Sometimes when I finish an interview, I walk away with a somewhat unsettled realization that I would never want to be on the opposite end of what I do day in and day out. I would not want to answer my own questions.
What is this complicated issue? How do you see it impacting these people? Are people angry about this? What are you doing about that? Do you feel like a scum bag? Why is this important? What, how, when, who, why, why, why?
Don't get me wrong; I see great value in the work of journalists around the world. I regret that bias has swept into the industry so rampantly, but I still believe in my profession.
I believe the presence of reporters in city council meetings and court proceedings keeps people honest. I believe in informing the community and in telling stories because humanity can be so moved by story. I think those tough, probing, revealing questions need to be asked. And I think the dumb questions need to be asked, too.
But still, it can be awkward.
I am a private, introverted sort, and I marvel at what I ask people to do. Would I be as open as they are?
There are times that I feel so humbled to be hearing what someone is saying to me. Who am I that they trust me with their words, their image, their knowledge, their hurts, their joys?
Several years ago, I did a series of stories about domestic violence. I began my work, as I often do, with tons of research. I had stats about the freakish commonality of abuse and studies about why women stay in abusive relationships. I KNEW stuff.
Or so I thought.
And then I met a woman at a coffee shop for an interview. As she told me her story of being abused, I dutifully took notes and nodded and hummed in all the right, compassionate places. But I remained detached. Or, in journalism speak, objective.
But then, as this woman told me about what if felt like to have the corner of the coffee table punch into her ribs as she was pushed down by her husband and about the guilt and sickness that boiled in her stomach when she crawled into bed with her husband that night, knowing full well her plan to finally leave the next morning, something happened.
She began to cry. I stoically grabbed her a Kleenex box and murmured reassuringly that she should take her time.
She used one, and then two, and then three Kleenex.
The silence became awkward. She apologized as the tears streamed down her face.
And I suddenly didn't know why in the world she was sorry. She was apologizing for becoming emotional about recounting a hellish night, a hellish relationship smothered in confusion and shame, a hellish life.
But it was I who had asked her to relive it. I was the one who should have been sorry.
I put my pen down. And I grabbed a Kleenex.
That was the first time I've cried in an interview. It was not the last.
Ever since, I have prayed before almost every interview that I will hear with my heart and honor the honesty I am asking for. I pray that my heart will be behind my words when I write, but also that my words will remain objective as my profession demands. It's a hard balance to strike.
But I try. And now, as I've been pondering the questions I ask people every day, I've been trying to turn similar questions on myself. Why do I believe that way? What will I do about this problem? How can I help, and when will I do it?
It's been a good practice. It stems apathy and cynicism, and that is crucial in an industry where it becomes easy to hide behind skepticism and blockade oneself from the humanity behind the story. But I don't want to hide. I want to be human, too, even if it means carrying Kleenex with my pen and my notepad.
