Words Weekly, Chapter 1:

Ode. What A Great Word. Simple, full of meaning.

Since I was little, I’ve loved the written word. I struggled with it at first, but I overcame it, and I think that’s why I’ve picked my career path. I love how letters form words, how words form phrases, how phrases form sentences, which then form paragraphs, which then form sections in stories and chapters in books. This is my ode to these formations — with a dash of reporting talk mixed in. It’s going to be esoteric, and probably will interest only me. I do what I’ve done below in my head anyway, so I might as well put it in writing.

(I’m going to try to do something like this regularly [once a week], just because I’m obsessed with email newsletters right now and I think having one of my own would be fun; doing a blog post is a semi-slide into that world. I’ll h/t where I get stuff, unless of course I find it on my own, which in that case, uh, I won’t. And if someone comes up with a better name, please let me know.)

The Word That Stayed With Me

perquisite

It’s not the coolest sounding word in the world, but I like it’s definition. It can mean, simply, a perk. But it’s more like an unwarranted reward based on someone’s position. So, like, big Wall Street banks not getting destroyed after destroying people’s livelihoods is a perquisite. This past week was the first time I came across it, in David Halberstam’s The Powers That Be (more on that later). Surprised it isn’t used more often.

The Words I Wish I’d Written

This requires some context. James Kilpatrick, a staunch segregationist (and the subject of these words not the writer), was the editor of the Richmond News Leader, a Virginia newspaper in the 1950s and ’60s whose copy reflected that of its editor. He firmly believed the country wasn’t a unit, but a “collection of individual, sovereign states”:

“Consequently, Kilpatrick frequently noted, readers would never see the term ‘United States’ take the singular in his editorials. Awkward as it was stylistically, the United States was not mentioned in his editorials. But the United States were. Though a stickler on such things, Kilpatrick was not a prude about editorial humor.”

— The Race Beat by Gene Roberts and Hank Klibanoff

Obviously meta, but the writers don’t dwell on how clever it is, just get back to the narrative, and I think that’s so slick.

The Stories I Made Time For

“Double Jeopardy” by Paige Williams, The New Yorker

On judicial override in Alabama. I have a soft spot in my heart for that state because I have family there, but you can’t defend most of the shit that happens in there. A cool note: The “nut graf” comes about halfway through it.

— h/t about every long-form or “best links” thing I follow or subscribe to

“The Long Way Home” by Eli Saslow, ESPN The Magazine

Saslow is my favorite writer, and this story only makes me love his writing more (even though it’s about a Denver Bronco, and I still can’t forgive that team for beating my Packers in the 1997 Super Bowl; I know I was 6, but still).

The Older Story I Made Time For

“Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream” by Joan Didion

C’mon, it’s Joan Didion.

The Article That Got Me Thinking

“‘Serial’ and White Reporter Privilege” by Jay Caspian Kang, The Awl

Like many people, I love “Serial” (more for how it details great reporting, and what I can learn from it, more than for its storytelling). Unlike many people, I don’t like Kang’s writing, but he is an incredibly smart dude and he makes a great point here. I’m a white male, so I have a lot of built-in privilege already, so this article is about me.

When reporting on police shootings in Dallas, I think about the dynamic between white and minority communities a lot because I’m covering a community that’s essentially foreign to me. The balance of power seems so skewed in my favor; I’m surprised people talk to me. Good to be aware of that dynamic, but I haven’t found a way around it yet: Usually I just acknowledge that I know I’m white and can’t ever understand what you’re going through, but I’ll listen carefully as you describe it. (This topic deserves way more words than I’ve written here.)

What’s Burning a Hole in my Pocket App

Sometimes I scroll through my Pocket app like it’s a Netflix queue: What do I want to entertain me right now? I’ll pass a title and think, that would be a good film to watch, but I just don’t have the mental stamina to engage with something of substance right now. Same with some articles in that app: I know, at some point, I’ll want to read them, but I want to savor the moment. Needless to say, some stories get stuck in there a while.

This week: “The Ripples From Little Lake Nellie” by Gary Smith, Sports Illustrated

The Book I’m Engrossed In Right Now

The Powers That Be by David Halberstam

He has this tendency to start a paragraph with only a name, then a short or incomplete sentence to describe its owner. It’s pretty awesome, even though sometimes I feel he overuses it.

Examples:

• “Henry Robinson Luce. Harry. Everyone called him Harry, it was a sign of terrible ignorance to call him Henry, though he was not a good old boy, he was not easily approachable, and he did not grant intimacy easily.” Then, later in the book, Halberstam starts another graf about Luce like this: “A curious blend of a man. Part sophisticate and part hick. At once shy and incredibly arrogant.”
• “Chambers. His name is stamped indelibly on that era.”
• “It had started with Harrison Gray Otis. General Otis. General in title, but even more in spirit. A fierce man.”

Plus, the book is about journalism, and who doesn’t love talking ad nauseam about that? It’s really long; it might be here a while…maybe this wasn’t the best idea for a section.

Thanks for reading!

One Small Step Step — Scratch That … One Giant Leap For Sky

In the next few hundred words, I’m going to attempt wading through some rather thorny material. So, if you continue reading, please bear in mind that I’m not stereotyping anyone or anything. I realize that could come up in circumstances such as the one I’ll relate below, but what happened is my own personal when-worlds-collide experience.

OK, now that the clumsy opener is out of the way, let’s roll.

Like any big city, Dallas has its fair share of crime. Certain areas have more crime than others. Sometimes, those crimes are worth reporting. Monday night, a crime like that happened in an area with a high-concentration of crime.

As I wrote for Unfair Park, a drive-by shooter hit a 15-year-old in the head.

The police didn’t provide much information, so my editor sent me out to the strip mall where it had happened. I’ve done crime reporting before, but usually from my desk — you know, call the police or the lawyers and scrounge up a police report or a court document. The only other time I’ve actually gone to the place an incident had taken place was my first week at the Missourian. Someone had shot a gun, without hitting anyone, the night before and a buddy and I were sent out to knock on doors to find witnesses. Or, at least, people who had heard gunshots. The funny thing is, I thought we were in a quote-end-quote unseemly neighborhood in freakin’ podunk (compared to Dallas) Columbia, Missouri, when really some of the houses were a little run-down. That’s how naive I was when I was 20.

Anyway, on Tuesday I drove the 20 minutes up I-75 and parked in the strip mall’s lot. Now, I have what I consider a nice car. It’s a 2001 Toyota Highlander. The gold paint job is still intact. It looks like a really nice car, especially when the vehicles around it aren’t so nice. Also, I was wearing a white button-down shirt and shorts, with Sperries (what a friend once called my “rape shoes” because he thought I looked like a total tool wearing them; they’re comfortable; they do make me look a bit fratty, unfortunately).

When I stepped out of the Highlander, I became instantly aware of how I looked in relation to the other people at the mall. I felt like the type of guy some people in my apartment building probably think I am — the $30,000 millionaire (a most insipid species native to my neck of Dallas) that I most likely could pass as if I ever ventured out to a bar by myself.

A man in a wife-beater (maybe not the best word, but it’s the only one I can think of to describe the article of clothing he was wearing) who was standing on the side of the corner store next to the dumpster got my attention. Music was blaring from the store so I couldn’t hear. I walked up beside him and cocked my head.

He’d been asking me what I was looking for. Weed? Something else?

Uh, no, I told him. I’m a reporter and a boy was shot here last night, I said, do you know exactly where it happened? He pointed to the other end of the lot. I said thank you.

It was one of the most surreal moments of my life.

I walked down the walkway by the store fronts. I could see a group of about 20 guys gathered near the shop on the other end. Getting into lockstep with two young guys, I asked them if they knew anything about the shooting last night. They both looked down at my shoes, up at my face, then away from me without a word.

When I got to the group and introduced myself as a reporter, they went silent. I asked if anyone knew about the shooting last night. No one said anything. Most looked away.

“Your story is right over there,” one told me, pointing to the memorial of religious candles and stuffed animals about 20 feet away. I felt particularly unwanted. Totally understandable.

The blood stain had not been cleaned up yet; it might still be there. I took a picture of it, which I still feel like a creep for doing. The Observer didn’t run a picture of the stain, but The Dallas Morning News did if you’re interested.

After that, I knocked on doors. An apartment complex (which doesn’t have a good rep on YouTube) abuts the strip mall’s parking lot. I went to the apartments closest to the lot. In the middle of the day, only three people answered. One was a little girl whose parents weren’t home so I left without asking anything. One told me he didn’t hear anything last night. One said she had.

I went back to the memorial. A young woman sitting next to it said she knew the dead teenager. A guy sitting beside her said, under his breath, “Don’t talk to them.” I asked a couple questions, trying to get more information on the deceased’s personality. I didn’t get very far.

Driving back to the office, I wished I had tried to sell the woman on talking to me more. I’m trying to honor his memory, I should have said. I want to make sure people who read this remember him. And I really did; in a statistic-heavy area, I wanted to do my part to make him a non-statistic. I don’t know if the hard sell would have worked, but at least I wouldn’t have had reporter’s guilt about not trying everything I could have. Lesson learned.

Now, if you haven’t guessed already and if my opening wasn’t heavy-handed enough, the people I spoke to were all black, which is something I never bring up in the story I wrote. There, it was unnecessary, but I think the information can serve a purpose here. On a lot of levels, I can’t relate to the people I talked to. Their experiences are nothing like my experiences. It’s good to be aware of that, but at the same time it can’t hold me back.

Based on crime data, the area I was walking around is a hot spot. At no point did I feel unsafe, only apprehensive. I’m sure it’s a lot different at night. Back in Socorro, I’m not even sure we locked our front door when we hit the pillows. It wasn’t really a thought I had.

I don’t really know if there’s a “larger picture” to be gleaned from this, but I have a couple takeaways. I need to be more conscious of how I come across to people; the way I’d dress to interview the mayor should not be the way I’d dress to talk to an on-the-job plumber. And no, I don’t think that’s gimmicky. Also, I need to be more persistent — though always polite and courteous — when tackling a tough story, but only when’s it’s proper.

A young man I came across in the apartment complex’s parking lot told me he was with the dead teenager the night he died and that he saw the bullet go through his head. He pointed to his temple. In a professional tone, I asked him if he wanted to talk to me about it. He said no and walked away. I thanked him for his time.

Sounds About Right

So, if you haven’t heard, being a reporter is now the worst job in the world. Reasons for this — and, bear with me, these might surprise you all — include:

1. Pay
2. Stress
3. Hours

Well, I knew all that going in when I decided I wanted to be a reporter.

For one, I come from a lower-middle class family. I know how to get by without a lot of money.

Second, I thrive under stress. Almost all the reporters I know do. From the time I was lacing up my Velcro shoes to right now, I wait till the last possible minute to write a paper or do a project because I know I have to put my ass in gear.

Third, part of the appeal of the job is that you don’t work traditional hours. Working late, getting up early and shifting your schedule to best fit those you’re interviewing is what makes the job interesting.

Scott Goldstein, a reporter with the Dallas Morning News, wrote an article in Poynter a little while ago that summed this up nicely:

Long before the internet and social media ruled our industry, we were expected to sacrifice our personal lives and make ourselves available at all hours. And while it’s true that many journalism institutions once had enough cash to bankroll foreign bureaus and cross-country trips for major breaking news, anyone who says they set out in any era to be a print journalist for the money is either lying or delusional.

Back to the “negatives” of the job: Caitlin Johnston from Poynter spoke with the publisher of the company that created the list and, including the above traditional “drawbacks,” cited  three new reasons for the dead-last ranking:

1. Small job market
2. Increased demands of individual reporters
3. Uncertainty in the industry (On the website that originally published the list, there’s a quote that states the print industry will be dead by 2020)

Of these, the limited number of job openings scares me the most. How do I distinguish myself from the others? But that worry doesn’t stop me from wanting to be a journalist.

And I do have some personal experience with No. 2 on the above list. A reporter friend of mine was asked to do too much at his newspaper job, and he just couldn’t handle it anymore. He ended up quitting, but he was having some existential crises about his profession before then anyway.

As for the third one, print isn’t going anywhere. We still associate physical copy with the truth.

This is an exciting time for the industry. As Goldstein wrote:

It’s hard to imagine another time when journalists — particularly the young and digitally savvy — had as much opportunity to reshape the nature of what we do through blogs, apps, videos, photos and tweets.

Of course there are negatives, like every other profession. Unless you’re a movie star, being an actor pays less than $18 dollars an hour. Reporters know the negatives going in. We relish the opportunity to try and change them.

As always, Gene Weingarten had the best response to the news:

I bet this Best-Worst jobs ranking was manipulated to put newspaper reporter last. Assures wide coverage.online.wsj.com/article/SB1000…

— geneweingarten (@geneweingarten) April 23, 2013