Multimedia Project Update

UGH. So far, not so good. For our final project in communications, my class is putting together the Commencement Edition of The Hawk. Our theme is "first jobs," and I'm on the reporting/writing end of things. Each member of my group is writing a profile of a senior and a longer feature-y story as well. This has been a lot harder than I expected. I know quite a few seniors here at SJU and didn't think I'd have a problem with networking to find sources. Luckily, I have found someone to profile, and I'm interviewing her next week. However, my feature story, about seniors who are moving back home after graduation for either jobs or to save money, has netted me a big zero. After I sent out an email to over 20 seniors, asking either for their input or for names of those who would like to be briefly interviewed, I'm 0 for 20. No one will talk to me. I guess I didn't realize how moving back home was a sore spot for seniors. I think our theme, "first jobs," is a sore spot in general, especially for Arts and Sciences majors. Jobs seem to be rarer than unicorns these days, and if the lack of one is forcing someone to move back home, they're not going to admit it aloud, let alone go "on the record" about it and have it published both in print and online for all of posterity.

I can't say I blame them.

I feel like I either need to totally revamp my approach or totally change the topic. I'm going to converse with my group tonight and see what a next plan of action could be.

In Silence

Browsing through Magnum's photo essays (all of which are versatile and powerfully recorded), one particular headline caught my eye: In Silence. It's a startlingly sad photo essay about the unprecedented numbers of mothers dying in childbirth. India is not well-equipped to deal with basic pregnancy complications; most childbearing centers don't have surgeons or blood banks available to these women. 75% of mothers die preventable deaths.

One woman was the center of this story. Her name was Karin Yadav, and she died at the age of 25 after giving birth to a baby boy (she also had a 9-year-old daughter and a 7-year-old son). Immediately after her son was born, Karin wouldn't stop bleeding. The clinic she was in didn't have a doctor or the ability to perform a blood transfusion. The nearest hospital was only 8 miles away, but since there were no ambulances available, her family rushed her there in a taxi. Upon arrival, the gates to the hospital were closed, and the guards refused to open them. By the time Karin was finally examined by a doctor, it was too late.

The pictures, videos, and recordings (mostly Karin's family members talking about how she died and how angered they are by the injustice of it) worked really well when juxtaposed together. It's a story that almost requires a visual to be as hard-hitting and powerful as it is. It helped me to put faces to names and personal emotions to a widespread problem. Pictures of Karin's children and family members make you realize that these are people just like us, except for the fact that where they live makes life much harder.

These women would not have died here in the US. That is unacceptable. A photo essay like this one will hopefully raise awareness of this problem and help to build resources to keep these women alive for their families.

The Falling Man

Everyone remembers where they were on September 11, 2001, the day that surpassed all expectations of how much evil resides in the world. I was twelve years old, sitting in my seventh grade history class. My teacher abruptly left the room and came back a few minutes later with dried tears on her face.

We all knew something was wrong. But for the remainder of the school day, as kids were picked up by their parents in droves, the televisions were kept firmly black and we completely in the dark.

When I finally got home (my parents hadn't picked me or my two brothers up from school; my mom later explained that she hadn't wanted to alarm us), I watched the news. And watched it for hours. My young mind couldn't understand the full atrocity of what happened. But I starkly remember going upstairs to take a shower and crumpling in the bathroom, shocked, sickened, and horrified by what I'd seen. I didn't think the world would ever feel right again, feel safe again.

I can only imagine what it was like for those who lost a loved one that day. Lost someone so special in an act so senseless, so unnecessary. In the days that followed, I'd pick up the paper and read the stories, look at the pictures. Tragedy had a face, and it made the disbelief even harder to cope with. In that sense, I can understand why The Falling Man photo, concrete evidence of the sheer destruction of that day, would outrage people. But I'm not disgusted by it. I wouldn't demand it to be removed from the front pages of every newspaper in the country.

The picture itself doesn't almost feel real. There's something incredibly unreal about knowing you're looking at a man's final seconds on Earth. Throughout reading the Esquire article attached to the photo, I kept asking myself the question, "Would I have jumped? Could I have knowingly ended my own life?" It's a chilling question, but I don't find it a chilling image. There's something serene about it, accepting. I wouldn't want to stare at it for all of eternity, but I also don't believe that it compromises that man's dignity. His story may never be completely unearthed, but he has been immortalized through this photograph, his story giving a face to a tragedy suffered by thousands. Just one photograph on a day where images were necessary to tell this story.

Multimedia Journalism A Step In The Right Direction

TK

Our First Loves

This is one of the coolest student-produced multimedia presentations I've ever seen. It's a montage of different "first love" stories, whether it be a person or a food (the spaghetti one made me smile). So, in light of how awesome I found this, I'll do a little "first love" story of my own (just the transcript, though. Wish I knew how to add audio to a blog. It's Easter Break; I'm short on time here.)

Name: Andrea
Gender: Female
Age: 20 / 1 at first love
Location: Pennsylvania
Adjective: Perfect
Place: My house

My first love was my blanket. There was nothing in the world quite like it. It was a 1st birthday present, something special to mark the passage of my first year on earth. It was the perfect size; it wasn't too big, like the blanket my mom kept slung over the back of our couch, and it wasn't too small, like the pillow case I loved to wrestle off my bed pillow. It was fluffy and white with a satin edge I loved to keep close to my face. Teddy bears of various colors decorated its exterior; it was my first best friend. It came everywhere with me: trips to the grocery store, dinner out, and even trips to the playground. I couldn't sleep without it. I'd throw a fit every time my mom would wash it; my arms and legs would thrash, and my face would turn a deep red color. Nothing could replace it, not a slip, not a sheet, not anything. It always smelled too clean when it came out of the washer; I'd have to smush it around my bed and wedge it between my stuffed animals before it could smell right again.

As I got older, my blanket-carrying became less and less acceptable. The blanket itself began to rip and fray; pretty soon, all that was left of my best friend was the worn satin edge. And even after it was gone completely, and I'd slept through the night without it, it still remains something of a staple in my life. I never called it a "security blanket," but that's exactly what it was. Secure. Safe. Home.

I may be much older now, but those things are still necessary for me. Except now, instead of searching out a new blanket, I search out people who represent those things. I've learned that they're few and far between, like that blanket, but finding them, and keeping them, is exponentially more valuable than any piece of fabric.

Too Late to Apologize

This song was in my head when I took a look at this multimedia presentation on the apologies of many well-recognized men. The last few years have brought about the "fall from grace" of many sports, celebrity, and political heroes. We've had to hear the words "I'm sorry" so many times from these beloved figures that they all begin to mesh together.

I got quite the kick out of this piece. I don't know whether this was the intent or not, but the whole multimedia thing trivialized all these great men's apologies, making them all sound alike and just that much less sincere. It was better than writing some news brief about it or even shooting a video that encompasses all the televised contriteness. What's cool about multimedia in general is that it involves the reader more than any other news piece. It brings them into a story in a way other forms of journalism can't.

It can also add a little humor, which never hurt anyone.

Not Just Another Casualty

You've heard a million stories about the war in Iraq. So many stories, in fact, that most blend together and begin to sound like white noise.

Not this one. Not this one.

Father Tim Vakoc is the first--and only--military chaplain gravely wounded in the Iraq War. When he returned home, his condition was so grave, no one expected him to live. And yet, he defied the odds. This photo slideshow with captions and voice-overs literally gave me goosebumps. There was something about the voices and the low singing placed over these profound pictures...it was a combination that told the story in a unique and moving way.

The part the got me the most was when Father Tim spoke his first words after two years of silence. I had to pause the slideshow and take a deep breath. There was something so powerful about it, the sound of it over the picture of it. The whole thing hit me right in the chest. It was better than watching a video or reading about it in an article. Hearing it made me feel like I was there. Amazing, just amazing. What a way to tell a story.

A Prison In Your Mind

After reading so much about Nathaniel Ayers' struggles with schizophrenia in The Soloist, this Los Angeles Times article just hit me that much more squarely in the chest.

January (Jani) Schofield is 6 years old. She's severely schizophrenic. Most people are diagnosed with the mental disorder in their late teens/early 20s. Jani appears to have been born mentally ill.

A video accompanies the article, putting faces to the names. I chose to read the article first; I wanted to get all the details about Jani's illness before I watched her in action. The article is extremely powerful. I can't imagine what it must be like to have a 6-year-old who has no control over her own mind. She has numerous imaginary friends, some of which are "good," and others, who encourage her violent behavior, are "bad."

Many different psychotic medications have been tried for Jani, but only doses that would stagger most adults have the slightest positive effect on her. Her parents have had to make numerous sacrifices to maintain as much stability for her as possible. They traded in their 2-bedroom apartment for two 1-bedroom apartments, a move made to protect the safety of her 18-month-old brother, whom she tries to attack at least once a day.

It's not expressly stated, but her parents' marriage is suffering immensely. Jani's father did most of the video's commentary, while her mother only appeared once. To me, her father seems to be her primary caretaker, the one who loves her in such a heartbreaking and devastating way; it seems like her mother wants to scoop up her healthy son and forget about her ill daughter. Such a shame.

The pairing of the video with the article was a very effective way of telling this story. Reading about Jani talking to imaginary friends is one thing; seeing it is another. It adds an element of reality that you can't always get from words alone. The sad truth about this young girl is that she'll never get better. But maybe, through the telling of her story, another family like hers can begin to cope with this immense tragedy.

Wait For Me

How long could you wait for a loved one? How long could you hold out hope? How long could you last until every shred of reality slipped away?

Wait for Me is a three-minute documentary about a mother's undying quest to find her son. John Ewing Dreyfous was only 24 years old when he disappeared while biking across southern Europe. He kept in contact with his mother throughout his journey, sending her letters and postcards. This communication abruptly stopped after John entered Bangladesh and India. He vanished while hiking through the Himalaya Mountains.

In 1985.

His mother refuses to believe that her son is gone for good. She holds out hope because of a letter published in the newspaper from a soldier to his mother. The main thing he begged of his mother was to wait, even when all others had given up. So, for the last 22 years, she has waited. John's whereabouts are still unknown.

This was the most moving 3 minutes I've ever watched. I didn't want it to be over. While the director did a fantastic job of telling a story in a small space, I feel like the story is much bigger than the time allotted. I look forward to its expansion. Either way, it was a truly unforgettable video. Had it been written for a magazine, it would not have been as powerful. Seeing the images, the video of a younger John juxtaposed with pictures of a letter and the streets of Europe--that was what made the story that much more amazing.

Books Always Win

As a book-lover, I'm always on their side when it comes to books-turned-into-movies. To me, making a movie out of a book takes something away from the story. The beauty of reading comes in the form of imagination and creativity. The characters, settings, events, are exactly as you picture them. The story speaks to you. It's personal.

Movies fill in the blanks. Movies show you what to think, how to feel. You sit down and watch everything unfold. You're not nearly as involved as when you're curled up with a book, transported to that exact place and time. Movies pick and choose which parts of the book to stay loyal to, and where to add something that never appeared in the text. Sometimes, it works. Most of the time, it doesn't.

The Soloist was one that didn't work. It was another casualty in Hollywood's attempt to cash in on a story that literature was already reaping the benefits of. Jamie Foxx, Robert Downey Jr.--two great actors. But it just didn't quite hit the right notes for me. First of all, I hated the character of Steve Lopez. This is really saying something, considering I'm half in love with Robert Downey Jr. and really felt connected to the character in the book. In the movie, Lopez is single (he's married with a young daughter in the book) and pretty bitter about his life. While the real Lopez was down on his luck in some ways, he certainly wasn't as dark and blah as the movie version. I never truly accepted that this was Steve Lopez; after reading the book, I just didn't believe the character the film was trying to portray.

Jamie Foxx was pretty good as Nathaniel. He seemed to capture the rambling, scattered nature of Ayers' personality. However, even that character felt a little off. From the costumes to the flashbacks, I felt such a disconnect from the book and the Nathaniel I read about. There was an almost comedic air to much of Nathaniel's "antics," and that was never a vibe I got from the book. If anything, Lopez did a phenomenal job of relaying just how serious and borderline scary Nathaniel's moods were. I felt like the movie never really got into the nitty-gritty of the schizophrenia, and had it, the movie might have been better.

One thing I did praise were the scenes around and outside of LAMP. The destitute, dreary, and downright disgusting squalor in Los Angeles was portrayed exactly how I imagined it. Those images were pretty powerful, so I commend the movie for that.

Overall, I was underwhelmed by the film. I don't think it did justice to the characters or the true message. In trying to make a commercially successful film (which it really wasn't), movie producers sacrificed the heart of this story. I wish a film could have done more justice to Lopez and Ayers. I guess I'm satisfied in knowing that the true magic still lies in the book. Bypass the DVD and head for the nearest Borders. No disappointment there.

My Mission

I am a writer. If you're reading this blog, you already know that. I've loved to write for as long as I can remember. It's a passion that stemmed from, I'm positive, a love of reading. I'd stay up late at night, with a flashlight under my covers, reading the latest Amber Brown installment or Mary-Kate & Ashley mystery. Cliche, but true.

In college, I've explored the type of writing I want to pursue. Freshman and sophomore years were devoted to journalism. No. Hell, no. Don't have the personality for it. Junior year has been devoted to fiction. Bingo. That was it, the X factor I'd been looking for. This is what comes naturally. This is what I love to do. This is what I'm meant to do.

Okay. Now what?

My mission, as a writer with aspirations of that elusive New York Times Bestseller list, is to write something that matters, something with substance. Something that people will look back on in ten, twenty, thirty years and say, "That made me look at things a little differently." No matter what we write, all writers want to write something that will have an impact, whether it be big or small. I want to write something relatable, something that will keep young people up at night, turning page after page into the wee hours of the morning. I want to write something meaningful.

Something I can be proud of.

That's my dream. That's my mission.

"I'm Mr. Lopez and You're Mr. Ayers"

By the end of The Soloist, Steve Lopez stops calling Nathaniel by his first name and refers to him instead as "Mr. Ayers." To me, this was probably the most unsettling part of the entire book. Right up until this change, my emotional investment in the characters was at an all-time high. I'd spent over 200 pages on the roller-coaster ride with Lopez, experiencing Nathaniel's tumultuous personality as well as Lopez's desire to help.

And then they fight.

For the first time, Nathaniel lashes out personally at Lopez, telling him that he "despises him," and threatens his life if he visits LAMP again. With a few moments of unabashed shrieking, Nathaniel destroys every fiber of being inside Lopez, who stumbles to his car in a dumbfounded daze, both shocked and devastated.

After the incident, Lopez realizes that he's gotten too close to Nathaniel, who he later says should have always been called Mr. Ayers. He sees that a line was crossed, and even if it wasn't unethical or wrong, it had wreaked too much havoc on his personal life. Something had to give; his intimate relationship with Nathaniel couldn't continue as it was. He had to take a step back.

By referring to Nathaniel as Mr. Ayers for the rest of the story, the reader becomes painfully aware of the barrier Lopez has now built between himself and Nathaniel. While he still cares for Nathaniel, the friendship has changed. It's not the same--it can't be the same. A paranoid schizophrenic who refuses medication will never technically "get better." Lopez had invested too much of his emotional and physical state in a person who could stretch out a hand to shake, but strike him instead.

Even though I felt the dynamic changed with the name change, it was one of the most emotionally powerful parts of the entire novel. Lopez couldn't have symbolized the relationship's change any better. It became both painful and promising--now they could be friends, but without Lopez's emotional burden of constantly trying to "save" someone who refused to acknowledge he had a problem to begin with.

Lopez's The Soloist Not An Exploitation

For those of you who haven't read Steve Lopez's book The Soloist, I suggest you do so. Above is the trailer for the movie based on this extraordinary book about mental illness, friendship, music, and undying hope. Mr. Lopez is a journalist for The Los Angeles Times. He's looking for a story and just hasn't stumbled upon the right one yet.

Then he hears the music.

It's coming from a tunnel and it's being played by a messily-dressed, middle-aged homeless man. Mr. Lopez introduces himself to Nathaniel Anthony Ayers, a once-promising student at Juilliard who dropped out after he was diagnosed with a crippling and incurable mental illness: paranoid schizophrenia. Lopez becomes fascinated by Nathaniel's story and decides he's found the subject of his next column. But it's not long before Lopez realizes that he feels more deeply for Nathaniel than a journalist should for his subject. He wants to help Nathaniel, get him off the streets and into treatment. They become friends, but their relationship is tumultuous. Nathaniel's mental illness rears its ugly head more than once, testing Lopez's ability to invest his emotions in someone so volatile.

After a while, Lopez starts to wonder about the effect Nathaniel's columns are having. He asks himself, "Everything I've written about Nathaniel is extremely personal, and yet I've shared it with thousands of readers. Have I exploited him? Is it possible for me to keep writing about him without doing so?" Someone on the outside could wonder this as well. Los Angeles' "Skid Row," the place where over 60,000 homeless spend their days, is not news. Its existence is widely known and, given the lack of political action, seemingly accepted.

But Lopez's columns are not exploitation. He does not see Nathaniel as a paycheck, as a means to writing great stories that put himself in the spotlight. He cares deeply for Nathaniel as a human, as a person. They become friends, and he goes above and beyond to give Nathaniel access to all the help he needs. I believe that exploitation is selfish, and nothing about Lopez's relationship with Ayers is such. In fact, Lopez ruminates, "I don't know whether, in the end, I'll have had as big an impact on Nathaniel's life as he will have had on mine." That seems to be the underlying vibe throughout the story. While it seems initially that Lopez sets out to make Nathaniel's life better, the roles are reversed by the end. Nathaniel unconsciously gives Lopez an introspection on his own life he never had before.

Theirs is a true story of friendship. There was no exploitation, and I hope The Soloist isn't criticized for the uplifting tale it tells.

Admirable Angela

In Class Matters, Angela W.'s move from deep, hard-set poverty to comfortable middle class is both admirable and eye-opening. It didn't seem long ago that her and her five children (all by different fathers) were living on the streets, in crack houses, and in squalor. But after she met Vincent A., who later became her husband, her life turned around.

The book's experts say that Angela's rise on the social ladder "shows the importance of work and marriage. She found a good man and a good job. The thinking now is, it takes both to move out of poverty." Angela's marriage allowed her to find some financial stability while she returned to school to become a nurse. After graduating, she found a job that required her to work strange hours, but paid her $83,000. That's a lot of money for someone who usually didn't have $8 to spend on food.

I agree with this. By getting a job, Angela proved her own self-worth and found a way to stand on her own two feet. She ended up earning more a year than her police detective husband! But the marriage was equally as important. Having a dual-partnership, just the basic necessity of human companionship--knowing someone is on your side--helps with the psyche of someone who's trying to make their life better. Having two people working together to raise a family and bring in income is always better than one person struggling to have ends meet.

Angela's story is a true tale of companionship, and the financial and emotion benefits of it. She is a true testament in self-belief and hard work.

What "Great Equalizer?"

College should be "The Great Equalizer." College should blend students from many different financial backgrounds and hand them the same opportunities. College shouldn't be about how much money you have, but rather, how much drive and talent you have.

But is it? No.

I'm a junior at Saint Joseph's University in Philadelphia, PA. It's set on the Main Line, smack-dab in the middle of a wealthy suburb and the scary, don't-walk-alone-at-night city. We've been labeled a lot of things, but the one I've heard the most is "the poor man's Villanova." Villanova is our "rival" school that's about twenty minutes away. We always seem to be in competition with them, whether it be through sports or academics.

But one thing's for sure: St. Joe's isn't for the "poor man."

With tuition rising above $40,000 a year, this just doesn't make sense. I come from a middle class family, and I'm able to attend St. Joe's because of a scholarship. Loans cover the rest. With most of my friends, this is the same story. We'll all be knee-deep in debt when we leave Philly, and most of us wince at the prospect of grad school loans. But that's not the case with everyone here.

I've met quite a few "privileged" people. People who don't have a scholarship and whose parents pick up the 40 grand tab like it's a pile of pennies. People who drive super-nice cars and live in upscale, $1000-a-month apartments. People who have designer everything and can drop $300 on a shopping trip and not break a sweat. People with 5 different credit cards and a trust fund the size of Texas.

They don't "blend" as well on campus as they think they do. Sometimes, you can know someone's financial situation just by looking at them. It causes a lot of envy, a lot of bitterness. Some kids are here by the skin of their teeth, eating Ramen Noodles for dinner every night. Not so equal.

And then there are the well-off students that you'd never notice. The ones who don't let their financial status define them. The ones who can afford the designer outfits, but don't wear them. The ones who save their money and don't ride around in convertibles and Lexuses. Those are the ones that make me think--make me hope--that one day, college will be an equalizer.

But college will never be an equalizer if the tuitions continue to climb. $40,000 a year automatically excludes people who can't afford it. How is that fair? Setting a tuition that high sets you up for a wealthier population. The others will make it on scholarship and financial aid. But will they become the minority? I hope not.

Is the American Dream Still Alive?

The New York Times compilation, Class Matters, takes an in-depth look at America's class system. It aims to debunk unfounded claims and reinstate hope in the "American Dream." But are the ideals this country was founded upon still at work in our society today?

I say no.

The idea that hard work, determination, and a little bit of faith are all you need to carve yourself a niche in America is completely outdated. There are plenty of hardworking people who will never do as well for themselves as they want. Sometimes, hard work is necessary to just tread water, just pay the bills.

I know this reality. I live this reality.

I just returned from a trip to Naples, Florida with my best friend from high school. We stayed with her grandparents at their newly-purchased home. I spent a week in one of the most beautiful towns I have ever seen. If there is one word to describe Naples, it's upscale. I lost count of how many BMWs, Lexuses, and Beamers we passed on the road. The shopping centers were brand new. We passed a bank on every corner. The movie theater had leather seats and a full-course menu. The highways were impeccable, and the beaches were littered with designer bathing suits and family-owned boats. A meal at one of the many restaurants down there cost no less than $20.

I should talk. I rode around her grandfather's classic BMW convertible. Preferably with the top down.

My friend praises her grandfather, lauding how hard he worked his entire life to be able to afford such great circumstances. And that's true. Her grandfather did work very hard, and he continues to work while his wife is retired.

But I couldn't help my lower-middle class self from being slightly resentful. As much as I loved Naples, I found myself becoming angry that this kind of happiness seems so unattainable. I'm hoping to work in the publishing business. Not a lot of money there. I'll end up right back in the middle class once I get out of college--if I'm lucky.

My father has been working for 40 years. My family is buried under a mountain of debt. We've never taken a vacation to an island or Europe. We've been to Disney twice. My mom drives a mini-van and my dad a Ford. We live in a 3-bedroom house that barely holds us all in. We hardly go out to dinner. My father is one of the hardest-working men I know. He's 61 years old. Sarah's grandfather is 67.

And I know that unless he wins the lottery, my father will never have a second house, let alone one in Florida. I could argue that he's worked just as hard, if not harder, than Sarah's grandfather. But he will never have that kind of luxury. My family will never have that kind of luxury. And we don't even need a house on Florida's coastline. How about just being debt-free? How about being able to afford our education? A good house? A meal out? A vacation? We don't need much, but the basics are hard to come by. How is that fair?

American Dream? I don't think so.

Fact vs. Fiction

What happens when a tragic story, one that grips your heart and boggles your mind, one that wins a prize, wasn't ever true? What happens when you discover that a heralded reporter is in fact a very gifted fiction writer? That's what happened when Janet Cooke's heartbreaking article Jimmy's World was discovered to be completely false, utterly fabricated.

The story follows a 5-year-old boy who is addicted to heroin. It's a harrowing story of street smarts, drugs, abuse, racism, and possible early death. You can't read this story and not be moved by it. Since it was published in 1980, nine years before I was even a twinkle in my parents' eyes, I could only approach this story with the knowledge that it was fake.

However, that didn't stop me from becoming engrossed. It's beautifully written, and the language and tone create a stark honesty that made it so convincing. I wanted to believe this story; I wanted to believe in the nitty gritty and profound journalism that would have been necessary to find a story like this. I began to read the article like a chapter in a novel. I found myself analyzing the dialogue and wondering how long it took her to master a dialect, master the voice of a 5-year-old drug addict. There were times when I wondered how people didn't question this immediately, and there were times where I felt betrayed as a reader because the voice was so strong.

It left me wondering what would drive someone to do this. Completely fabricating a story in journalism is a risk I couldn't imagine taking. Why would you take a chance on your career, your reputation? Cooke later went on to offer a small explanation, but it didn't seem good enough. Even though the ways of fact-checking in the 1980s weren't nearly as extensive as they are now, the core values and heart of journalism remain the same. If someone could do this then (for the sake of producing something great under pressure), what's stopping it from happening again?

Something needs to change, starting with the interior of journalism. Whether it's re-evaluating values, taking a closer look at the stories, or reestablishing faith and trust amongst the reporters, this cannot happen again. Unfortunately, I'm sure it already has.

Fox Reigns Supreme

In a recent poll, FOX News was voted the Most Trusted Television Network, with 49 percent of Americans placing their trust in the network. That's 10 more percentage points than any other network involved in the poll; CNN was voted second with 39 percent of the vote. So, I pose this question to you: Why do you think FOX won this poll? It certainly doesn't have a reputation for being unbiased. So why FOX and not CNN or MSNBC or ABC or CBS? Is it a choice between the lesser of the evils? Or, is it because FOX "tells the public what they want to hear," according to the PPP President Dean Debnam.

Is this surprising, or no? Tell me what you think!

No Bias, Huh?

Cardinal rule #1 of journalism: if you have a political affiliation, SHUT UP. Do not tell, show, display, announce, etc. what your political leanings are. Guess the rules don't apply to Washington Post reporter Deborah Howell, who in her article Remedying the Bias Perception, only makes matters worse. 

First of all, in the third paragraph, she admits that she voted for Barack Obama.

WHAT? Did you just admit your political leanings? And it doesn't stop there.

She goes on to say how conservatives have a right to be pissed at the press, because most of them are indeed liberal. That's just how journalism is. Sorry, Republicans, but there is a bias. And there's nothing you can do about it.

Woah. Woah. Woah.

I almost couldn't believe what I was reading. Never have I read an article that was so incriminating to journalism. Never. I can't believe this article went to press. For her to come right out and go, "Yup. It's unfair. We could try to fix it, but because we want to change the world, we're still gonna be liberal."

So, now "changing the world" is the excuse for bias?

Mistaking Incompetence for Corruption

It goes without saying that the press isn't going to win any popularity contests.

Most of them were probably never King or Queen of their prom.

Like that really matters.

Anyway, most people on the street would concur that the media has a pretty bad rap. American news organizations have long been accused of being biased, underhanded, and just downright wrong.

But is this hatred of the media unfounded?


Roy Peter Clark thinks so. In his article, The Public Bias Against the Press, he acknowledges the media's shortcomings but argues that they, in no way, deserve the reputation that's been forced upon them. He claims that people don't trust the media because that's what they've been taught to do. He says that because of sites like this and shows like this, journalism will be forever tainted.


He goes so far as to say that reporters today are some of the most well-trained, well-prepared people out there. And while it's true that it's courageous for many of these men and women to risk their lives for a story, I think the awwww factor does little for Clark's argument. 


Reputations are not wrong always accidental or misleading.

Sure, journalists absolutely take a beating through television portrayals. Some of the stories they report are amazing, eye-opening, and important. Without them, we wouldn't be connected to the world around us. But I don't agree with Clark that bias is wholly on the part of the public. The public wants to believe its news, but it's finding more and more that it can't.

That's just reality.

Yes, politicians hate the media (I think with good reason). Yes, some of the "fluff" journalism and celebrity gossip is undermining the seriousness of the reporting world. Yes, journalists are made fun of in late-night TV. But you can't compare yourself to lawyers for child pornographers. That's going way too far. No one hates journalists as much as criminals. That's just an unfair bias against the public, Mr. Clark.

If you want us to give you the benefit of the doubt, try returning the favor first.