Yesterday was a perfectly wretched day. I watched scenes I thought I'd never see and hope never to see again. I could tell that many of the reporters covering the assault on the Capitol could hardly believe what they were seeing, too. It showed in the tone of their voices and the look in their eyes. Or perhaps I was just imagining it.
Whenever I watch the coverage of a breaking news event -- like the Capitol siege, the Oklahoma City bombing or 9-11 -- I think of the reporters who are trying to cover the damned things without getting killed themselves.
And I always flashback to the summer before I went to college. I had a job at the Big Spring Herald as a go-fer/reporter, a welcome change from my previous job of sacking groceries.
I was 19, green as grass and innocent as a daisy. Earlier that spring, the Big Spring police chief had been fired. No reasons were given, but there were widespread rumors about the fast and loose way he ran his department.
I knew for a fact he was a tough-nosed hard-ass with a bad disposition because a few months earlier he had chased me away from a local refinery fire I was covering for my community college newspaper.
As was his right, the ex-chief demanded a public hearing before the city council to challenge his dismissal, and I was assigned -- along with every other Herald reporter -- to cover the meeting. It was expected to draw a large crowd and be noisy, controversial and maybe, just maybe, air some of the town's dirty laundry. I couldn't wait.
On the afternoon of the meeting, the Herald staff held a strategy session. We went over assignments, engaged in typical newsroom grabass and headed out.
On my way to the door, my editor stopped me and said, "Two things to remember tonight. Get a seat near an exit. If there's riot, you'll be able to get out fast and won't get trapped inside."
She paused, then added, "And if there's any shooting, duck under your seat. Don't be hero."
I stared at her goggle-eyed. Until that moment, I had never considered the possibility of violence. Or getting hurt. I left with a little less spring to my step.
As it turns out the meeting was about as raucous as a bridge game. But years later, when as an editor I sometimes had to send reporters into tight situations, I always made sure we had a chat about safety. Most of those conversations ended with my reminder, "Don't be a hero."
Reporters got boxed around yesterday by the Trumpist goons. As far as I know, none were seriously hurt, thank God. But they were there, standing in for you and me, risking life and limb to place us at the scene of the action.
They may not be heroes -- although then again, maybe they are -- but they're damned sure not "enemies of the people" or purveyors of "fake news." And I'm freaking fed-up with those who say they are.
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