Getting Involved

At an opening lecture when journalism school began, one of our professors gave us this bit of wisdom:

“Being a journalist isn’t safe,” he said. “If you’re going into journalism thinking that you can avoid danger, you’re going to be a bad journalist. When everybody else is running away from a situation, your job is to run towards it.”

I think that example is perhaps more in line with the job description of policemen, firefighters and soldiers, especially after William Quinn’s insight into Jesus’ criticism of the Pharisees. Look at the example of emergency responders on September 11th. When others fled, they entered.

But while reporting, I have already been in situations where I have thought to myself ‘What am I doing here?’ Journalism asks me to be brave in the face of physical and emotional danger. I am not a brave person. I’m afraid of more things than I can name. I’m afraid of things that I don’t even know I’m afraid of.

To perform honorably in these professions, I think, you also have to stand by your commitments –and sometimes, your compassionate intuition. There is a tiny little voice of goodness inside of me. Most days I feed him Subway and tell him to shut up.

On a warm summer evening a few years ago, I entered the vestibule of a large grocery store and reached over to grab a shopping cart. As I put my purse in the cart, I heard something –a human voice –yelping unintelligibly. I turned around in the room to figure out where it was coming from but saw no signs of its origin. What I did see, however, confused me.

I noticed that other shoppers were entering the store, turning as they heard the shouts and walking onward. They paused when they heard something troubling, but they decided --for whatever reason --that it was not worth the time or risk to investigate. I was almost one of them.

I thought to myself ‘Well, everyone else seems to be ignoring this cry. Maybe it’s not such a big a deal. Maybe I should just overlook it as well. It would be easier, and less risky. Who knows what kind of situation is ensuing? Why should I get involved?.’

But for some reason I could not let it go. With my heart pounding, I moved closer towards the sound and found myself standing outside an industrial sized wooden door. I opened it.

An young man spilled out of the small custodial closet. He was covered in sweat and looked like he had been crying. I have no idea how long he was in there because he did not speak English and I was so overwhelmed that my limited Spanish skills failed me. There was no doorknob on the inside of the closet; he was trapped there with no way out. He nodded at me, grabbed his mop and hurried to work.

I can not even imagine how many other times, in so many ways, that people have pleaded, knocked and shouted at me for help while I smugly walked by. Or while I sat comfortably. Or while I was too afraid to respond.

By Elizabeth Tenety  |  November 20, 2007; 10:06 AM ET  | Category:  Campus Catholic
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Posted by: halozcel | November 27, 2007 11:41 PM
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