The Death of Lois Lane

Hard core.

That’s the only way to describe my decade as a traditional journalist. A profession that has been thrown under the bus by my blogging colleagues. Traditional journalism doesn’t get it. They are a dying breed.

Here lies Birdie. Who tragically ran into our door tonight

When I tackled a story I only had one thing in mind- to bring the people the information they needed. I was a very old school journalist and prided myself on sharing unbiased and up to the minute news on wherever I was sent that day.

Fires. Crimes. City Council meetings. Red Carpet galas. Accidents. Weather trouble. Celebrity court hearings. Deaths.

My job was always clear. My objective very straight forward. Get to a scene, collect as much information as possible, share said information with the public.

My politics never came into play. My feelings and emotions buried. I was a journalist. I was a professional. I was there for you, the listener, the viewer.

I was very good at what I did. My investigative work had cities spending millions and landed some nice hardware on my desk. But it’s not about me. This is just to lay the background on why I struggle with the current state of journalism and the impact of new media. And struggle I do.

Make no mistake, I’m leading the charge to incorporate social media into traditional journalism. I’ve spoken on the topic at universities, conferences, and in various podcasts, twitter debates, etc.

Citizen journalists and traditional journalists are not the same. You can combine the two, but in the process you kill traditional journalism.

You can’t be a reporter and share your feelings on a subject matter. This is no-no #1 in Journalism 101 and destroys your credibility. If you open your mouth, you are henceforth a columnist, pundit, and/or blogger.

The end. Period.

This does not mean you can’t break news, investigate, or report. But it does mean you will always be taken with a grain of salt, and you are NOT ever to be considered a journalist. At least not in the traditional sense.

I am no longer a traditional journalist. I gave that up the minute I opened my mouth. I am now a blogger. A pundit. A columnist.

What traditional journalists can do is use these social media tools in their reporting. Use Facebook to promote a story. Use twitter to promote a story, use your online presence in a blog or site fashion to report .. use them as TOOLS, not as bully pulpits. That is the role of reporter. That is the role of journalist.

But I fear the abuse of these social media tools have left us with few, if not zero, real journalists. Everyone is now a social media hybrid citizen journalist. A term I loathe. I prefer to call you MOS… that’s Man on the Street.

You are all witnesses, pundits, columnists, opinion makers. You can blog all day long with facts and opinion and  speculation and use all the tools and really make a difference…but that doesn’t make you a journalist.

And I fear there are none left. No one can seem to keep their mouth shut. No one can seem to ignore the siren song of tweeting how they felt about reporting that story, or blogging the ‘behind the scenes’ of their interviews in a note over on Facebook.

When I began blogging I gave up my title as journalist. It’s as simple as that. Why? Because I respect journalism. I respect what real reporters do. I respect the profession and I certainly know what it is to be a professional journalist.

I tell this to journalism students now and they look at me stunned. How can they possibly live in a world of Facebook and Twitter and blogs where their mother’s are giving status updates on their personal lives?

It’s simple…they can’t. Traditional journalist may be an impossible feat and title for anyone entering the field. I’m not sure any real reporters make their way out of this muck that is social media. You can use the social media tools all you want, but the minute you show your human side you are pounced on for being anything other than a straight news gal.

Maybe journalists were always the ideal, but never really existed. Maybe we all strived to be straight forward and unbiased and worked our tails off to make sure we got you the news and you got it opinion free. I know I did. And I also know I firmly renounce that title now that I’ve opened up my life to the world. What bothers me is other’s haven’t. They continue to label themselves journalists without really having the back ground or education or even experience. While I laude the power of the average person and their blog, and it’s power to enact change… I cringe at what it’s done to those who have worked their entire lives to bring you the news.

Maybe this is my romanticized version of news. Maybe it’s my plea to find the light inside the darkness of so much noise and information and my hope that the cream rises to the top. But more and more I’m finding it’s not the cream, it’s the crazy, loud, brash, and obnoxious. Social media has pitted the serious journalist against the shock jock, and America loves a good train wreck.

So instead of the economy we get Jersey Shore and instead of showing all the hard working people busting their butts to free an Iranian woman from being stoned, we get the Tea Party rhetoric that feminists aren’t doing a thing to help. The noise is beating out the truth. Fiction and lies are louder than those toiling behind the scenes, with no time to defend themselves because they are actually working to make change happen.

And normally it would be the part of the journalist to find these stories, to call them out, to present the information to the public. But they are too caught up playing catch up to notice.

Maybe I’m just lamenting the passing of time. Maybe this is my ‘get off my traditional journalist lawn’ post. Or maybe I just refused to see what was always there.

Lois Lane is dead.

Or was she every really a traditional journalist? After all she was fucking Superman.

All He Needs Is A Cape

Last night I told my son he was my hero.

My boys

We cuddled in his bed after a long day, and very quietly he asked me a question that stopped my heart.

Mom, why am I different from the other kids at school?

We talked about how amazing he is, and how smart and wonderful. We talked about how well he is doing in school, and his many, many friends.

We talked about how everyone says he’s brilliant, and bright… and how well he handles himself. How he’s a leader, and so very sensitive and caring.

And then I told him he was my hero, and he smiled like I have never seen him smile before.

This morning as we walked into school he stopped on the stairs before entering his classroom. He grabbed my shirt, which happens to say ‘I love Jack,’ and grinned that huge grin again.

It’s great being different, because I get you.

Can you take me all the way into class? I want everyone to see your shirt. Because I’m a hero.

A Gift

Driving in the Momvan last night my daughter asked me if animals died like people die.

This is a frequent conversation in our home lately, stemming from my rash of hospital stays and influx of relatives and friends helping to care for me and mine.

She wanted to know if animals lost their colons and uterus too. If they stayed in hospital beds, and if their animal families could visit them.

We arrived at our destination and my son unbuckled and laid his head on my shoulder. He didn’t have to say a word, I knew he just needed to be near me. Death talk does that to him.

My husband, the rock as of late, has been shouldering more weight than I can bear to watch. And after discussions of funerals and what I would wish, and wills and advance directives and how he would cope as a widower, I crumbled inside to put such a burden on those I love.

The pit of my stomach hasn’t been filled with dread over my health, it’s been filled with dread over what my health as done to those around me. It’s gnawed at me with a fierceness. I’m the one who should be caring for them, and it’s very hard for me to play the role of invalid.

But today, I finally got to lift some of that weight. The specter of death hovering in my daughter’s head. The anxiety in my son’s mind. The uncertainty in my husband’s heart.

Remission.

The doctor said remission. And in his office I broke down, and he touched my shaking hands, and he assured me Lupus was, indeed, in it’s cage, locked.

The long road that started with a hospital stay in August of 2009, the tests at UCLA where I ate radiation, the bowel rest hospital stay, the exploratory surgery, the Mother’s Day hospital stay that broke my heart, the colon and gall bladder surgery where my kids were not allowed to see me, the emergency room visit where I cried in anger at the sky because I was again hooked up to tubes and ivs, the total hysterectomy where I mourned my womanhood, and the diagnosis where we stood dumbfounded and planned my death…now, finally…

Remission.

I feel like I have been given a gift I don’t deserve, but my family does. I feel like the world is different in so many ways. I feel like I owe so many people so much…but most of all I owe these people around me the world.

And I will deliver.