Sunday, February 1, 2015

The difference between being human and being a reporter

     I'm a reporter when a corrupt politician does something wrong. I'm a reporter when a drug dealer gets busted for trafficking cocaine. I'm a reporter when robbers and burglars get away with things people worked hard to get.

     But sometimes... you can't be a reporter. You have to be human.
    
     When I got into this, I was warned it would be hard. They told me I'd have to work weekends. Mornings. Nights. Holidays. I wouldn't be able to see my family, they said. I'd have to work my ass off for the same amount of pay that someone stocking shelves at Wal-Mart gets paid.

     I carry around a heavy equipment bag, filled with a camera, lights and microphones and I lug a tripod around on my shoulder. I set up live shots by myself. I ask questions that I think the public wants to know the answers to. At the end of the night, I get calls from the side I pissed off telling me they're unhappy and people lied to me blah blah blah.

     They told me I'd have to love it, or I'd go crazy.

     Well -- I do love it. (Side note -- I still think I'm going crazy)

     I love pissing the bad people off. I love when people ask me how I do what I do. I love live shots and writing scripts and editing my own work and standing on a box and delivering the news.

     I love what I do and I wouldn't trade it for anything else.

     But there is one thing I don't love. In fact, I might venture to say I hate it. It's the one part of my job that I know I will always hate doing, but it will always, no matter what, be part of my job. And the responsibility of having to do this one thing will only grow throughout the years.

    People die. People go missing. People are murder and people kill themselves. It's the sad truth. The world would be in real trouble if it didn't revolve like this. Unfortunately, not only is it up to the detectives and other law enforcement, and EMS and hospital workers to see death and to deal with the impact it has on family members, it's also up to the reporters.

     We have to ask the questions that hurt the most -- what was he or she like? Did you see this coming at all? What do you want the world to know about them?

     To the family members... all I can say is sorry. To the family members of the Spirit family whose grandfather shot his six grandchildren, daughter and then himself in Bell, FL, I'm sorry; to the father and husband whose daughter and wife were shot in cold blood inside their home in Ocala, I'm sorry. To the family of Melvin Persenaire, whose loved one, known as "Sarge" was found dead in the woods in Bronson, I truly am sorry. But you have no idea how much it meant to me that I was welcomed inside your home and you spoke to me like I was a human, not a reporter.

     I like to think that most people do things that are in the best interests of others. That's at least how I strive to live. When I picked a career that I knew I'd be stuck with for the rest of my life, I knew I wanted to somehow help people, and I wanted to do things that normal, everyday people didn't do.

    Of course, I'm new to this whole reporting thing -- and relatively new to this whole life thing -- so there are a plethora of things I'm still figuring out. But, what I can't figure out each and every time I have to walk up to someone who is hurting after the loss of a loved one, is how this is possibly helping anyone. Yet, I still have to do it, and for that, I truly am sorry.
     
     But you know what, every time I do this, I also hurt. Not as bad as the family or friend, but I hurt. I see the sadness and the loneliness in the eyes of those grieving, and I hurt. I don't cry then and there and I don't give up or walk away, but I do hurt. And I'm glad for that -- because the second I stop hurting, that's when I stop being human. And if I turn into a reporter doing the hardest part of my job, I know I've failed as a person.
   

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