I’d received a lot of journalistic training when I was in school at DePaul. Four good, long, not so hard years of it. I enjoyed my theory and study classes much more than I did my classes in practicum. That’s to be expected for a contemplative person like myself. I’d like to have a pensive understanding of practice before I go out and do something.
But you know, all the preparation in the world can’t train you for some situations. They say the best thing for a young journalist is to sidestep your selected sphere and experience something completely different and new. They say getting out of your comfort zone can give you a new perspective on a particular topic. It can turn apprehension into appreciation. Indifference into understanding, they say.
Well, they’re right.
It was a rainy day, week two on the job. I got into work at 2:45 for my 3:00-11:30 shift that evening. I threw my 60¢ into the Coke machine, cracked open a cold can of Dr. Pepper, and sat down to begin to checking the wires for anything that was going on today.
Minutes later, I overhear in the newsroom discussion of police activity. A woman says she’d heard from her child on a school bus that they’d just passed a house where the kids saw cops on the front lawn with weapons drawn.
All of the sudden my heart began to race.
“We should send someone over, check out what’s going on,” my news director said.
All of the sudden, my heart sunk.
I realized I was the only one in the newsroom available to go out and check it out. Everyone else was either busy or working on a story. I barely knew how to run our cameras, I’d only driven the station news cars once, I have NEVER covered a breaking news story of this nature before… As all of these excuses ran threw my head, the eyes in the room turned at once onto me.
*gulp*
So off I went.
Out the door with trepidation and a tripod. Cowardice and a camera. Meekness and a microphone. A full and accurate report of what was going on was expected from me as soon as possible.
That last thought took over my brain. What’s going on. ASAP. Me.
What’s going on. ASAP. Me.
It felt like I’d just invented a reporter’s prayer. Like a call to spirit of Edward R. Murrow, a channeling of your inner Woodward & Bernstein. When repeated to oneself, it would give you strength and guidance. And that it did.
What’s going on. ASAP. Me.
I was now untiring with a tripod. Courageous with a camera. Meticulous with a microphone. I could handle anything once I got to the scene.
I began to cycle through the possibilities: standoff, drug bust, kidnapping, domestic violence, crazy uncle…
But no amount of training or meditation could have prepared me for what I was about to experience.
I arrived at the scene and met a cameraman near the location. Three cop cars were at the scene as well as an ambulance. Traffic wasn’t stopped, nor did there seem to be any immediate danger. I saw police and fire officials standing on the lawn. I sighed to myself in relief.
Though the relaxation only lasted a moment. I still had to find out what was going on. Not wanting to interfere with police work or disturb any scene, I looked around for neighbors and passers-by. I could see a few people on a porch a few houses down. Another woman was walking up the street back towards her car. I instinctively, and now with the tangible credence of being a news reporter, asked her what happened.
She wasn’t very eager to talk. Her answers were brief. There was a somber sense about her that gave me the chills. Something was wrong. I got the sense that there was no major story here, no heroic acts to report, no good that would come of this situation.
Then I walked over to a porch down the road where I saw several people gathered. I introduced myself as customary, “Hi, I’m Jake Berent with WAGM…” and was cut off with a “Yeah, I know.” Oh great, I’m in town one week and people already know me. I must be doing a pretty good job, huh?
I started another sentence. “So what happened over th…”
Cut off again, a very stern man rebuked my inquiry. “Nothing. And We’d appreciate it if you’d leave. And tell your friend with the camera to leave too.”
Leave? But I was sent here to do a job, and I wasn’t going to have left without doing it. No problem, I can see you don’t want to talk. I’ve got to be respectful. Something grave obviously had just happened here. I’ll leave you guys alone.
Then all of the sudden I realized: this was not a normal crime scene, because no crime was committed. Well there was, but it’s one in which the perpetrator will never be prosecuted for. Not in our legal system. And a crime that never makes the headlines. Not unless you’re famous.
When I reached my cameraman and told him how we were less than welcome at the scene, he figured that’d be the reaction.
“Yep, I saw the body being rolled into the back of the ambulance. Probably just a suicide. Let’s just check with the police, then we’ll head back to the station.”
I immediately villainized myself in my head for bothering those people on the porch. What an insensitive jerk I was. I shouldn’t have gone up to them. It was none of my business.
But it was my business. I’m a reporter. It’s my job to know what’s going on. When something happens of note, it needs to be reported. That’s what I’m here for.
I began to realize the tough moral counterbalance I didn’t quite foresee in my new profession. Being pushy, but not badgering. Curious, yet respectful. Incidental and insightful, not ignorant or intrusive. That’s the fine line that must be walked.
It was my first lesson in the field.
And here’s the lesson I learned:
Suicides rarely make the news because they are often very delicate, complicated and controversial situations. We leave the family alone, are respectful of their wishes and let the Obits tell the story. And that’s all I have to say about that.
Jake Berent 
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