On the day of the layoffs, I was walking across the newsroom when I ran into a friend of mine, a photojournalist. He was waiting by the elevators, opposite some glass-enclosed shelves full of journalism awards.
I stopped to talk to him, but as he turned to me, I saw that his eyes were red.
I put my notebook and cup of coffee on the floor. We hugged each other, and I remembered all of the stories we had worked on together when I was a feature writer.
I thought I could handle the trauma. I had a sense of what I would face, returning to my beloved newsroom in Dallas, after a year of teaching journalism ethics and diversity issues at The Poynter Institute.
I came back fortified, but clear-eyed. At Poynter, I had met hundreds of journalists, from organizations big and small, who visited the Institute for training. Some of them were beaten down, and I sympathized with them.
Many more of them were still passionate about their mission and craft. They were realistic about our industry, but they were driven to figure out what we need to do to keep journalism alive. Their courage and commitment inspired me.
When I returned to Dallas in January, I told my friends and colleagues, “I want to be here. I need to be here.”
If there was just one small thing I could do as an editor, I knew I had to encourage those around me and help them focus on doing good work. Not as a Pollyanna — I’m not blind to our situation, and I’ve never been a cheerleader.
But maybe what was driving me was something more akin to Zen.
“If you decide to be here,” I told myself and my colleagues, “then truly be here.” Be present. Be engaged.
I thought of the editors who had made a difference in my life.
The editor in Roanoke who invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner when I was an intern and had nowhere to go.
The editor in Norfolk who sat down with me, the cub reporter, on deadline and went line by line
through my copy, showing me how to improve my stories.
The editor in Dallas who saw something in me that I hadn’t seen myself, encouraging me to move from reporting to editing.
They were present. They were engaged. They believed in the cause of journalism –- and yet they also knew that our lives transcend the newsroom.
Even as I struggled in recent weeks, I wanted to emulate their dedication and compassion.
But all of this was easier said than done. I grew angry about what was coming and snapped at people and withdrew into my office. And Zen wouldn’t save us from being fired or firing those we admired and respected.
A few days after the layoffs in Dallas, I talked with Jill Geisler, who runs Poynter’s leadership program.
We agreed that it’s hard to be a newsroom leader in these times. Not that we deserve much sympathy, or expect to get it. Reserve that sympathy for those who are forced out of jobs they love, as well as for those who remain and feel trapped.
What I told Jill is this: Every time I mask my anger and sadness with feigned calm and confidence, I lose a bit of my integrity. Every time I feel numb, I lose a bit of what makes me human. Every time I say goodbye to a friend, I lose a piece of my heart.
It’s our human side that makes us good journalists, isn’t it?
And so, it seems to me, our greatest challenge is that we stay human, as flawed as we may be, even as we walk toward our uncertain future.
I remember the day of the layoffs, when I said goodbye to my friend, the photojournalist.
He got onto the elevator. As I took a step forward, he put his hands up and began to cry. Before I could say anything, the doors closed.
