, whether in coveralls or a suit, loafers or hip-boots, wielding a laptop and cellphone or a spray bottle of disinfectant and a Johnny brush, we all essentially scoop and flip the tasks of the day in order to put that roof over our heads and food on the table.

Which reminds me: Always wash your hands after work and before eating.

Nancy Grace: Is she fanning the flames of racial hatred for ratings?

Nancy Grace (CNN/Google)

Nancy Grace continues to repeat the claim -- which her network reported early on concerning ZImmerman's profanity laced 911 call -- that Zimmerman used the term "f'ing coons."

Justifiably, folks were enraged, arguing that was solid evidence of his racial profiling, even hatred.

But what Nancy missed, or chose to ignore as she fanned the flames of outrage over Zimmerman's acquittal (which has plenty of other, legitimate reasons to question, BTW) is that the FBI said that was incorrect, and now CNN has since acknowledged their initial analysis was wrong.

A new, enhanced analysis by CNN shows what was said was "(it's) f'ing cold."

I bring this up NOT to in any way justify what happened with Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman, at all. I bring it up to show the irresponsibility and arguably lack of professional ethics by Ms. Grace in continuing to fan the hate with claims she knows, or should know, are just plain wrong. 

The FBI report, for what it's worth; I make no judgments based on this one small part of the puzzle. It is what it is (click on the hypertext link to hear for yourself).