I’m a print journalist. I’ve been one for f-ing ever. This week has been so beyond bearing, so beyond wounding … and, yet, as much as a big, huge part of me wants to slam you, I cannot completely bring myself to. Because while I do not agree with you (I, for one, cannot bear the thought of watching “Fraiser” or “ER” at this point in my life, though I do agree that Animal Planet has been a welcome relief at 2 a.m.), I can intellectually understand where you are coming from. And while I, too, cry during the interviews with survivors, I feel like the worst kind of pond scum for watching – and for asking these people to open up about what has to be the worst kind of pain no one can imagine.
But apparently, those are the kinds of stories people want … which I find sadly ironic, because usually in the aftermath of a disaster, most people attack the media for “victim stories”; now, everyone wants them.
Even though I am an editor, the magnitude of this atrocity has forced me back to the newsroom’s front lines. I have had to make endless phone calls to victims’ families and have had to cajole and coach reporters into making even more – including to the family who lost a little boy. I have had to talk to rescuers, escapees and people so very desperate to do something to help that they are calling my paper to beg for information on where they can go and what they can do. And don’t forget to mix in a few calls from idiots who think all the Muslims should be rounded up and put under guard on abandoned military bases because “they” are all out to kill “us” (you have no idea how my tongue bled from my biting it) and people so terribly afraid that they think they see terriorists behind every tree.
There is a part of me that feels unspeakably dirty. But it is my job. And in some small, tiny way, I am doing my part to tell a horrific episode in my world’s history.
I told myself that even as I essentially pushed one of my brightest young reporters on the first plane out of a local airport yesterday – despite his longtime reluctance to fly, which is now only more magnified – because we were the first place up and flying, and we needed someone on that plane. He wound up in Atlanta; he’d barely touched down before I had him on another flight to Florida to go get the story on the flight school that trained some of these bastards.
That’s his job. Fortunately for my paper and its readers, he is good at it. Very good. He makes me very, very proud. Unfortunately for him, he has no clothes with him, no cash, no clue about where he’s going to be staying for the foreseeable future and no idea when he might be home. And no end in sight to worrying about the fate of several of his – and my – colleagues who were at “ground zero.”
None of us WANT to be doing this. None of us WANT to be covering an act so hideous as to be beyond words. I can honestly say I don’t know of anyone who’s “getting off” on covering this story; we really aren’t a bunch of unfeeling wretches who get our jollies from reporting on others’ agonies. Frankly, and not to be overly macabre, but I would, at this point, like to have some time to watch the TV coverage, to absorb and process what has happened. I would have liked to have watched the memorial services today; but I have a job to do.
But this isn’t about me. It isn’t about ANY journalist, as the wonderful young photographer who took the incredible shot of the firefighters raising the flag at the WTC said so eloquently this morning. Believe it or not, it isn’t even about you, the viewing and reading public.
We are simply trying to do our jobs, to tell a horrific story that no family – even one as big as the American family – should have to endure. Our job is to tell that story. I know we have made mistakes. I know that we will make more. I know that people will listen with only one ear, read and watch with one eye, and that will lead them to think they have read or seen or heard whatever that is patently not true; lord knows I’ve dispelled more than my share of rumors these last awful days.
I am sorry if the job we are doing disturbs you. I can only hope that it will sear into our collective conscious that real people have died, that real people have suffered unimaginable losses.
That is the only thing that matters. The only thing any of this job is about.
Now excuse me. I have to get back to work. Please, everyone stay safe.
Bulletin Board Goddess