So, that's it. It is over. With one last story filed about college enrollment in a bad economy and an obligatory office lunch I am about to ride off in to the sunset, destined to be remembered in dusty archive rooms and yellowed clippings thumb-tacked to family bulletin boards.
I know better than to say “never,” but if all goes well today will be the last day I will ever spend as a newspaper reporter. Over the past five years I have spent the vast majority of my life in a newsroom of some kind, whether it was nights interning in the sports department at the Salem News, days napping in my cubicle at the Malden Observer or mid-mornings pretending I was on the phone to avoid someone's pointless story at the Lynn Item.
I have written thousands of stories in that time, ranging from pointless crap like the opening of nail salons to the life-changing breaking news that someone has been killed or a fire has ravaged a neighborhood. But one thing I think you take for granted as a reporter is that no matter what the story is, every single word that you write is going to have an impact on someone's life in one way or another.
Too often reporters look at sources as people who fill holes in the stories with quotes, and, worse, think more about how they are going to drum up controversy and sell newspapers with their story than how the story itself is going to impact those involved.
I would say that over 80 percent of the stories I wrote as a reporter garnered some sort of response, good or bad, either from the people directly involved or someone with a strong opinion. I have helped candidates get elected to office (and in turn, documented plenty of defeat) and memorialized the deceased, all with the words that I have typed on a series of ill-performing computers.
At the same time, I can remember dozens of battles fought, Mothers upset that I wrote about their child's drug arrest, the catholic school parents who were upset that I included quotes from their kids about how unhappy they were to attend a mandatory after prom party, the hooker who left me a message saying she was a “woman of dignity” after I made sure her mug shot got on the police page.
I even called the mother of a Marine in Iraq selfish in a heated shouting match one day because she was mad that I didn't mention her son enough in a story about an Iraq War support group.
Reporters are a rare breed, you have to be able to deal with the general public on a daily basis. It makes you hard. It gives you street cred. Reporters are the gangstas of the writing industry. In a discussion with someone last week I lamented the fact that in five years I have never been nervous about any story that I have written in a newspaper, yet the second I write something creative I won't even show it to my closest friend because of pure anxiety. That's the thick skin. I know what I write in that paper is fact and I know why it is there. When I write creatively, I have no audience. I have no one to prove myself to.
Over the years I have worked with some of the sleaziest, most ruthless reporters, always trying to dig up dirt, as well as some of the laziest and most apathetic.
“Wait- there is a fire? Where? Ugh. Why can't the fires ever start in the morning when I get to work?”
I would like to think that I am somewhere in the middle. I am by no means hard hitting- in fact, I prefer not to know about most people's indiscretions because, lets face it, I wouldn't want anyone to know about mine. At the same time, this job does provide with it an obligation to report the information that is important to people's lives, and to do so fairly.
Some days I stop and think, though, “how good could I have been at this job if I actually tried?”
The problem with me is that when all is said and done, I really just don't care. I have a lot going on in my own life, I can't be spending my days at work worrying about what other people are doing in theirs. Sure, I've had my causes. I am still convinced that the parents of an 11-year-old boy supposedly beat up in school three years ago kicked his ass and put him in a wheel chair and made up the story to cover their asses- but for the most part, I truly do not want to know what is happening. I don't even watch the news.
My involvement in this industry was not based on my desire to be a reporter. It was based on my desire to be a writer. I know I can write. I may not like what I write all of the time, but whenever I feel that way, someone always steps up and pays me a compliment to help me keep going. But I don't want to write about other people's lives any more. Now it is time to focus and write about my own.
Memories aside, my last day here was pretty much just like any other day, aside from the obligatory “you're leaving” office lunch. I appreciate what my coworkers did, buying me a B.L.T. (my choice) for lunch and I know that they are all going to miss me, but I am really banking on getting out of here without having to hug anyone and without giving a flowery speech.
...As I finish typing that sentence, I have the following exchange.
Chris: Well, Dan, I think it is time for your cake.
Me: Cake? There is cake?
Chris: When have you ever know us to do anything without cake?
As most of you reading this know, I am about as socially awkward as they come and the only thing I hate more than forced work functions is forced work functions about me. Now, as I also hate to do, I am going to be forced to talk about myself. Still, it is a nice gesture with the cake. And the BLT. And I'm sure there will be a “goodbye” card signed by the office.
Maybe I'll put my cynicism aside for the next half hour. It is the least I can do, I suppose.
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