Each year, the German embassy sponsors the Young Journalists’ Program – they take a handful of American journalism students to Munich and Berlin to meet German journalists and visit media companies in the land of Bach and Oktoberfest. This year, I get to go.
- It’s not stalking if you have a press pass. Don’t be afraid to call sources repeatedly to ask the right questions and get the necessary details. If you can master this lack of self-consciousness, you can master good reporting.
- Google before you tweet – the 2013 version of “think before you speak.” Continue reading
The first night I’m home, I’m eating leftovers and reading whatever’s lying around on the dining room table. I find the May 4 issue of India Bulletin. I think, cool, let’s take a look at what’s going on in India. I find the following story:
Alright, fine. Kinda weird and crazy because YOUR SON IS NINE YEARS OLD AND MAYBE HE SHOULD LEARN TO TIE HIS SHOES WITHOUT THE HELP OF A MAID FIRST, but whatever. I roll my eyes and move on. A couple pages later, I find this:
I flip back to the first story. Then back to the second. Back to the first. Back to the second. Afterwards, I stopped reading the paper.
These two stories were in the same paper, same issue, even took place in the same city. You can read them for yourself here. In the same city that a mother is expressing her pride at the fact that her not-quite-adolescent son can drive one of the family’s 18 cars (he gets to because it’s his birthday, by the way), a different mother is inconsolable because her five-year-old daughter is dead after being raped by a family friend.
There are a million factors that affect each of these stories – race, class, gender, culture, upbringing, geographic location. The families could be analyzed, data could be collected, books could be written. But, and I say this with the exhausted — and now angry — brain of a graduate student, maybe there is a semi-simple solution here.
Let’s all stop teaching our sons that, if they insist enough, they can have whatever the hell they want.
Is it just me or does that make a ridiculous amount of sense?
It’s internship season now, and every post on JournalismJobs and MediaBistro proudly declares that they will not be using you as a moving tray. You will be doing Real Work, like reporting things, jumping into hard news, writing front page stories, sitting in on editorial meetings and being allowed to speak. It’ll be great! You’ll be pitching stories, poring through data, getting Deep Throat to tell you all his inner secrets and winning a Pulitzer. You’ll be consuming more coffee than you deliver.
When I see that sentence, I shudder. Not because they’re lying, but because they are telling the truth.
I was eight and a half, and I was mad. I had just woken up, my sister and my mom were gone and now I had to go to school. They had left early, so as not to trigger my rage, but I wanted to be awake when they were getting ready, so I could protest and be Very Upset about being left out of Bring Your Daughter To Work Day. My sister was ten, so she could go. I was deemed too young. I was sulky the whole day.
I love, love, love making people laugh. On a first impression, if you can make someone laugh – actually laugh, not pump out a fake, obligatory chuckle at your joke about how the weather is angry or something – you’re golden. You’re in. He thinks you’re hilarious and would be a hoot to have around the office. There’s something thrilling about using your words with wit, irony, even a pun sometimes, to make someone react in a certain way. You see the joke in your mind, perfect it quickly, deliver it with the right pauses (this is key) and the right expression. You see it hit their ears, they think for an eighth of a second – not too long – and, without being able to help it, they burst out laughing. They laugh for 3-4 seconds, not just a mirthful “hm,” but a real solid burst of pleasure. The crowd roars and the stadium goes wild.