As a high-school senior, I knew I would major in Journalism in college. Earlier on, I also wanted to be a P.E. teacher, but that had more to do with my crush on Mr. Falos, my elementary P.E. teacher, than it did with any actual aptitude or interest in the subject.
Crushes are powerful things, spreading their influence far beyond the act of kissing pillows and stuffed animals while the mind wanders to other, more animate objects. Ah, but I wander. . . .
My dad was a journalist and, while I probably did lack imagination when the subject wasn't Mr. Falos, I don't think my dad alone was the reason I chose journalism. In fact, it was my dad who encouraged me to consider broadcast journalism over its print-based cousin who, up to that point, had looked much more alluring to me. My dad said that broadcasting was the future of journalism. He didn't want me to be stuck in a dead-end medium. The year? 1980.
Ultimately, I listened to him.
While I enjoyed several of my Broadcasting classes and found that I loved the editing process, where I could spend hours alone in a room with just me and my celluloid memories, I also always had a sense that I was missing out on "real" journalism.
This Wednesday, after watching 20 minutes of live coverage following the Millard South shooting, I realized that, even as a 19 year old, I was smarter than I'd realized. For me, the "live" aspect of T.V. journalism almost always leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth.
Invariably, when tragedy strikes, T.V. journalists flock to the scene, hungry not so much for news as they are for scoop. I do not consider it a coincidence that, when we wish to remove poop, we often use a scoop.
Watching the Millard South story unfold, I witnessed a television reporter stop parents to ask them what they knew or were thinking. This is a longstanding "trick" of lesser-developed television journalists. Because they can't seem to come up with a good question or decent source on their own, they seek out the people who ought to be left alone.
What on earth could any panicking parent offer television viewers that they themselves could not have concluded? Yet, the reporter asks it anyway, and, too often, the stunned interviewees comply and respond accordingly.
After an Omaha police officer briefed the crowd, this particular reporter then proceeded to muck up virtually every fact the officer had shared. Apparently, "live" does not equate "accurate."
Tonight, I winced my way through the 5 o'clock newscast on 10/11, wondering how many words could be misspelled in a half-hour show. These folks have the capacity to tell good stories and I don't begrudge them their jobs. God only knows how many minutes I would last if my clothes had to match and I had to read the news off of a teleprompter, the stories typed up by a monkey in the break room.
I am, after all, the same radio announcer who botched the pronunciation of the Crete mayor's name more than once in the span of 10 seconds. And then, there was the whole west/east/weast fiasco of my short-lived weather reportage on KTAP. Still, I didn't have to dress nice while slaughtering these things. Besides, no one could identify me on the street anyway.
Still, I would like to think that, even in television reporting, more value would be placed upon accuracy than on speed of delivery or matching clothing.
Then again, I'm a bit of a dreamer.
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