Not Guy Incognito

On Monday morning I was late for work. I'd stopped by the post office to mail some bills.

I was driving my usual route. The wind was howling.

At exactly 9:15, I looked up through my windshield and noticed a single branch on a tree shaking violently and strangely in the wind. With a strange feeling, I said out loud to myself only: "Something bad is going to happen." For some reason, visions of the Pentagon on 9/11 crossed my mind.

I didn't know what it was. I also didn't know at the time that I was right.

Just about that moment a crazed gunman was walking through the front doors of Norris Hall on the Virginia Tech campus, chaining the doors, about to lay waste to 30 innocent victims. Two were already dead. I knew nothing of this when I noticed that single branch, but something struck me that something was amiss in our world.

I share this deeply personal experience not because I believe in ESP. In fact, I'm quite the opposite. No ghosts, UFO sightings, pet psychics, or mediums for me. I don't believe in the paranormal. I don't think I'm special. I don't think I'm "touched" or have any sort of a special gift. I just had a bad feeling. Unfortunately, it was spot-on.

For some reason, that image of a single branch blowing in the wind remains to me the most disturbing and unnerving image of the Virginia Tech massacre. Perhaps because it's something only I saw.

Within moments of learning that at least 20 people were dead in the attack, I was on my way to that seemingly quiet mountain town to try to deliver a sense of the tragedy to the viewers. Or at least the best sense that the television news can provide. I think I helped bring the emotion of the event to thousands of viewers, but I just can't shake the feelings that I, as a person, did not accept the scope of the disaster until after I left Blacksburg.

I arrived on campus with just enough time to gather as much information as possible and settle a few logistics. Police were just starting their investigation into what happened.



Nothing is more difficult for a local television station than trying to cover the huge national story that's in your own backyard. This was the third event of national scope I have covered in about a decade of journalism.

Within moments of arriving upon a momentous occasion, the first thought is not about gathering facts. It's about getting a face on the air as soon as possible. It's not journalism, it's simply the nature of television today.

It may sound very strange, but with events such as this, the facts are almost secondary. Most of the information filters through the national outlets first, and then trickles down to the local media outlets. Close connections that take years to develop vanish under the bright lights of a CNN or NBC mobile set. Police and other officials whose wives' names you know quickly forget you in favor of the big networks. In part, this is out of neccessity. Wouldn't you rather tell something to five people instead of 150?

I spent three days standing just feet away from Charlie Gibson, Geraldo, Brian Williams, Tucker Carlson, Wolf Blitzer, Matt Lauer and a host of other faces and names you'd know. I resented them for their presence. This was OUR story, the Virginia media outlets. They fly in with their personal assistants to take the glory. They fill 24 hours by interviewing the so-called "experts" who jump to conclusions based on the same information we're reporting. One quickly learns who the prima donnas are, and the real people who truly feel sorrow for the victims and their families and almost feel embarrassed for being there.

Not being innundated with information like someone watching TV, you almost forget why you're there. You forget about the 32 dead and the madman who caused it. You're more focused on getting your job done. It's easy to get lost in the spectacle. It's easy to talk about your status-quo life with the people you used to work with years ago, sharing hugs, handshakes and laughs.

Then, during a quiet moment, the reason you're there crosses your transom. You begin to imagine the contorted bodies still lying inside the faceless building you've been staring at for hours on video. It's hurry up and wait, furiously getting the job done, followed by imagining yourself as a participant inside the tragedy you're trying to cover.

You find yourself incensed at the hordes of your ilk. They're accosting survivors. They're using those people not for the public good, but to try to get a piece of the big story. You're among a crowd of 60 arms holding microphones reached forward trying to capture the memories of someone who escaped death at the hands of a madman with just a bullet through the arm. His arm is in a sling, and as he walks reporters and photogaphers are grabbing his wounded arm trying to turn him to a better angle to get a picture of his face and a few muttered words. He cries out in pain. Then you realize that you're one of -them- and get disgusted by the entire scene and walk away, no matter the consequences.

I took the time to wander past hundreds of people on the drill field at VT. You could see their eyes and slumped shoulders mourning the loss of life and the loss of innocence. I looked at the still open windows of Norris Hall through which a lucky few plunged to safety. Parked in front was the armored State Police van. It was still backed up to the doors to haul away shell casings and skull fragments in individually labeled plastic bags. Blood swabs and bullet fragments. Its next stop the state crime lab to deposit its horrific cargo.

I could only imagine the carnage that lay behind a foot of Hokiestone and millimeters of glass. At the time, standing among the orange and maroon clad masses, I felt sadness. I felt for the crying, those who could not contain their grief under such trying circumstances. At the same time, I shed no tears.

Now a feeling of sorrow sticks in my gut and tightens my throat. It waters my eyes.

Now, I've left and waves of grief wash over me at the slightest provocation. A simple photograph of a survivor or kind gesture kindles emotions I didn't feel when I was feet away from the scene.

I feel for the lives cut short. I feel for the families grieving. I feel terrible for using disaster and pain for the profit and prestige of my company.

But I will go on. I will be at the next tragedy, checking a part of my soul at the gates, trying to talk someone into giving me an interview.

I hope you'll be informed and entertained. I expect no sympathy. I'm one of -them-. But I hope you'll realize the personal costs it took to bring you a small slice of American history.

And the next time something like a branch blowing strangely in the wind catches my eye, let's hope it's not an ill wind blowing. I'd love to sit comfortably behind my desk and be absolutely wrong.

Labels: journalism, Virginia Tech