It's a charmed life I lead.
Friday evening I put down the books and focused on the less tangible journalistic skills -- swapping stories and meeting characters at a local bar. Then headed into town for a book reading followed by cupcake party for a friend's mentor's book.
Chick-lit is not my thing, but amazing river views and swanky hors d'oeuvres spreads are.
The place was amazing, but we were exhausted and by far the youngest guests there and kept mostly to ourselves until some bored, middle-age-and-then-some husbands came to mingle.
I don't remember much, but I must have said something about religion reporting because before I knew it I was being whisked over to a woman sitting cross-legged in a beautiful black party dress on the leather sofa.
Who turned out to be a Harvard-lecturer religion and human rights reporter. Better yet, she was clearly looking for an excuse to leave the conversation she was in.
Well then.
The next day I had to get a video story. My last one was a bit of a disaster so I decided to make it easy on myself and cover a neighborhood mural painting. Not exactly hard news, but pretty and active and formulaic enough.
But -- who knew? -- there turned out to be an amazing story behind the mural (tragedy, community, hope, all the classics).
Just as I was finished interviewing a neighborhood teen a woman came over to ask what I was doing.
And who might she have been? Why, the very friendly president of the Chicago women journalists organization. And she seems to want nothing more than to introduce me to all the right people!
Not a bad weekend, I'd say.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Dog days of summer, no dog
Finally, summer has made it to the midwest.
It was brought in by a monsoon on Friday, which was of course the day that I decided I needed to get out and about. I'd been doing well in newsreporting, but Thursday night it hit me: I'm not here to do well, I'm here to do the stuff that scares me.
So, out I trudged on Friday -- with my video camera and tripod and steno pad and tape recorder and background reading -- into the gusts of wind and rain. I was off to find some immigrants willing to talk about the Obama administration's recent moves on immigration.
Of course, how exactly do you find immigrants? My first stop was the Village Market Place in Skokie. Train, bus, 20-minute walk past the golf course. Annie a frazzled, soaking mess trying to get people to talk to her in the produce aisle. Is this really how it works?
Next stop: Skokie Public Library.
Only one problem. I'm a thinking walker. Which is to say, I get lost in thought while walking and more often than not, look up to realize I have no idea where I am.
The first time I did this I found myself infront of a synagogue. So, I figured, why not? The rabbi was in and willing to chat and -- who knew? -- he's on the cutting edge of web-based judaism conversion classes. One story idea for the kitty.
The wind was still gusting when I left the synagogue and by this time three prongs of my umbrella were broken. But did I learn from my mistake? No. I wandered some more, looked up, was definitely on the wrong street, but was standing right in front of an immigration law office. Well then.
After a brief visit there, I finally found the bus, got off at the right stop, and was waiting at a stoplight in downtown Skokie, wind about to knock me over, when a luxury car pulled up. I was, again, mid-thought and thus a little dazed when the 50-something man in the car rolled down the window and asked if I wanted a ride. He was going the wrong way so I didn't even think about it enough for the warning bells to kick in, I just said no thanks.
He leaned a little closer to the window, looked at me, snapped his fingers, and said, "too bad." Oh. That's what it was. One of the many perils facing female journalists, I suppose.
I made it safely to the library, though, where I met my new BFF -- the community librarian -- who was a goldmine of contacts (an interview with the social worker who coordinates Iraqi refugee services scheduled for Tuesday!).
Then it was another bus to west Evanston -- a not-so-great part of town -- for a documentary screening about the challenges facing black men and boys.
The place was packed and I quickly made friends with the videographers in the back who taught me how to work my tripod (after my camera nearly fell off since it wasn't screwed on tightly enough). It was not an easy event to cover, but wow, it was amazing. According to the doc, one in three black men will end up in prison in his lifetime and private prisons are projecting future numbers based on 3rd grade test scores. Sadly, my footage doesn't do the evening justice.
By the time the heat arrived on Saturday I was holed up in the downtown newsroom editing film. No lollapalooza for this girl, which, judging by the guy puking on the train on the way to the show, is more than okay by me.
It was brought in by a monsoon on Friday, which was of course the day that I decided I needed to get out and about. I'd been doing well in newsreporting, but Thursday night it hit me: I'm not here to do well, I'm here to do the stuff that scares me.
So, out I trudged on Friday -- with my video camera and tripod and steno pad and tape recorder and background reading -- into the gusts of wind and rain. I was off to find some immigrants willing to talk about the Obama administration's recent moves on immigration.
Of course, how exactly do you find immigrants? My first stop was the Village Market Place in Skokie. Train, bus, 20-minute walk past the golf course. Annie a frazzled, soaking mess trying to get people to talk to her in the produce aisle. Is this really how it works?
Next stop: Skokie Public Library.
Only one problem. I'm a thinking walker. Which is to say, I get lost in thought while walking and more often than not, look up to realize I have no idea where I am.
The first time I did this I found myself infront of a synagogue. So, I figured, why not? The rabbi was in and willing to chat and -- who knew? -- he's on the cutting edge of web-based judaism conversion classes. One story idea for the kitty.
The wind was still gusting when I left the synagogue and by this time three prongs of my umbrella were broken. But did I learn from my mistake? No. I wandered some more, looked up, was definitely on the wrong street, but was standing right in front of an immigration law office. Well then.
After a brief visit there, I finally found the bus, got off at the right stop, and was waiting at a stoplight in downtown Skokie, wind about to knock me over, when a luxury car pulled up. I was, again, mid-thought and thus a little dazed when the 50-something man in the car rolled down the window and asked if I wanted a ride. He was going the wrong way so I didn't even think about it enough for the warning bells to kick in, I just said no thanks.
He leaned a little closer to the window, looked at me, snapped his fingers, and said, "too bad." Oh. That's what it was. One of the many perils facing female journalists, I suppose.
I made it safely to the library, though, where I met my new BFF -- the community librarian -- who was a goldmine of contacts (an interview with the social worker who coordinates Iraqi refugee services scheduled for Tuesday!).
Then it was another bus to west Evanston -- a not-so-great part of town -- for a documentary screening about the challenges facing black men and boys.
The place was packed and I quickly made friends with the videographers in the back who taught me how to work my tripod (after my camera nearly fell off since it wasn't screwed on tightly enough). It was not an easy event to cover, but wow, it was amazing. According to the doc, one in three black men will end up in prison in his lifetime and private prisons are projecting future numbers based on 3rd grade test scores. Sadly, my footage doesn't do the evening justice.
By the time the heat arrived on Saturday I was holed up in the downtown newsroom editing film. No lollapalooza for this girl, which, judging by the guy puking on the train on the way to the show, is more than okay by me.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
The benefits of talking to strangers
It was 9:30pm and I was riding the 97 bus from the Skokie Public Library to Howard Street station, feeling rather self-satisfied with the interviews I'd just done for a story on 'the 21st-century library,' when it hit me -- I'd forgotten to talk to any of the people actually using the library. No other word for it but: D'OH!
I shook my head, and as I did I caught sight of my fellow busriders. Hmmm...maybe one of them uses the library...
So I oh-so-casually floundered my way up the aisle of the speeding bus and sat down next to two women near the front.
"Hello, my name is Annie, I'm a journalism student at Northwestern University doing a story on the Skokie Public Library. Could I ask you a few questions?"
Blank stares. Awkwardness.
Finally the older woman said, "I'm sorry, again?" English not so much the first language.
Because she is IRANIAN. She's in the US for just a few weeks visiting her sister.
Needless to say, I didn't get my library interview.
Instead I tried to make out her words about the fear she feels for her husband and brother and cousins who are opposing Ahmadinejad, about how it was she was able to leave the country, about the government's tight fist around journalists. The bus was noisy and I missed most of her words, but the intensity of her eyes said it all.
The only break in her forceful words came when she asked me what I know of the situation in Iran. When she saw that I knew of the protests, the muscles around her mouth released a little of their tension. She was surprised.
The bus pulled up to the train station and we got off. She took my hand, asked for my name again, and looked me in the eye.
"Annie, pray for my country."
I shook my head, and as I did I caught sight of my fellow busriders. Hmmm...maybe one of them uses the library...
So I oh-so-casually floundered my way up the aisle of the speeding bus and sat down next to two women near the front.
"Hello, my name is Annie, I'm a journalism student at Northwestern University doing a story on the Skokie Public Library. Could I ask you a few questions?"
Blank stares. Awkwardness.
Finally the older woman said, "I'm sorry, again?" English not so much the first language.
Because she is IRANIAN. She's in the US for just a few weeks visiting her sister.
Needless to say, I didn't get my library interview.
Instead I tried to make out her words about the fear she feels for her husband and brother and cousins who are opposing Ahmadinejad, about how it was she was able to leave the country, about the government's tight fist around journalists. The bus was noisy and I missed most of her words, but the intensity of her eyes said it all.
The only break in her forceful words came when she asked me what I know of the situation in Iran. When she saw that I knew of the protests, the muscles around her mouth released a little of their tension. She was surprised.
The bus pulled up to the train station and we got off. She took my hand, asked for my name again, and looked me in the eye.
"Annie, pray for my country."
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Lessons of a religion reporter
Lesson #1: blond haired blue-eyed girl = sore thumb at Armenian church.
Lesson #2: Armenian Apostolic divine liturgy = very, very long. Doubly so when it's in Armenian.
At 9:55am I was the first one there. For an hour I had the service to myself. The priest in his blue silk cloak, the red velvet curtains ornamented in gold, the handful of choir ladies with lace kerchiefs over their hair, the incense and chanting and kneeling and singing.
The congregation slowly trickled in and I was the spectacle of the day.
Afterward the Armenian grandmas took me under their wings and gave me sticky buns and showed me their kitchen and told me about Christianity's long history in Armenia.
That is, after one looked at me and exclaimed, "she's not Armenian!"
I wonder what tipped her off.
I walked out into the Sunday afternoon sunshine with about a dozen fliers for the church's street fair and about as many story ideas.
Waiting for the train at the El station I was recognized by the congregation's two grad students who were also on their way downtown. It caught me off guard. In the church I had on my Observer hat, but here I was, a grad student among grad students. Can I be their friend? Or must I maintain my unbiased nod and ask only questions that require complete sentences to answer? This is the stuff they don't teach you in class.
Lesson #2: Armenian Apostolic divine liturgy = very, very long. Doubly so when it's in Armenian.
At 9:55am I was the first one there. For an hour I had the service to myself. The priest in his blue silk cloak, the red velvet curtains ornamented in gold, the handful of choir ladies with lace kerchiefs over their hair, the incense and chanting and kneeling and singing.
The congregation slowly trickled in and I was the spectacle of the day.
Afterward the Armenian grandmas took me under their wings and gave me sticky buns and showed me their kitchen and told me about Christianity's long history in Armenia.
That is, after one looked at me and exclaimed, "she's not Armenian!"
I wonder what tipped her off.
I walked out into the Sunday afternoon sunshine with about a dozen fliers for the church's street fair and about as many story ideas.
Waiting for the train at the El station I was recognized by the congregation's two grad students who were also on their way downtown. It caught me off guard. In the church I had on my Observer hat, but here I was, a grad student among grad students. Can I be their friend? Or must I maintain my unbiased nod and ask only questions that require complete sentences to answer? This is the stuff they don't teach you in class.
Russian berries
Tada! I think I've finally figured out how to share my first project. Not quite ready for primetime, but fun nonetheless.
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