When I Was Scared to be a Journalist

There was only one time I was ever scared to be a journalist.

I was yards away from a big fire at a fireworks warehouse, and I was never scared. I was in a courtroom with a convicted child rapist, and I was never scared. I was in multiple tornado destruction paths with live wires and buildings in splinters, and I was never scared. I received a deluge of calls from Ron Paul supporters calling me vile, terrible names, and I was never scared.

There was only one time I was ever scared to be a journalist.

When we made errors — and we did — we worked to correct them. When others made errors, we called them out for it. When we saw injustice or corruption, we investigated. When poverty was the elephant in the room, we spent a year covering it in-depth. My stated goal, repeated ad nauseam to those who would listen to me pontificate, was to be a mirror to the community, both the good and the bad.

There was only one time I was ever scared to be a journalist.

It must have been 2012 or 2013 when a man came to the office asking for the editor (me). He demanded to know why we printed his name in the arrest records. He argued with me over where I got my information, and I calmly told him his quarrel was with the Crawford County Sheriff's Department, who supplied us with the list. He was about my height, maybe a couple inches shorter, with a lean grandpa-type build. His eyes were wide open and rarely blinking. He shook with agitation — or perhaps a drug addict's inability to keep still. In the midst of that heated, pitched conversation, I realized I was scared, because this man was dangerous. I was not worried about a gun, but I was worried about a physical attack or a possible knife. Our secretaries were behind the desk nearby, and I made sure to make eye contact with them so they were watching, too, in case something happened. I took a step back from the man and widened my stance so that in case he swung at me, I could not only dodge it, but could swing a right hook in response. I hoped that if I had to, I would hit hard and strong, but I was fearful, since I am no fighter. I was scared to be a journalist because there was a real threat in front of me.

James D. Russian left the office angry. I went back to my office and watched to make sure he got in his truck. Not long after that, he would sue our paper, the Crawford County Sheriff's Department and the judge for — of all things — copyright infringement for using his name in the arrest reports. Although it was a one-sided court case in our favor, it cost our paper nearly a full reporter's salary in legal fees. He was later convicted on federal firearms and drug charges and is now in prison for many years.

That was the only time I was ever scared to be a journalist. Until today.

Five employees of the Capital Gazette in Annapolis, Md., were killed by a gunman today. Most of those were newsroom employees. I can see myself in their faces. I can see my name in their names. I cried a little bit when I knew no one was looking. I mourn for these journalists, and for journalism in general. This assault came in the atmosphere of a President who has said that the greatest enemy of the American people is the press. This comes in the atmosphere of a far-right firebrand who said two days ago that he "can't wait for the vigilante squads to start gunning journalists down on sight." It reminded me of a recent episode of "The Handmaid's Tale" in which the protagonist, on the run from a fascist patriarchal government, takes temporary shelter inside an abandoned Boston Globe only to discover that journalists had been massacred there.

Journalism is not an easy job. There's a joke that journalism is terrible hours and terrible pay, but on the bright side, no one likes you. There is a truth to that joke, but also a stubborn pride in it. Journalism is not a job for fragile people. It's not a job for the easily intimidated. The Capital Gazette will be "putting out a damn paper tomorrow." When the Joplin tornado hit, there were many Joplin Globe employees without a house who still went to work. It's what journalists do. It's their job.

Maybe tomorrow I'll be OK. Maybe I'll look back on this moment in the same way I was later able to talk with the judge and the Sheriff's Department and laugh about James D. Russian's wild antics. Maybe one day I won't feel anxiety over where journalism is going and how it's perceived in the world. Maybe one day I'll even go back to journalism, my first love. Maybe. But today? There is another real threat in front of me, and I was scared for the second time.