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.

Name It, Change It … and Me

*I’m not really the President of BlogHer … but I’m guessing you guys get the joke

Glenn Beck’s Rally Makes My Heart Hurt

While Glenn Beck talks ‘Civil Rights’ -on the exact date and location of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech I feel the need to review.

Glenn Beck is the man who said:

“This president, I think, has exposed himself as a guy, over and over and over again, who has a deep-seated hatred for white people or the white culture…I’m not saying that he doesn’t like white people, I’m saying he has a problem. He has a — this guy is, I believe, a racist.”

Media Matters has a full round-up of Beck’s racially tinged remarks, because sadly that isn’t the only one.

While I am beyond offended this man and his followers will stand in THAT spot, on THAT day and invoke Dr. King…I am finding it more productive to take a deep breath and not give in to the overwhelming feeling of anger. While I want to yell and scream about being labeled a race baiter for even bringing up Beck’s racially moronic remarks and rhetoric that will have thousands of white people chanting his name…I’m going to again, take a breath…and look at this photo. Because a big smile makes it all better.

Tee hee @pigtailpals

And by the way, yes my daughter is wearing a girl astronaut t-shirt … something Mr. Beck doesn’t appreciate or care about.

So while throngs of Beck’s followers talk civil rights in DC, I am choosing to look to the future. To my daughter. To my son. And to the sanity even they bring to this otherwise ridiculous display of hate and greed.

Mom, that guy seems kinda crazy.

Yes he does baby. Yes, he does.

Sometimes, It IS Lupus

I plan on hoodwinking many idiots.

Two Weeks Notice

I miss having colds. You know, the kind where you get all miserable for a few days, people say how sorry they are you feel poorly, and you eat lots of soup. Colds are a manageable illness. Almost fun.

Now I have to explain, over and over again, we’re not entirely sure what’s wrong with my body (it’s an auto-immune disorder). And I can’t just take a box of tissue and some tea and go lay in bed.

It’s been two weeks since my total hysterectomy, and eight weeks since they took 13 inches of my colon and my entire gall bladder. It’s been 16 weeks since they first cut me open, poking around and cleaning inflammation and adhesions, trying to figure out why I had been so very ill.

I look like skin and bones, and not the good kind. As my husband says, I don’t look like someone who has lost a lot of weight…I look like someone who has been very ill. And it’s true, I’ve been very ill. Very, very ill.

I’ve penned my funeral wishes. Put on paper what I want for my kids and family after my death. Thought very hard about what should happen if my vital organs were attacked like their non-vital sisters.

It’s not easy to think about these things, but I was calm and they were necessary. In the moment you just … do. I felt I had to at least prepare for the worst so I would have no regrets if it all went South.

Family has flown in and out-of-town. Friends have visited. It’s been 16 weeks of questions and theories, all while I lay on the couch in my pj’s trying so hard to hold in all the emotion flooding my usually bustling body.

We’ve all sort of soldiered on around here, waiting. Waiting to see if there will be four or five surgeries instead of these three. Waiting to see if they find Cancer. Waiting to see if I feel better when I awake from anaesthesia.

We know now there is no Cancer. And we are cautiously optimistic as this last surgery has me feeling better than I have felt in a year. But there always seems to be the other shoe that drops.

Fuck that shoe.

I’m done.

And I will keep that damn shoe in the air by sheer force of will if I have to. I feel stronger. I feel better. I’m eating, I’m walking more than just around the block. And I have every intention of revising those death wishes for many, many years to come.

There is something that happens when you spend your 10th wedding anniversary dancing in your kitchen, instead of a romantic Inn as planned. There is something that happens when your oldest child needs therapy for his mounting anxiety and your youngest re-enacts nothing but sickness and death with her stuffed animals. There is something that happens when you spend too many weeks in pj’s on the couch, petting your new puppy (a gift to help you heal) and wondering how to conquer the world while feeling more like taking a nap.

This body is officially on notice. There will be no other shoe to drop, there will be no more surgeries. There will be no more of this disorder. I’m done. And you’re getting off this couch.

Yes, my dear body, you can #suckit.

In fact, the next time you end up on this couch, it will be because of some measly cold. You will get tissues and maybe some soup, if you’re lucky.

Perhaps I’m being too harsh on this frail frame of now 123lbs. But I don’t care. Tough love baby. Tough love. I have children to raise, a husband to dote on, and Democrats to elect.

…And I refuse to let anything get in the way… even my stubborn self.

Sarah Doesn’t Speak For Me

Don’t mess with us. Seriously. And while we’re at it…go and check out the original Mamma Grizzlies.

Rock on Emily’s List

Blogher ’10 – In Spirit

As I announced on BlogHer, I will be staying home from the annual BlogHer conference while I await surgery.

This community means the world to me and I’d love for you to participate in our ‘BlogHer ’10 at Home’ fun- because I’m not the only one who will be unable to get on a plane in a few days.

BlogHer '10

Mourning.

I remember the first time I felt my son move. Despite the morning sickness, despite the stick confirming his presence, the flutters of life inside my womb sent a wave of peace over me that only a mother knows.

These children consumed my body, in every way, and my life. They used me as their vessel, abused me as their womb, and emerged into the world making me whole and leaving their mark inside this weary frame.

I remain in awe at what the female body can do, and what it endures. I still have no idea how I survived two very difficult pregnancies. It was hell, it was pain.

There are no ways to logically explain my femaleness. After two hellish pregnancies my body still aches for more. I long to feel that flutter. My breasts still swell when a baby cries. My maternal amnesia has pushed aside the bad, and wants desperately for that moment when a hand is placed on my swelling belly and I feel as if I have a higher purpose.

I have never felt more important than when pregnant. More useful. More fulfilled.

I’m not a content person. I always want more and I seek out change like it’s the air I breathe. But while pregnant I was calm. My purpose and path were clear and my mind at rest.

I miss that feeling. I ache for it.

And when each child arrived, the sense of accomplishment and love was so all-consuming and fulfilling I knew my place in the world.

In a few weeks, I will surrender any hope of that feeling again. I will relinquish what I feel is the very essence of me. The one thing that has grounded me. The one thing that has made me feel sane in my otherwise insane mind.

I have no choice but to give up what I feel is my womanhood. And become some sort of soulless body who calls herself female but knows the description is only half right.

I won’t speak in recent history, years from now, when my daughter gets her first menstrual cycle. I won’t ever wonder if the tenderness in my bosom could be new life in my womb.

I fear I will wander, I will want, I will search, I will ache. I will lose hope of contentment.

My comfort and key to mental survival lies in the good this body has already done. I have to focus on what my core has accomplished. And it really is my core.

My husband has been a rock since my first hospital stay. Ready to slay dragons at my whim and keeping me mentally strong. My children need me now, more than ever. And living for them is above and beyond living for what could have been. I have the most amazing family and love and light around me that expressing my fear and emotion over this seem like a slight to their being. It’s not.

For every pang of want there is the reality of the love that surrounds me. For every twinge of more there is the gratitude for the health of these two children and my steadfast partner in life, their father. There is also the hope that they understand their mother, and he understands that his wife, has always demanded more from life, too much from life, and this has brought chaos and joy into their worlds.

My babies

I am coming to terms with this infection that has ravaged my insides so that nothing remains. I am readying myself for another surgery where more of me is taken. It’s just…this time the surgeon won’t be taking simple organs and tissue. This time my soul, my heart, my core are being pulled from me. What I believe makes me…me. The woman. The mother.

I know my view on this will change over time. I know my emotions are raw and piercing, which is why I’m writing them down. I will be whole when this is over, and I will find a way to shift my heart and mind to wrap itself around what I thought was true. What I thought made up ‘me’ and what is important in this whole mess of medical drama we’ve been living through.

But in the meantime I will mourn.