Around this time, last year, I was covering for …a religious publication, of all things. They wanted me to go cover Freddie Gray’s funeral. Only moments of driving out of the overflow parking lot did news break about the uproar at Mondawmin. To be honest, I was pissed. Like, in an instant, frustration just bubbled up inside of me. I was just covering a funeral. I was just at a funeral. Behind that camera, a part of me was mourning. Amidst the bit of pushing and shoving among photogs, there was a silence. No -not silence, but that sound, like when the heart monitor can no longer find a pulse. A white noise. It’d come in and out as I caught myself -my mind taking seconds to make temporary escapes from the reality of which I surrounded myself. My mind drifted in between moments of my eyes racing to scope all that was occurring to send messages to my brain to send commands to my finger to push that shutter -to capture moments.
I didn’t go to Mondawmin, that day. Publication didn’t pay me to. I thought about it. But, frankly, I concluded I had no business being there. I had no weapons, no badge, no pepper spray, but I felt that being there would also be a sense of trespassing, an invasion of space, a barrier to, for many, home. Mondawmin is no stranger to me. Many trips there marked on my timeline. It was the best place to buy some of mom’s now-older church fashions, it was the place we came for shoes. Hell, I got my high school senior prom dress from one of the shops. But this time, last year, it wasn’t my place, and rightfully so.
In between assignments, I covered other days, while “off the clock.” I had friends and former colleagues of bigger, well-known markets covering non-stop…showing up at rallies and waiting hours before a peep of protest would ensue, staking out at City Hall, with bosses feeling assured they wouldn’t miss a thing. But, I guess, with a camera in hand, a notepad not too far from your grasp, you were never really “off the clock.” You had to be present; and many were more than others.
…natural feeling of reflection has taken its course. Maybe I’ll speak more on this, some day.
I’ll say, however, in those moments of white noise I was talking about earlier, which I’ve always had when covering anything, I’m always pondering that ‘what if I wasn’t a journalist?’ situation. I would drift off to imagining myself in those situations as being part of one of the parties involved.
…A sister in mourning, the daughter whose mother’s been duped by a whack contractor, the mother whose daughter’s body was just found…
I always realize the same thing: that could be me. Journos -reporters, photogs, producers, tds, whatever…we’re the same flesh and blood. We, too, don’t have the luxury or power to escape misfortune if we wanted to.
And then I think… journos need support groups. If you’re one, no matter the level, I hope you have someone, or people, you trust to confide in about your day. People to listen to you and allow you to take the load off, or at least, allow you to internalize all that you’ve seen.
This time, last year, I got into some weird journo-civilian mind debacle…and thought, maybe it’s because I’ve been out of that newsroom life. Maybe, I should step back in. I don’t know.
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