minalisms

Did anybody witness the recent and now-infamous “fist bump” between Barack Obama and his wife, Michelle?

A fist bump or “closed-fisted high-five,” as The New York Times referred to it, is commonly called a “pound” or “dap.” It’s been used for decades as a greeting or a gesture to signify respect. What it’s not is “Hezbollah-style fist-jabbing” the nutty, ignorant, racist fear mongers call it.

Fox News aside, does this mean that neither The Times nor the Washington Post, which called it “fist bump,” had people in their newsrooms who could enlighten fellow editors about today’s lingo? And if that’s the case, shouldn’t readers be worried?

I remember a discussion with a co-worker a while back about fair and accurate representation by media. She said some of the journalism coming out of our newsroom — and others around the country — suffers because of homogeneity among its representatives: Many of us are around the same age, married with children, and live in modest homes in middle-class neighborhoods. She went on to say that we’re not paying attention to wide representation among sources in stories either, thus forgoing variety and complexity for convenience and familiarity.

Knowing this, could an African-American college student from out of state depend on us to report the news in a way in which he could relate? On news that matters to him? How about a single mom on welfare who is working two jobs to pay her rent? Or a lesbian shopkeeper living in a “gay-friendly” part of the city.

Who in the newsroom is serving these vastly different individuals? Because it’s not us. Not yet.

It all makes me sad, really. We journalists couldn’t even call a pound by its true name. Now the inaccuracy has us going out like fist-bumping suckers.

And if we can’t get something so simple right, how much more are we getting wrong?

I have nothing much to say today. The voices in my head — don’t call me crazy because I know you have your own — have been chattering all day long. And it’s that kind of dialogue that wears me out. 

The talk starts up whenever I’m about to act upon a big decision, and it persists after I’ve made it … just to test my willpower.

While I tell these voices that the tea party is over, check out the recently added Portfolio section of this site. It reminds me of my accomplishments, and reminds me that I’m a rock star, regardless of what is being said in my head.

While chatting with my friend last week, he offered my newfound favorite quote:

This place sucks sometimes. And by sometimes I mean a lot.”

Thanks, G, you summed up the shared sentiment perfectly.

As though the cyclone in Myanmar last week that has killed nearly 30,000 weren’t enough, another natural disaster lashed out today, this time in China, where the death toll from a magnitude-7.9 earthquake has already reached 10,000.

The news followed up a sad weekend story, in which about 25 people in the Midwest and South were killed by tornadoes and violent storms.

And who can forget the weeks-long saga regarding unrest in Tibet, which I’m sure has not vanished but has merely turned into an afterthought, regarded as passé by finicky editors around the nation.

This is a snapshot of my work day, and these are the types of events that comprise it. I read story after story — violent crimes rising in cash-strapped cities, Shiite militias planting roadside bombs in Iraq, the number of home foreclosures hitting a record high — gauging whether one tragedy can top another enough to make it on the front page of a 15-by-22-inch newspaper.

In my industry that’s called “news judgment.”

I’ve been fantasizing lately about walking away from my seven-year-old career. I say it as though it’s an era, when it’s not. Seven years is a laughable timeframe when compared to so many of my co-workers, one in particular who has not only been a journalist for 30-plus years, but has worked at the same company for that long. This fact makes me feel as though I’ll never be accomplished.

I’ve worked for my current employer for a year and eight months, and I’m getting antsy, restless.

I’m bored. I feel invisible. What should I do? What if i quit? What would I do next? Am I capable of anything but this? Nobody likes me; everybody hates me. I guess I’ll eat some worms.

The thoughts consume me, and then I begin to pout.

My good friend told me the other day that if I decide on another career path, self-adjustment will be necessary.

It’s hard for journalists, she said, to not let their job dictate their identity.

So, that’s the challenge.