Welcome to the Profession
Tom, a young white man in his early twenties, packed his book and his journal, into a dark olive green book bag, threw the bag over his head, and left the coffee shop where he’d spent the last hour writing out his thoughts. His father had recently told him he was on his own after declaring himself a communications major and deciding to pursue a career as an investigative journalist.
His father, a mid-level manager for Frazier Farms supermarket, had explained to him well in advance that he would only pay if he majored in one of five things: Accounting, Business Administration, Pre-Law, Pre-Med, or some branch of engineering. He didn’t want any “farting around” from his own son, he said.
Tom felt humiliated and misunderstood. He was no slouch. He hadn’t made a flippant decision. He knew that he was entering a dying industry, knew that he might spend his entire life self-employed, and knew there would be periods of time--if not his whole life--where society would ostracize him for being the bearer of bad news. It was the time of the climate change emergency, it was the time of decreasing democracy in the United States, it was the time of endless war and there was little good news to report. The kind of journalist he aspired to become--in the mold of his heroes Sy Hersh, Julian Assange, Jeremy Scahill, and the late Michael Hastings--was practically charged with reporting nothing less than the apocalypse. And yet, Tom felt driven by a conviction that there was still time to change the world.
Outside of the coffee shop, his friend José picked him up in an old, black Mitsubishi.
“You all ready?” asked José.
“Yeah, yeah,” replied Tom, raising his eyebrows and nodding, as if he was sure but not sure.
“Are you sure?” asked José, “You’re practically going for broke. Trust me, I wouldn’t fault you if you forgot about going, spent the summer at Home Depot, and returned to school after the summer. You can always start your career with degree in hand.”
Tom shook his head from left to right, with conviction.
“I don’t know that I will ever have an opportunity quite like this one again,” started Tom, “something feels very right about doing this right now. I think covering the Poor People’s Campaign, even if it’s winding down, is important and I can’t wait to meet Michael Nigro, whose work I admire.”
“Cool,” said José, as he turned onto San Marcos Avenue and towards the highway.
After a year covering the housing crisis on his scant free time and publishing his work in the Christian Science Monitor, the Real News Network--based in Baltimore, Maryland--had offered him a summer internship with the possibility to come on board as a full-time reporter at the end of the season.
Knowing that if he returned to school after the summer he’d have to take on considerable school loans--he already had $15,000 worth of them, move onto someone’s living room sofa, and eat Ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner he really wasn’t thinking about returning to San Marcos. Other great reporters had gotten started without a college degree. Why couldn’t he?
Three days later he was in the nation’s capital to cover the closing of the Poor People’s Campaign. A contingent of nearly one thousand people had reached a moment of confrontation well before reaching Congress, their planned destination. The police had blocked their path and were allowing no more progress.
Michael Nigro was busy photographing the confrontation and Tom was busy taking notes.
The Reverend Dr. William Barber, a big, tall black man in a purple clergy’s robe, spoke to a policeman on the front lines.
“We have a right to petition our government and so we have a right to continue our march into the halls of Congress,” announced Dr. Barber.
The policeman failed to acknowledge Dr. Barber and simply stared ahead of him. Other protestors implored the line of police to move out of the way and allow them to march on.
“This is for the future of your children as well. Poverty is beginning to afflict whites and the middle classes. Refuse orders to stop us!”
“Yeah!” shouted the people behind the protester.
The officer, however, along with the line of officers that flanked him remained stolid.
The police issued an ultimatum to the gathering to disperse or be arrested and after they had refused to move the men in uniform began arresting everyone in sight.
Tom saw an officer approach him with baton in hand. Tom held up his press badge and pointed it at the oncoming officer believing he would reroute as soon as he recognized the characters on the badge: PRESS.
“Everyone within 100 meters of the congregation is subject to arrest, sir!” pronounced the police man.
“But, but” protested Tom before he was tackled to the hot, sun splashed ground and handcuffed.
Three hundred people were arrested.
A few days later he sat across from Paul Jay, Editor-in-Chief of The Real News.
Paul, a lean man of Lebanese heritage in his late fifties with large, round eyes trained his eyes intently on Tom.
“You’ve had a glimpse of what this life is like. Are you sure you want to continue?” asked Mr. Jay.
“Damn sure,” he answered.
Jay smirked, nodding his head, and yelled beyond Tom, “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ve got ourselves a reporter!”
#fiction #journalism #PoorPeoplesCampaign #comingofage