Serious Friday: The Media and Me

I have always consideredmyself a writer first.  

It’s not that I have a problem with the term“journalist,” it’s just that I knew I could never be one. Even in all my yearsin magazines, I always referred to what I did as Lifestyles journalism. It wasthe fluff of the world – plan your next vacation, how to spruce up your moodwith color, what to plant when. Mostly, I was the queen of lists. If you neededa top (fill in number here), I was your girl. At last count, I believe I hadwritten over 100 top lists of some sort (not including my five or the moviesthat always make me cry). I preferred it that way.  

I briefly considered real journalism. For awhile, Ithought I wanted to run the school newspaper, but Gabrielle Carteris’ ratherunflattering role as Andrea Zuckerman on BeverlyHills, 90210 made me question that dream. (Truthfully,I was not confident enough about my writing to think I could earn any place onany newspaper then.) 

Even as my confidence and abilities grew,journalism still didn’t seem very viable. I’ve never liked interviewing people,and it’s something I’m not very good at. I always make a list of at least 10questions and then quickly decide that 8 of them are stupid while talking tosomeone over the phone or in person. I don’t like to probe (outside of myfriends’ personal lives and the world of celebrities, of course), and I tend tofeel bad when I write about people. And considering the number of people I’velistened to complain about the “puff” profiles in their lives, I don’t think Iwould have made it very long in any newsroom.  

(As a very wise professor of mine once told me,“Everyone thinks they want to be written about. No one actually does.”) 

A large part of the reason I picked creativenonfiction as the genre to pursue is that, mostly, the only person I riskoffending is me. I expose my own secrets, make my own revelations of self, andcan largely stay out of other people’s business. (My mother would disagree, butI’m sticking by that assertion.)   

Still, for most of my career (until the lastlay-off, that is), I was considered a member of the media. Both liked(freebies) and feared (“Don’t say that! She’ll write it somewhere.”), it’s thegroup I was most associated with. I had colleagues who actually broke stories,people in my life who always knew what was happening before anyone else did andassociated with those who wrote in-depth about people, places and things.   

So, despite my hesitance to call myself a“journalist,” I am a card-carrying (yes, the Association of ProfessionalJournalists does actually give out cards) member of the media. 

This is one of only a number of reasons I find itso strange to be on the other side of a media spectrum as of late. As I’vewritten about before, my cousin passed away three years ago. What I don’tbelieve I’ve mentioned is that there is also a coroner’s inquest into herdeath. My cousin’s death was national news in Australia when she died, and theaforementioned inquest is also national news there.  

In November, when the inquest began, there weredaily stories of the court procedures and testimony, many re-counting the finaldays, hours and minutes of my cousin’s life. (You think your life is prettynormal, and then you read a piece in The Australian detailing the swornstatements of a woman your cousins refer to as “Gigi.” (My cousins and I don’tshare a grandmother even though we have the same grandfather – which is anotherstory for another day -- so I just call her Margaret.) And there arepaparazzi-style photos of her leaving the building after the inquest adjournedfor the day.) And when the inquest picked up again in March, reporters were there again.  

It’s not easy going, looking over the stories about your own family, and the reading (andre-reading, I think we all realize I can be a bit obsessive) is plenty painful. Out of respect for my family, I'll try not to re-hash too much of the graphic detail that is already available on the Internet. I only know that for me,  the headline including "in agony" is hard to shake. I don’t know how my aunt sits through allof this – live and in open court. I only know she has to be one of the bravestpeople I know.

And to get back to where I was going with all this,I guess I have to say that despite the unsettling details of late, and seeingmy family’s tragedy played out on a national stage, my feelings about the mediaand being part of it remain the same. 

I think it’s important to tell people’s stories. Ithink people need to know what happened to Lauren. I hope other families andindividuals make different choices because of what they read about her. I hopelaws change. I hope punishments are doled out. Does it hurt? Hell yes. Is itnecessary? Yes, too.  

Injustice, corruption, greed and general suckiness(best word I've got right now) need to be exposed. As do the triumphs of the human race – relief efforts,rescues and those who live their lives with honesty, compassion andintegrity. We have to tell each other our stories so that we can begin to understand and relate to one another.    

I also think that when it all comes down to it, all anyonewants to know is that they mattered, that they were heard. I think we all wantto know that when we leave this world, we leave a legacy, whether that’s afamily, a friend who misses us, a grand estate or a stranger who remembers thatwe were kind to them once. It’s why we create. It’s why we love. It’s why wepaint, sculpt, sing songs and write. It’s all so we matter. (Please forgive the cheese factor there.) 

The media is a voice, and it plays its part in thequest to matter. Lauren would have mattered without a single news story; we alldo and would. But I do hope good comes of this media coverage that no one can evenimagine now.  

But, while I respect the place of the media, I’dstill rather not be the one asking the really tough questions. Give me a top 10 list over the earthquakes and political scandals any day.  

A Birthday and the Unexpected

When I was about five, my family moved into a new house on Crestside Road in Mountain Brook near the water tower and the local public high school. It took me quite awhile to recover from the indignity of the move. (How could they tear me away from my childhood home just like that? And it wasn't just any home -- there was an elementary school across the street complete with the largest playground I had ever seen. To take a child  away from her very own across-the-street playground? The cruelty astounds me to this day.)

Eventually, I recovered from the trauma and came to enjoy our much bigger backyard and the decadence of living in a three story house. (It was actually just a split level.) There were also a lot more children our age around, and it was fun to ride bikes, organize kickball games and dig around looking for arrowheads.

There were two new girls, in particular, that I decided I needed to immediately befriend. Both were my age, and while one lived across the street, the other lived a block and a half down or so. They seemed to do everything together, and I had to be a part of it.

It was after a few days of playing house (and trying to get them to like me even though they knew all the same people from school while I was the odd private-school-kid out) that I learned even more about them, "Oh, we're not just friends," Sally said, "we're cousins, too."

I was in awe. For my five-year-old self, being friends was one thing. Being best friends was a whole other sacred and longed-for entity, but being best friends and cousins was cooler and by far better than anything I could ever think of. You chose each other, and you were real-life -- not-just-blood-brothers -- related? I couldn't think of anything better.

I could even hear myself on the playground, bold and surer of myself than I had ever been, "We're more than best friends. She's my cousin." Then, of course, my fabulous cousin and I would walk off hand-in-hand, and the other kids could only wish their relationships were as cool.

In real life, I was lucky enough to have a cousin my age. Her name was Lauren, and we were just under four months apart. The bad part was that she lived in Texas -- not down the street -- and around the third or fourth grade, my aunt, my uncle and Lauren moved half a world away to Australia.

I'd like to say I knew Lauren well. I'd like to say we were close regardless of distance. What I can say is that I always thought we'd be close one day, and I'm going to leave off the cliche that always goes along with that thought.

As many of you know, my cousin died on January 22, 2007. I grieve her loss even though I'm not always sure I'm entitled to the pain I feel. She wasn't my daughter, and she wasn't my sister, and she wasn't anyone I ever shared late night sleepovers or heartbreaks with. But, when you're family, I also think it's always hard to watch those you love -- like my aunt, uncle and cousin -- go through their pain. And grief permeates a whole family; it just does.

At the time of her death (and afterwards), people were generous and kind and some said things I'd like to forget while others were very helpful.

Within 48 hours of Lauren's death, I wanted to hand write an apology note to anyone and everyone I'd ever told "everything happens for a reason." I believe that without each other, we'd all collapse and burn on a daily basis, but I hardly think that's the reason young people die, earthquakes take thousands of lives and we can't cure cancer.

That "Everything that doesn't kill you makes you stronger" nonsense always made me feel like I was in the final round of a game show.

"Well, Laurel," the host would say, "you've made it this far. Now let's see what your prize is."

The audience oohs.

"Behind door #1, we have grinning and bearing it and moving on, and behind door #2, we have death."

"I'd like to take the option that's not dying, Alex. Thanks so much for letting me play."

And when it comes to stages of grief, I'll just add that I think I skipped right past shock to anger, and I stayed in anger for a very long time. Denial and bargaining didn't even cross my radar. Secretly, I was angry most of the time. I was angry at people with living cousins, I was angry at people who had conversations about elective surgeries and such like nothing bad could ever happen to them. I was even angry at friends of mine who lost grandparents and great aunts or uncles. I knew they were in pain, but so much of me wanted to scream, "Ninety-year-olds are supposed to die, twenty-six-year-olds aren't. Get over it." (I never did, and I still feel guilty for the thoughts, but most of us know that grief has to have its own way.)

Soon, you realize you're in a club that no one wants to be a member of -- the club of people attached to tragedies. And this club gives you different advice. "Drink the glass of wine." "Cry it out some days." "It sucks, and it always will."

At one point, I sat down with a friend of mine who had lost his mother and his brother within a short period of time. I told him that I knew I would never get over this, but that I would get on with it. (Something I stole from a guest appearance by Bill Cosby on Touched by an Angel.) But, I also wanted to know when it would be the hardest -- first Christmas, first anniversary of her death -- and when it might start to seem somewhat OK -- although a new OK -- again.

"Here it is," he said, a Manhattan in his hand, "there's no answer to that one either."

"Come on," I said, "you've got to give me something. Anything."

"You're going to have no idea when it's going to hit you and when it isn't," he said. "You might sail through the first anniversary of her death only to be taken over on Arbor Day. And it won't be the milestones you think. It's going to be some event you didn't even think would be or have significance until it happens. You'll be fine, and then something will hit you out of the blue, and that's just how it's always going to be."

In the last three years, there have been many holidays without Lauren. There have been three anniversaries of her death (obviously). There's been part of a very public coroner's inquest. My sister even announced her engagement this summer, and we're all preparing for a family wedding Lauren can't and won't attend.

I thought I was doing OK, and then March 5 hit me like a ton of bricks.

The summer after I graduated high school, my family went to visit my aunt's family in Australia. At the time, I was dating a relatively quiet, Ivy-League-bound boy that went to church every Wednesday and Sunday. Lauren was dating a 24-year-old stockbroker named James. (Oh, the sophistication.)

I remember first meeting her boyfriend because most of the family was in the back room. When the doorbell rang, my aunt went to answer it, boyfriend entered, Lauren didn't stand to greet him and my father gave me the look that said "that's how you play hard to get and that's how you let a boy know who's in charge."

Later, Lauren and I talked more about boyfriends. "So, do you think James is the one?" I asked.

"The one?" she said. "The one what?"

"The one you'll marry?"

"Why would I think about marriage now?" she said. "Marriage is for when you turn 30 or something like that."

"Really? Thirty?" I said.

"Oh yeah. What do you think?"

"Oh, I don't know," I answered. "By 30 I think I'd like to be settled down with a husband and a couple of kids."

"Kids at 30? What about traveling or getting around the world. A career. There's so much to do."

"Maybe it's a Southern thing," I said. "We tend to have families young, and I'm not so sure how many places I want to see."

We talked more about the cultural differences in how we grew up -- Southern vs. Australian. I was moving away from home for school, something not commonly done in Oz, and Lauren was preparing for her next line of course work. She wanted to be a fashion designer. I was thinking about law. And so on.

In the end, we both broke up with those boyfriends. I did see the world (on an around the world ticket I still consider well worth it). Lauren did, too. I rediscovered my creative side. She spent too much money on shoes, me on handbags.

Now, at 30, I don't have that family or husband, but I do have a great dog, one very difficult cat, a house of my own and a passion (writing, in case it isn't obvious) that I had no clue about at 18. My own 30th, while sometimes difficult (I did keep telling the SO that this was the best I was ever going to look so he should take it all in now), went pretty smoothly. I had good friends to share it with. I had made it.

March 5 is the day that reminds me that Lauren didn't. It is what would have been her 30th birthday, and I would have liked to have known and seen her at this age just as I would have like to have known and seen her at any and every age. 

I didn't count on being the only of us to make it to 30. When we talked of imagined futures, it never occurred to me death would be the reason one of us didn't get there. And like my friend tried to warn me, it's the ones younever suspect that bring you right back to the beginning. I never thought a conversation I had 12 years ago would break my heart open all over again today.

So, for whatever March 5 is for you, enjoy it. Regardless of what you're doing, who you are or where you think you're going, you deserve nice things. Have a happy day.