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.