in journalism classes in college — the prerequisites before the technical writing and craft classes I didn’t take — we discussed what a journalist was, why they did what they did and for whom. it was a series of courses on ethics, philosophy, theory and media criticism. I was not a photographer nor did I want to be one. I loved and love photography but I’m more of a “write what I saw, later” person. I felt the camera could be intrusive and I was more interested in having a conversation or listening to someone.
now that I remember, often a photographer would be assigned to my story. they’d come with me or meet me there. I’d be observing, asking questions, listening, chatting, and someone else, a photojournalist, would take the photos. now and then an editor wanted photos and I’d have to try to do both at the same time. now and then a photographer wouldn’t be available and would go later, when I wasn’t even there anymore.
later, I wasn’t holding a reporter’s notebook anymore, I was holding a microphone. and there would be no photographer, because it was radio. “radio = no pictures,” it says on a sign in a picture of famous radio reporter Ira Glass, in which he’s obscuring his face with a piece of paper. and you can’t have a photographer while recording, if the camera has a shutter sound. If it makes a sound when you shoot. it gets into the audio.
I remember I did a story once that won a prize — second place in the entire state of Missouri. I didn’t have a name for it or a method. I just sat around this community radio station for two or three days and watched people, the DJs and broadcasters and volunteers and listened to them. sometimes I’d ask a question. other times I’d just watch and take little notes here and there and write something later. the subjects — the people — would ask me. “do you have any questions for me?” and I’d say yes or no. I’d answer their question. sometimes I had questions prepared but I liked to just watch, observe, listen, because that raises questions. that’s what raises a question, not a question you think of in advance. you can try to think up a list but you’ll discover you have more questions, different ones, and maybe even go in a totally different direction if you just watch and listen.
I liked “feature stories”—people stories. I wasn’t a news reporter. I didn’t need a news story to tell a story, but it helped. a lot of the stories I grew up reading in the local paper had no news peg, no time sensitive urgency, no “newsworthiness.” it was often just about a person and an experience. what’s it like being old, aging and alone? what’s it like raising a child born with a deformity or cognitive impairment, a terminal illness? what it like when the sweet girl from high school dies in a car crash? what gets left behind, and what was her favorite song? (Mariah Carey’s “Butterfly”—I still remember and I read it in high school.) what’s it like to die slowly of AIDs in the 80s in your 30s?
in journalism school, or journalism classes in my experience, there were people who wanted to take photos and write stories like this to win awards. and others who thought it was “trauma porn” or “poverty porn,” even some of the most serious students of photojournalism that I knew.
but I think if you have consent, if you are let into someone’s home or if someone’s sick bed or to their child’s funeral or into their kitchen, or who lets you take their photo wherever they are, including on the street, or write about them, record them and share them in some way, I don’t think that’s wrong. maybe what’s wrong is that some people live like that, not that someone takes a photo with permission.
if it’s not staged or exaggerated or used in an exploitative way, I don’t see what’s wrong with documenting a person or sharing their image or story if you have permission and they can consent and understand who you are and what you do and what this is for.
some of them wanted to share and be shared. you’d be surprised — some couldn’t wait to tell stories or show you some random thing in their house, some old photo or thing they made or gift they were given that they’ve kept all these years. it was like they had been holding in stories and perspectives for so long and were excited someone wanted to talk to them. had interest.
that can be exploited, in journalism and and in real life. “finally, someone interested in me, someone cares, someone wants to know…”
but that’s when professional ethics comes in, and personal ethics. trust in the publication and the reporter, and respect for the person - “the subject,” “the source” — on behalf of the journalist.
one thing we were told was to never accept any gifts from our “subjects.” no gifts, not even a drink or food if offered. that would make them a person, not a subject, and you a person and not a reporter, and this an exchange of something other than information and a story. or now you owed them — otherwise they’d read it or tune in and think, “but I gave them a cookie!”
“you don’t want them to think you are their friend.” “don’t become part of the story. once you take the cookie, you’re part of the scene.”
reminds me of what my Russian ex used to say, or what my Mexican-American mom says she was taught. “in our culture, it’s rude to ask for food, to accept it even as a gift, even if you want to say yes.” when I used to cook myself breakfast when I was home for break, I’d ask if she wanted any. “I’m making eggs, want some?” she’d look at the eggs and look like she was deep in mental calculus. I’d wait. finally, after much internal negotiation I saw clearly on her face, she’d say “um, no thanks, I’m not hungry.” eventually I learned to just make enough for two and leave some to grab on her own if she wanted any. it happened after one day I got so mad. “why can’t you just say yes? that you want something? I learned this from you!” I knew she had learned from someone else. but it wasn’t until I said something that she told the story.
maybe I wasn’t their friend but I wasn’t not their friend, either. sometimes I’d say no, I’d decline, and you’d see hurt wash over their face. they really wanted to give me something. water, a cookie, a slice of pie. “you really can’t take it?”
sometimes I’d say yes. I knew i wasn’t supposed to. and even if I didn’t really want it, I didn’t want them to feel I had refused their gift, their little offering, and often they had so very little to be giving.
I don’t know the story behind this woman, the cat or the photos. I found her on Pinterest.
