Around this time of year it is easy to think of all of the things that we are thankful for - that's what the holiday is about after all, but I keep coming back to one story that I did around this time of year about two years ago.
It was the start of the high school track season and I was at a meet talking to several of the coaches when I stopped to talk to one in particular. Always on the look out for a good feature article idea, I asked him pointedly if there were any kids who would make an interesting feature story. I made sure to clarify that when looking for feature ideas I am not necessarily looking for the top athlete, but rather someone who might have a good story.
He said, "My son would make for a good story." And with those words, my career was about to have it's first foundation rocking shift, I just didn't know it then.
"Oh, really?" I said. "Tell me about him. Is he here?"
"He should be here," said The Coach.
"Well, where is he? I would like to meet him!"
"He died a couple months ago," said The Coach. "He should be here, but he isn't."
Tears were welling in his eyes and he kept scanning the bleachers as if his son was just running late, or had missed the call to start his race.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," I said bewildered and confused. "If you don't mind me asking, what happened?"
And this is where the story got interesting. The Coach told me that his youngest son had found his older brother, the one who should have been at the meet, strangled in his room. The police called it a suicide. The Coach didn't believe that his son meant to take his own life.
I agreed to write a feature on The Coach's son, feeling a sense of purpose that maybe I could help tell a beautiful story of this boy's life which ended far too soon, leaving behind a grief stricken family and community.
When I told my friends and family about the feature article I was going to be working on they each expressed concerns that this subject would prove to be very difficult. I couldn't understand why they thought that - this, to me, was a story of an aspiring and gifted runner, a thoughtful and intelligent young man who died accidentally and who's story was never fully told.
I had four weeks to work on the article and in an uncharacteristic move, I procrastinated. I never procrastinate. Working in newspapers, I am not used to having long deadlines, therefore procrastination is not really an option, not that I do anyway. But I found myself delaying when it came to set up the photo shoot; I delayed worse still when setting up a time to go interview the family.
The more I procrastinated, the more the story changed in my head. Emotionally, it morphed from writing a beautiful feature article about the life of a wonderful young man into writing an obituary.
As part of journalism training, we are all taught to write obits - some people are gifted at it, while others struggle. I could write them, but found myself wanting to write the back-story instead. I wanted to know all of the little details about why they moved to Arkansas from Miami, or how they came to marry a woman named Frangelica.
All of the obits that we practiced were for older folks. there was no training for writing something on a young person.
I felt obligated to do a good job on re-telling this kid's story. I felt like I owed he and his family that much.
But the thing about being a journalist is that all of the stories you tell become part of you. They change you in ways that you might not realize.
I finally made myself call the family and set up a time when both my photographer (whom I have known and worked with since college) could go up and talk to the family all together.
The Photog took pictures as I sat in the home of The Coach and his family and listened to their stories. The stories of his son who was no longer there. The house where his son had died. The house that they hadn't slept in since their son passed away. I listened as The Coach, his wife and their two children - the younger brother and sister of The Runner - told me stories of his life with tears streaming down their faces.
I felt the prickles of tears behind my eyes. I squinched up my nose to keep myself from dissolving into a sobbing mess.
I wanted to cry. The story was heartbreaking and complected.
Younger Sister didn't cry. Her voice was fairly monotone and her gaze was distant. She told me about her big brother and how much she missed him. I later asked her parents is she was close to The Runner and they said that she was so close to him that she was suffering from traumatic withdrawal. My heart sank. Little Sister wasn't even 10-years-old.
As I listened to the stories of The Runner's life it became apparent that he was by all accounts a happy and connected not only to his family, but to his community and to God and God's greater purpose for him. So I began to wonder - why?
Why did this happen? What was going on in his head the moments before his death? There was no suicide letter. There was nothing that suggested that The Runner was in anyway un-happy. There was nothing to suggest foul-play - so why? Why did this happen? It was the question that kept coming up over-and-over again.
Then I realized that my heart wrenching stuggle to figure out the reason why this sweet, smart, young man was no longer alive was but a few moments of agony. This family had been experiencing the same struggle to piece things back together for months already.
What to me seemed like an eternity of trying to live for a moment inside The Runner's mind just before he died - examining it, running through scenarios and possibilities - was but a fleeting passage of time, one that I could put down and walk away from, but his family couldn't.
In the space of a second - the second that it took for my brain to register the sorrow and loss The Runner's family was feeling - I was changed forever.
I would never be the same again.
I asked The Runner's parents if they told him that they loved him before they left to run their errands. Hoping with every fiber in my body that they had and that he in turn had told them that he loved them too.
They said that of course they had. That they always tell each other that they love one another before walking out the door because you never know if it might be the last time you get a chance.
As soon as they said that the dam broke loose - I started to cry. Not the sobbing, uncontrolled wreck-like cry that I felt inside, but just hot streams of tears running down my cheek.
I have a family. I have a family whom I love very much and would be devastated if anything happened to them. I have experienced death. I know the pain of grief and yet, I still took for granted the simple act of telling my loved ones that I love them before I departed their company.
I sat silently for a few minutes on the couch with The Coach. I had so much to take in, so much to process, so much sadness and hope to sift through and I had one heck of a story to tell. At that moment Atlas, with the weight of the world on his shoulders, had nothing on me.
I can't remember all of the things I said as I said my goodbyes - I know I thanked them for letting me share in part of their lives. I'm pretty sure that I reassured them that I would try to do justice to their son's memory. But I can't remember, however, if I told them that they would be in my heart forever.
On the long car ride home I cried. I cried the way I wanted to cry when I was sitting in their living room. I cried the way I would cry if it was my child's story and not theirs. I tried to listen to music. I tried to roll the windows down, but nothing could clear my head - or my heart - of the grief that I was carrying.
The Coach had told me a story about how when he would run, there was an eagle that liked to perch up in a nearby tree and watch The Runner glide over the track. The Coach thought it was pretty poignant and I agreed, if for no other reason that it was comforting to think that The Runner could have been so beloved that even an eagle wanted to taken in part of his splendor.
The Runner and The Coach are now part of the tapestry of my story, not because I went home and suddenly became like The Coach's family - where I tell my loved ones that I love them every time I part company (I'm still working on that one). And not because I had fallen into a pit of grief and despair.
They were part of my tapestry because never before had anyone opened up such a raw and tender moment of their life with me - entrusting me in the most intimate way to take care of their story. I had never experienced that kind of responsibility in my job before and I was honored.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
VOLLEYBALL FOR BREAKFAST - EHS cooks up straight-set victory | CanyonCourier.com
Sometimes sports journalists have to find ways of creatively "blowing off steam." For me this comes in the form of puns worked into my story. This one made me want breakfast.
EHS cooks up straight-set victory | CanyonCourier.com
EHS cooks up straight-set victory | CanyonCourier.com
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
The next level
Its normal to be nervous - everyone gets nervous from time to time, right?
The buzz that radiated throughout your body before a big game. Butterflies in your stomach before a date. Jitters before entering an interview.
Its a different experience for each situation, but it all boils down to this - when we anticipate something our mind kicks into over-drive.
The same is true when you get promoted, although, to me, it seems to defy logic. Why would anyone get nervous to move up to the next level of something that they already know how to do? And yet, I find myself in that situation time and again.
As I search out and achieve bigger, better stories through high profile media outlets I get all of the tale-tell signs of nervousness - butterflies in the stomach (or what feel more like hornets), jitters, the whole shebang.
But why? This is what I do - I'm a writer; I write things, I talk to people, I research - I know how to do my job, so why am I nervous about getting better at and gaining more recognition for what I already do?
Maybe its the pressure.
High expectations are, naturally, harder to fulfill. There are tons of examples of people have cracked under the pressure to meet high standards - the Olympics were rife with that scenario. And yet, each person facing that dilemma has to ask themselves the same questions - Can I handle this? Am I going to cave to the pressure and not allow myself to rise to the challenge, or am I going to put forth my best effort and know that wherever happens afterward is history.
I'm on my way to the next level. Am I nervous? Of course, the possibility of failure is always in the back of my mind, but for me failure is not an option. There are only two options - succeed and learn or learn from my mistakes. I know which I prefer, but either way, I know I'll be better because I tried.
The buzz that radiated throughout your body before a big game. Butterflies in your stomach before a date. Jitters before entering an interview.
Its a different experience for each situation, but it all boils down to this - when we anticipate something our mind kicks into over-drive.
The same is true when you get promoted, although, to me, it seems to defy logic. Why would anyone get nervous to move up to the next level of something that they already know how to do? And yet, I find myself in that situation time and again.
As I search out and achieve bigger, better stories through high profile media outlets I get all of the tale-tell signs of nervousness - butterflies in the stomach (or what feel more like hornets), jitters, the whole shebang.
But why? This is what I do - I'm a writer; I write things, I talk to people, I research - I know how to do my job, so why am I nervous about getting better at and gaining more recognition for what I already do?
Maybe its the pressure.
High expectations are, naturally, harder to fulfill. There are tons of examples of people have cracked under the pressure to meet high standards - the Olympics were rife with that scenario. And yet, each person facing that dilemma has to ask themselves the same questions - Can I handle this? Am I going to cave to the pressure and not allow myself to rise to the challenge, or am I going to put forth my best effort and know that wherever happens afterward is history.
I'm on my way to the next level. Am I nervous? Of course, the possibility of failure is always in the back of my mind, but for me failure is not an option. There are only two options - succeed and learn or learn from my mistakes. I know which I prefer, but either way, I know I'll be better because I tried.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Waiting on the call.
A big part of being a successful journalist and reporter is developing one's ability to wait.
I wait a lot.
Wait the game to finish (extra innings anyone?) Wait for athletes to come out from the locker room. Wait for the right time to throw my question(s) out at press conferences.
I wait a lot.
But perhaps the worst waiting I do is the waiting I do when I am trying to do phone interviews. It usually follows a formula like this:
Day one - get assignment; one week until deadline; make initial call, leave pleasant message beseaching a return call, hang up and wait.
Day two - still no call back. Call again, leave another message, slightly less sweet, restating my deadline, clearly spelling out my phone number - twice and my email address, just in case and wait.
Day three - still no call back. Call again, leave another message, no trace of sweet, remind recipient that I am on deadline and that the phone interview will not take more than a few minutes and will be quick, simple and straightforward. Field call from my boss who wants to know the status of my assignment, to which I can only reply, "Ugh! No one answers their phones any more!" To which he laughs and commiserates, reminding me that it's OK and even part of my job to go into stalker mode. Internal groan aside, I know he is right and that if I don't hear something soon I will have to go track my subject down in person; then I wait.
Day four: receive call just as I walk into a public restroom, or the doctors office, or merge onto the highway, or some other situation where it is impossible/ inappropriate to answer my phone; listen to voice-mail explaining that they are sorry they didn't answer but that I can call them back when I get a chance. Immediately call them back and go straight to voice-mail; leave same message as day before; then I wait some more.
Day five: stare at the blank computer screen and realize that I could have been done with my assignment five days ago if only people would answer their phone when I call; wish I had a magical phone power that makes people jump to answer when I call; call again, leave message again; look at clock and realize that it is 7:30 a.m. and they might now be up yet; call back at 11:45, leave another message; wait some more.
Day six: receive call at 7:30 p.m. in the middle of dinner with my family; take the call despite the snarky looks, knowing that it's now or never; grab for audio recorder because the laptop is shut down and start recording just as they break up and the call drops; panic; panic some more; wait for about a minute and frantically start re-dialing the number in hopes that it was my phone and not their's; go straight to voicemail - four times; sit back down at the dinner table resigned to eat my dinner before it goes completely cold; take first bite and hear phone ring from romm that I had just excused myself from to do interview; run down hall trying to make it before last ring, miss call; call back and finally get subject on phone; thank them profusely for calling me back; start audio recorder and start firing questions like bullets worrying that the call will drop again before I get through asking all of them; finish the interview; sit back down to icy food and stares; eat in silence knowing that I have to go transcribe my audio and form the quotes into usable material suitable for an article, inward sigh; wait for dinner to be over then go start computer; wait for it to warm up; start typing; finish at 10:30 with a sore back and dry eyes; send article to my editor for his approval; wait to hear back and decide to go to bed; wait to fall asleep; wait some more; and wait some more.
Day seven: Still waiting to get a call from boss with the "All clear," phone remains silent; 9:45 p.m. phone signals incoming email with next assingments and the clock starts over...
I wait a lot.
Wait the game to finish (extra innings anyone?) Wait for athletes to come out from the locker room. Wait for the right time to throw my question(s) out at press conferences.
I wait a lot.
But perhaps the worst waiting I do is the waiting I do when I am trying to do phone interviews. It usually follows a formula like this:
Day one - get assignment; one week until deadline; make initial call, leave pleasant message beseaching a return call, hang up and wait.
Day two - still no call back. Call again, leave another message, slightly less sweet, restating my deadline, clearly spelling out my phone number - twice and my email address, just in case and wait.
Day three - still no call back. Call again, leave another message, no trace of sweet, remind recipient that I am on deadline and that the phone interview will not take more than a few minutes and will be quick, simple and straightforward. Field call from my boss who wants to know the status of my assignment, to which I can only reply, "Ugh! No one answers their phones any more!" To which he laughs and commiserates, reminding me that it's OK and even part of my job to go into stalker mode. Internal groan aside, I know he is right and that if I don't hear something soon I will have to go track my subject down in person; then I wait.
Day four: receive call just as I walk into a public restroom, or the doctors office, or merge onto the highway, or some other situation where it is impossible/ inappropriate to answer my phone; listen to voice-mail explaining that they are sorry they didn't answer but that I can call them back when I get a chance. Immediately call them back and go straight to voice-mail; leave same message as day before; then I wait some more.
Day five: stare at the blank computer screen and realize that I could have been done with my assignment five days ago if only people would answer their phone when I call; wish I had a magical phone power that makes people jump to answer when I call; call again, leave message again; look at clock and realize that it is 7:30 a.m. and they might now be up yet; call back at 11:45, leave another message; wait some more.
Day six: receive call at 7:30 p.m. in the middle of dinner with my family; take the call despite the snarky looks, knowing that it's now or never; grab for audio recorder because the laptop is shut down and start recording just as they break up and the call drops; panic; panic some more; wait for about a minute and frantically start re-dialing the number in hopes that it was my phone and not their's; go straight to voicemail - four times; sit back down at the dinner table resigned to eat my dinner before it goes completely cold; take first bite and hear phone ring from romm that I had just excused myself from to do interview; run down hall trying to make it before last ring, miss call; call back and finally get subject on phone; thank them profusely for calling me back; start audio recorder and start firing questions like bullets worrying that the call will drop again before I get through asking all of them; finish the interview; sit back down to icy food and stares; eat in silence knowing that I have to go transcribe my audio and form the quotes into usable material suitable for an article, inward sigh; wait for dinner to be over then go start computer; wait for it to warm up; start typing; finish at 10:30 with a sore back and dry eyes; send article to my editor for his approval; wait to hear back and decide to go to bed; wait to fall asleep; wait some more; and wait some more.
Day seven: Still waiting to get a call from boss with the "All clear," phone remains silent; 9:45 p.m. phone signals incoming email with next assingments and the clock starts over...
Sunday, August 12, 2012
The Game Changers
It would be nice, if the Universe gave you a road map to help navigate us through our life's choices and circumstances, but it doesn't, at least not a hard copy one that is easy to read and understand.
I have found, however, that the Universe does present people and situations that are able to provide us with a great deal of insight and clarity if we are willing to take notice.
Maybe its because I am fortunate that I have a big pool from which to draw, or maybe I am just lucky to be open enough in my heart and mind to recognize it when it happens, but I have had a few game changers in my life.
Game changers, for me, are people who come along at just the right time, with just the right prospective and tone to enable me to learn something new about myself or grow in a way I never thought I could - like my English professor who suggested that I become a writer.
Never before, had I thought of myself as a writer, but ever since then, I can't think of myself as any thing else - it is who I am, who I was meant to be and something that I probably would have missed out on if not for the Universe's direction and timing.
But just because I heard and heeded my calling, doesn't mean that there wasn't a lot of growth and progress to be made.
Everyday beings about its own set of challenges and lessons, with the people and situations to teach them.
Sometimes I still feel lost and unsure - somethings don't change easily. But just when I think I have drifted so far off course that I might never feel sure of myself, someone comes along to set me right again.
Such was the case with Don Keller and Betsy Keyes.
Summer time in the community sports news business can mean slow to no work, thankfully my boss likes feature articles and had faith in me to deliver interesting, creative, quality topics from which we build feature articles out of.
Sometimes I talk my boss into letting me do something fun like take a snowboard lesson through a terrain park, or learn to paddleboard. But most of the time he either assigns me games to cover or I come up with sport/ recreation topics and events that are relevant to our coverage area.
Because our papers are distributed throughout the foothills of Colorado, outdoor activities and events, such as marathons and cycling competitions, are summertime feature article staples.
In the beginning of 2012, my boss asked me to come up with a list of feature ideas so that he could build a budget and editorial calendar. I happily obliged concocting a mix of staple ideas (namely bike races and recreation ideas) peppered with create-an-adventure-for-Chelsy ideas (paddleboarding was at the top of that list).
By late June, I had covered so much summer baseball league that I was ready for my adventures to begin. My work life was in full swing - I had lots of work that I was (mostly) happy to do. But my personal life was a complete mess - I was in the middle of a amicable, but no less painful divorce; I was living with my parents and trying to help my school aged child adjust to our new life.
Lost might be the understatement of the year when describing my personal life. I knew that I was on the right track by leaving my marriage, but after nearly 16 years of a relationship that started very early in my life, I felt like I was having to start completely over.
My accomplishments felt like they meant nothing. I was having trouble reconciling myself with the new context with which I had to see myself . It was a terrible feeling, but life doesn't stop for self-pity, so I threw myself into my work even more, savoring the opportunity to experience other people's lives, instead of my own.
The Deer Creek Challenge was a century ride (a 100-mile distance cycling competition) that I was looking forward to covering. It met all of the requirements for our papers - it was interesting, it involved our community and the timing was perfect.
My challenge, for covering this event, was to find a "face to put with the story," which is the journalism way of saying, it needed a human appeal, so I turned to the event's head of media relations for a suggestion. My requirements were fairly open, since I could tie the story to our community just with the course route.
PR Lady said she had the perfect subject for my article - "Don Keller, a burn survivor who's ultimate recovery goal was to complete the Challenge for the second time."
(Insert eye roll here)
I was a little peeved with PR Lady. Did she have no shame? I thought, 'Way to over-sensationalize the news Lady!' This was supposed to be a sports feature on a cycling race, not an over-sensationalize tearjerker, but something inside me heard the story's potential (and truthfully, I was a bit over-wrought with work and wanted an easy pick), so I took down Don's name and contact information.
It took me four or five days to finally call him. I was definitely procrastinating, something I don't normally do, although I couldn't really put my finger on why.
I called Don in the afternoon, assuming that he would be like many of my other phone interviews - a quick 20-30 minute run down that concisely draws out the who, what, where, when, how and why. It took all of about 3 seconds for me to realize that Don was not going to be like my average interviewee.
First, the obvious question - "Don, tell me about the fire that you survived..."
Don went on to tell me his amazing story (which you can read in the article attached), stretching our conversation out to well over an hour, which would have been longer if not for the appointment that I had to get to, all while I was crying and nearly silent.
I didn't fire question after question at him, like I usually do when conducting an interview.
Instead I shut my mouth and listened intently to what he was saying, feeling the weight of his words and the energy of his emotions as he said them seep into every fiber of my brain.
With my appointment time looming, I told Don that I had to let him go, although I wish I could speak with him more and I did something so completely unlike me and perhaps even a bit weird and unprofessional that I look back and wonder how he didn't think I was a complete nutcase.
I explained that I lived near he and his wife and asked if I could come over after my appointment so that I could hug the both of them.
To my shock, he didn't think I was a total nutcase, he totally understood, in fact, what I was asking. I needed to connect with he and his wife in a way that conveyed my utter amazement at their story, my gratitude to them for sharing their story with me and my splendor at feeling my faith in life be reaffirmed.
Something about how Don relayed his story to me uplifted my spirit and made me feel alive and awake again. One could argue that it was his story itself, which is quiet remarkable, but honestly I don't think that was it.
Not to sound diminutive to Don's story (it is genuinely remarkable), but I hear a lot of remarkable stories - its part and parcel for the whole journalism gig. It was his perspective, outlook and energy that spoke most clearly to me.
When I arrived at their house, about an hour after I got off the phone with him, Don and Betsy welcomed me with giant hugs and warm smiles. Their love was evident and it didn't matter that I was, by all accounts, a stranger.
I spent the next three hours talking with them, listening to their stories of life and love, struggle and perseverance and they listened to mine.
I found myself shocked that I was being so open with these two people who I had only just met, when I am typically a very reserved person (outgoing, but reserved), but then I remembered that they 'get it.' That's what they said, 'I get it...'
Three words - that's all I needed to hear in that moment. I needed to be gotten, to be understood in order to continue getting and understanding others. It was a completely revolutionary concept to me, one that has irrevocably changed who I am and how I look at things now.
Their story has changed my story; no longer am I willing to have a 'less-than' life. No longer am I willing to forgo my 'happily ever after,' because I feel lost or scared - I know, with unwavering certainty, that the Universe is looking out for me, I just have to be willing to listen when it calls.
I have found, however, that the Universe does present people and situations that are able to provide us with a great deal of insight and clarity if we are willing to take notice.
Maybe its because I am fortunate that I have a big pool from which to draw, or maybe I am just lucky to be open enough in my heart and mind to recognize it when it happens, but I have had a few game changers in my life.
Game changers, for me, are people who come along at just the right time, with just the right prospective and tone to enable me to learn something new about myself or grow in a way I never thought I could - like my English professor who suggested that I become a writer.
Never before, had I thought of myself as a writer, but ever since then, I can't think of myself as any thing else - it is who I am, who I was meant to be and something that I probably would have missed out on if not for the Universe's direction and timing.
But just because I heard and heeded my calling, doesn't mean that there wasn't a lot of growth and progress to be made.
Everyday beings about its own set of challenges and lessons, with the people and situations to teach them.
Sometimes I still feel lost and unsure - somethings don't change easily. But just when I think I have drifted so far off course that I might never feel sure of myself, someone comes along to set me right again.
Such was the case with Don Keller and Betsy Keyes.
Summer time in the community sports news business can mean slow to no work, thankfully my boss likes feature articles and had faith in me to deliver interesting, creative, quality topics from which we build feature articles out of.
Sometimes I talk my boss into letting me do something fun like take a snowboard lesson through a terrain park, or learn to paddleboard. But most of the time he either assigns me games to cover or I come up with sport/ recreation topics and events that are relevant to our coverage area.
Because our papers are distributed throughout the foothills of Colorado, outdoor activities and events, such as marathons and cycling competitions, are summertime feature article staples.
In the beginning of 2012, my boss asked me to come up with a list of feature ideas so that he could build a budget and editorial calendar. I happily obliged concocting a mix of staple ideas (namely bike races and recreation ideas) peppered with create-an-adventure-for-Chelsy ideas (paddleboarding was at the top of that list).
By late June, I had covered so much summer baseball league that I was ready for my adventures to begin. My work life was in full swing - I had lots of work that I was (mostly) happy to do. But my personal life was a complete mess - I was in the middle of a amicable, but no less painful divorce; I was living with my parents and trying to help my school aged child adjust to our new life.
Lost might be the understatement of the year when describing my personal life. I knew that I was on the right track by leaving my marriage, but after nearly 16 years of a relationship that started very early in my life, I felt like I was having to start completely over.
My accomplishments felt like they meant nothing. I was having trouble reconciling myself with the new context with which I had to see myself . It was a terrible feeling, but life doesn't stop for self-pity, so I threw myself into my work even more, savoring the opportunity to experience other people's lives, instead of my own.
The Deer Creek Challenge was a century ride (a 100-mile distance cycling competition) that I was looking forward to covering. It met all of the requirements for our papers - it was interesting, it involved our community and the timing was perfect.
My challenge, for covering this event, was to find a "face to put with the story," which is the journalism way of saying, it needed a human appeal, so I turned to the event's head of media relations for a suggestion. My requirements were fairly open, since I could tie the story to our community just with the course route.
PR Lady said she had the perfect subject for my article - "Don Keller, a burn survivor who's ultimate recovery goal was to complete the Challenge for the second time."
(Insert eye roll here)
I was a little peeved with PR Lady. Did she have no shame? I thought, 'Way to over-sensationalize the news Lady!' This was supposed to be a sports feature on a cycling race, not an over-sensationalize tearjerker, but something inside me heard the story's potential (and truthfully, I was a bit over-wrought with work and wanted an easy pick), so I took down Don's name and contact information.
It took me four or five days to finally call him. I was definitely procrastinating, something I don't normally do, although I couldn't really put my finger on why.
I called Don in the afternoon, assuming that he would be like many of my other phone interviews - a quick 20-30 minute run down that concisely draws out the who, what, where, when, how and why. It took all of about 3 seconds for me to realize that Don was not going to be like my average interviewee.
First, the obvious question - "Don, tell me about the fire that you survived..."
Don went on to tell me his amazing story (which you can read in the article attached), stretching our conversation out to well over an hour, which would have been longer if not for the appointment that I had to get to, all while I was crying and nearly silent.
I didn't fire question after question at him, like I usually do when conducting an interview.
Instead I shut my mouth and listened intently to what he was saying, feeling the weight of his words and the energy of his emotions as he said them seep into every fiber of my brain.
With my appointment time looming, I told Don that I had to let him go, although I wish I could speak with him more and I did something so completely unlike me and perhaps even a bit weird and unprofessional that I look back and wonder how he didn't think I was a complete nutcase.
I explained that I lived near he and his wife and asked if I could come over after my appointment so that I could hug the both of them.
To my shock, he didn't think I was a total nutcase, he totally understood, in fact, what I was asking. I needed to connect with he and his wife in a way that conveyed my utter amazement at their story, my gratitude to them for sharing their story with me and my splendor at feeling my faith in life be reaffirmed.
Something about how Don relayed his story to me uplifted my spirit and made me feel alive and awake again. One could argue that it was his story itself, which is quiet remarkable, but honestly I don't think that was it.
Not to sound diminutive to Don's story (it is genuinely remarkable), but I hear a lot of remarkable stories - its part and parcel for the whole journalism gig. It was his perspective, outlook and energy that spoke most clearly to me.
When I arrived at their house, about an hour after I got off the phone with him, Don and Betsy welcomed me with giant hugs and warm smiles. Their love was evident and it didn't matter that I was, by all accounts, a stranger.
I spent the next three hours talking with them, listening to their stories of life and love, struggle and perseverance and they listened to mine.
I found myself shocked that I was being so open with these two people who I had only just met, when I am typically a very reserved person (outgoing, but reserved), but then I remembered that they 'get it.' That's what they said, 'I get it...'
Three words - that's all I needed to hear in that moment. I needed to be gotten, to be understood in order to continue getting and understanding others. It was a completely revolutionary concept to me, one that has irrevocably changed who I am and how I look at things now.
Their story has changed my story; no longer am I willing to have a 'less-than' life. No longer am I willing to forgo my 'happily ever after,' because I feel lost or scared - I know, with unwavering certainty, that the Universe is looking out for me, I just have to be willing to listen when it calls.
The beginning...
I never intended to be a writer.
Its true. When I was a kid I didn't dream about being a writer or telling stories... but some times the Universe sets a path that despite our best attempts, we just end up following.
Maybe the thing that set me firmly on the path to being a journalist and writer was that I was never afraid to ask to ask people questions. I wanted to know as much about everything as I possibly could. It never occurred to me that, perhaps, I should ask the questions out loud that were in my head.
My poor parents had more than their fair share of awkward gapes and incredulous stares to talk their way out of after their child asked questions that were, "inappropriate."
Really, when I think back to my childhood curiosity, nothing I asked was ever inappropriate, but rather quizzical and insightful, which I think might have been more disarming than anything.
I taught myself how to read around 4-years-old and by the time I entered kindergarten, I could already write in cursive, but my self taught skills lacked refinement. I struggled with what is now known as dyslexia, but when I was in grade school teachers didn't know or readily recognize learning challenges. Learning to spell was agonizing. Doing math problems involving two digit or more numbers was excruciating. I couldn't keep the order straight.
My grades never reflected my intelligence or my work ethic. I had to work twice as hard to complete the same task as everyone else and it eventually paid off. My grades started to reflect my hard work.
In my junior year of high school, at just 16-years-old, I was permitted to enter the nursing vocational program offered by my school district.
I was the youngest in the program, which didn't typically allow for juniors to enter. An exception was made in my case because of my strong work ethic and stellar grades.
After my first year in the program I was eligible to sit for the State Board exam to get my certified nursing assistant license. I couldn't have been more nervous - I hadn't even taken the SAT or ACT yet.
After completing two years in the medical vocational program I was feeling more lost than ever. I knew I was good at science and was a talented care-giver, but the emotional drain of seeing people sick, and sometimes die was more than I was ready to handle.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue in nursing. I wasn't sure that I wanted to go to college. I wasn't sure of anything, so I did what many new high school graduates who are unsure of themselves do - I delayed going to college by a year to figure out what I wanted to do.
Finally, when I realized that not going to college wasn't an option for me I enrolled and declared education as my major. At the time, the requirements for teacher licensing were changing almost daily and it made it very difficult to complete the required course work, so I change my major to biology resolving myself to going back into medicine.
I liked biology and was pretty good at it, but after my experience in nursing I never felt invigorated by it. Just as I was about to complete all of the biology classes for my major I was informed by my adviser that I still had to pass six credits worth of chemistry classes.
Dutifully, I enrolled in the first of the two chemistry classes - basic chemistry, the easiest chemistry class available. It didn't take long for me to become overwhelmed. This was my nightmare - an abstract for of science that required a lot of math skill to understand.
I tried twice to pass chemistry.
I had never failed before and this one stung even more because without the chemistry, I couldn't complete my biology major.
While I was floundering in chemistry and feeling miserable about my future, I happened to be enrolled in English Composition - a required class for all students. Our assignment at the beginning of the semester was to write a research paper on a controversial topic with compelling arguments and insightful quotes.
For me, finding the topic of my paper was easy. I had been studying stem cells research in my biology class and, at the time, stem cell research was still largely under the radar, but what little had surfaced about it was regarded with baited breath.
My English professor delighted in the fact that my work was consistently turned in ahead of schedule and was well researched and written.
At the end of the semester, during our final conference she made an offhand remark that changed my life entirely.
She had known, from the explanation of how I came up with my topic and research materials that I was in the biology program. At our final meeting she said, "It's a shame that you are studying to be a biologist. You are a really good writer. Have you ever considered changing your major?"
Her comment stopped my world.
I was, in fact, struggling to come up with a plan for graduation since I couldn't pass the chemistry classes required to get my degree. 'Could I be a writer?' I wondered.
My response was something along the lines of, "I don't want to be poor for the rest of my life." To which she laughed and agreed that there wasn't a lot of money to be made from a degree in English, so she suggested that I look into the journalism program instead, saying that while they didn't make tons of money, work was more easy to find as a journalist and the topic of writing was more concrete than writing "stories."
The next day I switched my major to journalism and plowed through the program, building a reputation for myself as the hardworking, no-nonsense, achiever.
Even though it was part of our job as budding journalists to ask questions, I found that most of the other students weren't - at least not ones that anyone really wanted to know the answers to - but I did.
I wanted to know what it was going to be like to work in the field, so I started to inquire about where I could get some experience. The student newspaper - The Metropolitan Newspaper - was my best option, but it was already the middle of the fall semester and the job opportunities were all filled.
I wanted on staff, but none of the section editor jobs sounded appealing, even if they had been open. I wanted something that was going to allow me to write about things that interested me, so I went to the editor-in-chief at the time and proposed that we create a music section and that I would head it up.
Essentially, I was creating a position for myself, one that was custom cut to my liking - it was more than thrilling. Thankfully, he was equally thrilled, loving the idea for the new section and that he would have a total go-getter on his team.
My ambition and willingness to work harder than anyone else on staff paid off - I was the editor of the music section and for a short time I acted as the sports editor, too.
No one on staff had managed two sections simultaneously. Granted, I didn't do it for long, but we were all still in college and I worked another job on campus, too.
I loved my new identity as a journalist. I loved the writing, but it was the research that I loved the most - the asking questions and drawing out the story's that people sometimes didn't know they had in them.
Since then, I have met and interviewed hundreds of people - some more willing to share than others, but I have never taken for granted that the fact that every time I ask someone a question, I am, in essence, asking them to share their story with me; to allow me to be part of their life in a way that most people don't get to.
Through my work, I am privileged to witness moments of great achievement and moments of deep pain.
I never set out to be a writer, but I wouldn't change a thing.
Thank you for sharing in my journey. I hope you like "Stories behind the story."
Its true. When I was a kid I didn't dream about being a writer or telling stories... but some times the Universe sets a path that despite our best attempts, we just end up following.
Maybe the thing that set me firmly on the path to being a journalist and writer was that I was never afraid to ask to ask people questions. I wanted to know as much about everything as I possibly could. It never occurred to me that, perhaps, I should ask the questions out loud that were in my head.
My poor parents had more than their fair share of awkward gapes and incredulous stares to talk their way out of after their child asked questions that were, "inappropriate."
Really, when I think back to my childhood curiosity, nothing I asked was ever inappropriate, but rather quizzical and insightful, which I think might have been more disarming than anything.
I taught myself how to read around 4-years-old and by the time I entered kindergarten, I could already write in cursive, but my self taught skills lacked refinement. I struggled with what is now known as dyslexia, but when I was in grade school teachers didn't know or readily recognize learning challenges. Learning to spell was agonizing. Doing math problems involving two digit or more numbers was excruciating. I couldn't keep the order straight.
My grades never reflected my intelligence or my work ethic. I had to work twice as hard to complete the same task as everyone else and it eventually paid off. My grades started to reflect my hard work.
In my junior year of high school, at just 16-years-old, I was permitted to enter the nursing vocational program offered by my school district.
I was the youngest in the program, which didn't typically allow for juniors to enter. An exception was made in my case because of my strong work ethic and stellar grades.
After my first year in the program I was eligible to sit for the State Board exam to get my certified nursing assistant license. I couldn't have been more nervous - I hadn't even taken the SAT or ACT yet.
After completing two years in the medical vocational program I was feeling more lost than ever. I knew I was good at science and was a talented care-giver, but the emotional drain of seeing people sick, and sometimes die was more than I was ready to handle.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue in nursing. I wasn't sure that I wanted to go to college. I wasn't sure of anything, so I did what many new high school graduates who are unsure of themselves do - I delayed going to college by a year to figure out what I wanted to do.
Finally, when I realized that not going to college wasn't an option for me I enrolled and declared education as my major. At the time, the requirements for teacher licensing were changing almost daily and it made it very difficult to complete the required course work, so I change my major to biology resolving myself to going back into medicine.
I liked biology and was pretty good at it, but after my experience in nursing I never felt invigorated by it. Just as I was about to complete all of the biology classes for my major I was informed by my adviser that I still had to pass six credits worth of chemistry classes.
Dutifully, I enrolled in the first of the two chemistry classes - basic chemistry, the easiest chemistry class available. It didn't take long for me to become overwhelmed. This was my nightmare - an abstract for of science that required a lot of math skill to understand.
I tried twice to pass chemistry.
I had never failed before and this one stung even more because without the chemistry, I couldn't complete my biology major.
While I was floundering in chemistry and feeling miserable about my future, I happened to be enrolled in English Composition - a required class for all students. Our assignment at the beginning of the semester was to write a research paper on a controversial topic with compelling arguments and insightful quotes.
For me, finding the topic of my paper was easy. I had been studying stem cells research in my biology class and, at the time, stem cell research was still largely under the radar, but what little had surfaced about it was regarded with baited breath.
My English professor delighted in the fact that my work was consistently turned in ahead of schedule and was well researched and written.
At the end of the semester, during our final conference she made an offhand remark that changed my life entirely.
She had known, from the explanation of how I came up with my topic and research materials that I was in the biology program. At our final meeting she said, "It's a shame that you are studying to be a biologist. You are a really good writer. Have you ever considered changing your major?"
Her comment stopped my world.
I was, in fact, struggling to come up with a plan for graduation since I couldn't pass the chemistry classes required to get my degree. 'Could I be a writer?' I wondered.
My response was something along the lines of, "I don't want to be poor for the rest of my life." To which she laughed and agreed that there wasn't a lot of money to be made from a degree in English, so she suggested that I look into the journalism program instead, saying that while they didn't make tons of money, work was more easy to find as a journalist and the topic of writing was more concrete than writing "stories."
The next day I switched my major to journalism and plowed through the program, building a reputation for myself as the hardworking, no-nonsense, achiever.
Even though it was part of our job as budding journalists to ask questions, I found that most of the other students weren't - at least not ones that anyone really wanted to know the answers to - but I did.
I wanted to know what it was going to be like to work in the field, so I started to inquire about where I could get some experience. The student newspaper - The Metropolitan Newspaper - was my best option, but it was already the middle of the fall semester and the job opportunities were all filled.
I wanted on staff, but none of the section editor jobs sounded appealing, even if they had been open. I wanted something that was going to allow me to write about things that interested me, so I went to the editor-in-chief at the time and proposed that we create a music section and that I would head it up.
Essentially, I was creating a position for myself, one that was custom cut to my liking - it was more than thrilling. Thankfully, he was equally thrilled, loving the idea for the new section and that he would have a total go-getter on his team.
My ambition and willingness to work harder than anyone else on staff paid off - I was the editor of the music section and for a short time I acted as the sports editor, too.
No one on staff had managed two sections simultaneously. Granted, I didn't do it for long, but we were all still in college and I worked another job on campus, too.
I loved my new identity as a journalist. I loved the writing, but it was the research that I loved the most - the asking questions and drawing out the story's that people sometimes didn't know they had in them.
Since then, I have met and interviewed hundreds of people - some more willing to share than others, but I have never taken for granted that the fact that every time I ask someone a question, I am, in essence, asking them to share their story with me; to allow me to be part of their life in a way that most people don't get to.
Through my work, I am privileged to witness moments of great achievement and moments of deep pain.
I never set out to be a writer, but I wouldn't change a thing.
Thank you for sharing in my journey. I hope you like "Stories behind the story."
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