Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Meet my mentors
In September my swashbuckling takes a national security turn. Check it out -- this morning NPR interviewed the two veteran reporters at the helm of my fall project about the recent Pentagon leaks. Could this be me in 20 years?
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
No hope of a straight face
As soon as I landed in Albuquerque, I remembered why the world's religions all started in the desert. How can your thoughts be anything but heavenward when there's so very much sky?
Luckily, I was in town for a pensive sort of story -- a profile of a young Pentecostal pastor of a Hispanic megachurch.
There ended up being no time for the tram up Sandia Peak nor for a trip to the bright colors of Santa Fe, nor even for green chile enchiladas in Old Town...but as it turned out, four days with Pastor Tre proved more than adventureous enough. I crouched on the floor with my microphone during his meeting with an African American evangelical bishop; I flipped through paperwork as he led the school board meeting of a local charter school -- and prepared to hit the floor when gunshots were fired outside the school; I tickled a baby at his goddaughter's birthday picnic; I watched for jackrabbits while we talked politics in a park overlooking the city; but most of all, I grinned for five straight services on Sunday as I watched thousands of people give new meaning to the word "rejoice."
I don't care what your spiritual beliefs are, I can't see how anyone wouldn't want part in this.
The first service was in English, which was lucky for me since I got to get my bearings before the big 11AM Spanish service. I'd never been to an Assemblies of God church before, and frankly, it was pretty low-key compared to what I expected. The audience stood during the opening music. People swayed and lifed their arms to the sky, but it wasn't any different than some of the other youth-focused Christian services I'd been to.
I'd been looking forward to the speaking in tongues, but even that was low-key. It came at the end of the service when Pastor Ruben asked the youth to come forward -- they're preparing for a trip to a national convention -- and had the congregation place hands on them. There were quiet murmurings throughout the crowd, which at first I thought was just everyone praying quietly under their breathe. Even when I realized what was happening, it wasn't anything wild, just soft personal prayers.
Then came the 11AM service. The sanctuary's 1,400 seats were filled and I was strategically positioned halfway up an aisle with my marantz when the music started.
My oh my, I know I'm a writer, but there are not words.
Somewhere in the middle of the music, as the bright mess of a crowd was gasping and undulating, the man at the end of the row behind me came leaping forward up the aisle. His eyes were closed and I haven't a clue how he avoided knocking me over. Other people poured forward. Choir members came off the stage and down to the front. At once, there were 1,400 intensely personal experiences and one communal event. I know I'm a reporter, but there was no way to stay stoic through this. And really -- how well can you report on it if you don't let yourself feel it?
After that, I think Pastor Tre and I both loosened up. For all of his maturity and poise, he's young and I think the mic freaked him out a little. And I just didn't have enough experience with it to know how to put him at ease. So, for the 7PM youth service I put it away and we sat on a folding table in the back and chatted -- about the families who are leaving Arizona and finding their way to the church, about missionaries and vegetarianism and dred-locked proponents of the New Monasticism. I thought about taking it out when the crew moved to a local sub restaurant after the service, but opted instead to leave it in its bag and join in the kids' pretend spitball game.
I've got my douts about some of the audio I got, but boy oh boy, I've got a story.
Luckily, I was in town for a pensive sort of story -- a profile of a young Pentecostal pastor of a Hispanic megachurch.
There ended up being no time for the tram up Sandia Peak nor for a trip to the bright colors of Santa Fe, nor even for green chile enchiladas in Old Town...but as it turned out, four days with Pastor Tre proved more than adventureous enough. I crouched on the floor with my microphone during his meeting with an African American evangelical bishop; I flipped through paperwork as he led the school board meeting of a local charter school -- and prepared to hit the floor when gunshots were fired outside the school; I tickled a baby at his goddaughter's birthday picnic; I watched for jackrabbits while we talked politics in a park overlooking the city; but most of all, I grinned for five straight services on Sunday as I watched thousands of people give new meaning to the word "rejoice."
I don't care what your spiritual beliefs are, I can't see how anyone wouldn't want part in this.
The first service was in English, which was lucky for me since I got to get my bearings before the big 11AM Spanish service. I'd never been to an Assemblies of God church before, and frankly, it was pretty low-key compared to what I expected. The audience stood during the opening music. People swayed and lifed their arms to the sky, but it wasn't any different than some of the other youth-focused Christian services I'd been to.
I'd been looking forward to the speaking in tongues, but even that was low-key. It came at the end of the service when Pastor Ruben asked the youth to come forward -- they're preparing for a trip to a national convention -- and had the congregation place hands on them. There were quiet murmurings throughout the crowd, which at first I thought was just everyone praying quietly under their breathe. Even when I realized what was happening, it wasn't anything wild, just soft personal prayers.
Then came the 11AM service. The sanctuary's 1,400 seats were filled and I was strategically positioned halfway up an aisle with my marantz when the music started.
My oh my, I know I'm a writer, but there are not words.
Somewhere in the middle of the music, as the bright mess of a crowd was gasping and undulating, the man at the end of the row behind me came leaping forward up the aisle. His eyes were closed and I haven't a clue how he avoided knocking me over. Other people poured forward. Choir members came off the stage and down to the front. At once, there were 1,400 intensely personal experiences and one communal event. I know I'm a reporter, but there was no way to stay stoic through this. And really -- how well can you report on it if you don't let yourself feel it?
After that, I think Pastor Tre and I both loosened up. For all of his maturity and poise, he's young and I think the mic freaked him out a little. And I just didn't have enough experience with it to know how to put him at ease. So, for the 7PM youth service I put it away and we sat on a folding table in the back and chatted -- about the families who are leaving Arizona and finding their way to the church, about missionaries and vegetarianism and dred-locked proponents of the New Monasticism. I thought about taking it out when the crew moved to a local sub restaurant after the service, but opted instead to leave it in its bag and join in the kids' pretend spitball game.
I've got my douts about some of the audio I got, but boy oh boy, I've got a story.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Baby shower in Baghdad
After a long weekend spent agonizing over a (non-journalism) job offer from an old boss, I awoke to this story about female war correspondents on NPR. By all practical accounts, I'm an idiot for turning the job down, but oh, I'm not ready to give up on swashbuckling yet!
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