having been kidnapped, raped, and strangled? How would I feel if some young reporter eager to make brownie points with her superiors raised the unfounded issue that I’d been responsible for Em’s death?
Valerie’s intended line of questioning is unfair and cruel and, most important, an abuse of her power as a TV reporter. It’s wrong and she needs to be stopped. The question is . . . how.
Michael looks at me as if I’m a changed woman. “She called you biased? That’s the most hopeful thing I’ve heard about you in years.”
“Oh, please.” I snort and look off, desperate to hear what he has to say. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Are you kidding? It shows you have a soul, that you care about that woman. You’re not an automaton.”
“You can be unbiased without being an automaton.”
“How? Humans have opinions, that’s the way we’re built. There’s nothing wrong with that when it comes to journalism—it’s just that you guys need to recognize your unavoidable biases and go on.”
“Try telling that to my news director, Arnie. He despises any form of emotion. Unless it’s swearing. That’s fine. Especially if you’re swearing at the Sox.”
“I’m serious.” Michael leaps up, energized, the wheels in his brain whirring. This is the man I’m used to, the excited, motivated, inspired Michael on whom I once had a maddening schoolgirl crush. “In fact, I think you’ve got a great opportunity here, Julie.”
The sun’s in my eyes, so I can’t really see the expression on his face. “Do I?”
“You have a chance to show viewers that objectivity is an illusion, that you have feelings, too. Maybe you could do a Point-Counterpoint thing with this other reporter on why this woman deserves our sympathy.”
“Oh, Michael. That’s just . . . impossible.” I could cite him chapter and verse out of the WBOS code and any other boilerplate journalism ethics policy that strictly forbids showing favor. “Acting like a fellow human being could get me fired. Or worse.”
“You sound like a Nazi, some sort of goose-stepping, Brownshirted flunky.”
“ Jawohl, mein Herr .” And I begin gathering my stuff, annoyed and tired. “I’d love to kick back and plan the Fourth Reich, but I’ve been insulted enough for one day. So, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll head to the office, where at least I’m paid to be abused.”
Idiot that he is, he blocks the gate and refuses to let me pass. “Do you know that Frank Zappa song, ‘What’s the Ugliest Part of Your Body?’ ”
“Yeah, your mind. Apology accepted. Okay now . . .”
“In your case, Julie, the most beautiful part of your body has always been your heart.”
I swallow. That’s actually very touching—even if it is supremely goofy. “When did you get so sappy all of a sudden?”
“Look, I remember when you were a little girl and used to sing and dance as if no one were watching. You were adorable. You brought me joy, Julie, and gave me hope. I used to think, how bad can life be if this little girl is belting ‘A Spoonful of Sugar’ at the top of her voice? Seeing you smile, hearing you sing helped make my childhood not so miserable.”
A lump comes to my throat. I had no idea he thought of his childhood as miserable. He always came off as so cavalier, as if he enjoyed growing up with a drunken father and a mother who slept. Period. Just slept. “Well, it was sugar I was singing about, after all,” I say. “You know me.”
“Then what happened?” He’s close to me now, intense, as if our years of animosity have simply disappeared. “You don’t sing anymore. Or, rarely. I don’t think it’s your divorce or family obligations that are weighing you down. It’s that you’re immersed in a profession where you have to hide your best part, your beautiful heart.”
Those words “beautiful heart” hang between us, draining me of snappy comebacks. I feel as if I’ve been given a serious, important gift I never asked for
Valerie’s intended line of questioning is unfair and cruel and, most important, an abuse of her power as a TV reporter. It’s wrong and she needs to be stopped. The question is . . . how.
Michael looks at me as if I’m a changed woman. “She called you biased? That’s the most hopeful thing I’ve heard about you in years.”
“Oh, please.” I snort and look off, desperate to hear what he has to say. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Are you kidding? It shows you have a soul, that you care about that woman. You’re not an automaton.”
“You can be unbiased without being an automaton.”
“How? Humans have opinions, that’s the way we’re built. There’s nothing wrong with that when it comes to journalism—it’s just that you guys need to recognize your unavoidable biases and go on.”
“Try telling that to my news director, Arnie. He despises any form of emotion. Unless it’s swearing. That’s fine. Especially if you’re swearing at the Sox.”
“I’m serious.” Michael leaps up, energized, the wheels in his brain whirring. This is the man I’m used to, the excited, motivated, inspired Michael on whom I once had a maddening schoolgirl crush. “In fact, I think you’ve got a great opportunity here, Julie.”
The sun’s in my eyes, so I can’t really see the expression on his face. “Do I?”
“You have a chance to show viewers that objectivity is an illusion, that you have feelings, too. Maybe you could do a Point-Counterpoint thing with this other reporter on why this woman deserves our sympathy.”
“Oh, Michael. That’s just . . . impossible.” I could cite him chapter and verse out of the WBOS code and any other boilerplate journalism ethics policy that strictly forbids showing favor. “Acting like a fellow human being could get me fired. Or worse.”
“You sound like a Nazi, some sort of goose-stepping, Brownshirted flunky.”
“ Jawohl, mein Herr .” And I begin gathering my stuff, annoyed and tired. “I’d love to kick back and plan the Fourth Reich, but I’ve been insulted enough for one day. So, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll head to the office, where at least I’m paid to be abused.”
Idiot that he is, he blocks the gate and refuses to let me pass. “Do you know that Frank Zappa song, ‘What’s the Ugliest Part of Your Body?’ ”
“Yeah, your mind. Apology accepted. Okay now . . .”
“In your case, Julie, the most beautiful part of your body has always been your heart.”
I swallow. That’s actually very touching—even if it is supremely goofy. “When did you get so sappy all of a sudden?”
“Look, I remember when you were a little girl and used to sing and dance as if no one were watching. You were adorable. You brought me joy, Julie, and gave me hope. I used to think, how bad can life be if this little girl is belting ‘A Spoonful of Sugar’ at the top of her voice? Seeing you smile, hearing you sing helped make my childhood not so miserable.”
A lump comes to my throat. I had no idea he thought of his childhood as miserable. He always came off as so cavalier, as if he enjoyed growing up with a drunken father and a mother who slept. Period. Just slept. “Well, it was sugar I was singing about, after all,” I say. “You know me.”
“Then what happened?” He’s close to me now, intense, as if our years of animosity have simply disappeared. “You don’t sing anymore. Or, rarely. I don’t think it’s your divorce or family obligations that are weighing you down. It’s that you’re immersed in a profession where you have to hide your best part, your beautiful heart.”
Those words “beautiful heart” hang between us, draining me of snappy comebacks. I feel as if I’ve been given a serious, important gift I never asked for
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