I'll never forget the moment I turned up the drive to Angela Anderson's house. My palms were a little sweaty and my chest a little tight. I was excited and nervous to meet the woman I had spent the past few weeks thinking about. Ever since one of my editors — Katherine Reed — told me her story, I had been thinking about the interview. I wondered how I would keep my emotions in check; and even wondered if I could. The interview took an emotional toll on me, as I expected it would.
It reminded me of the interview I did with Tracy Edwards last December. When I walked into his home and saw him in a wheelchair with bandages wrapped around the stumps of his recently amputated legs, it was hard not to get emotional. I am, at times, incapacitated by sadness.
I remember these interviews intimately. I remember the smells, the awkward moments, the questions I forgot to ask and even the ones I did. But, as the interviews begin to bleed into one another, I realize that these are the interviews that are easy to remember. But every interview is special and has surprises. I think it's easy to latch onto extremes, but it also is in the everyday experiences that stories lurk.
Yesterday, I met a mother, Amy Pope, who has two extremely allergic children. It was the first in-person interview I'd done since I interviewed Angela. I found myself comparing the two stories, but stopped once I got into the details and immersed myself in the story of the woman in front of me.
She surprised me with information I hadn't considered: shopping for children with allergies takes hours, is cripplingly expensive and has essentially forced her to stop working. As I biked back to the Missourian to finish off my copy desk shift, I felt myself pondering the life experiences of Amy. She had invited me into her world, as each subject of a story hopefully chooses to do.
I felt honored, as I typically do following an interview. I learned something. And, even though the timing was tough — my mind will wander back to Angela for probably quite some time — it was a good step back into more everyday reporting. It was also a good reminder that every interview is unique, is surprising and has something to teach.
It reminded me of the interview I did with Tracy Edwards last December. When I walked into his home and saw him in a wheelchair with bandages wrapped around the stumps of his recently amputated legs, it was hard not to get emotional. I am, at times, incapacitated by sadness.
I remember these interviews intimately. I remember the smells, the awkward moments, the questions I forgot to ask and even the ones I did. But, as the interviews begin to bleed into one another, I realize that these are the interviews that are easy to remember. But every interview is special and has surprises. I think it's easy to latch onto extremes, but it also is in the everyday experiences that stories lurk.
Yesterday, I met a mother, Amy Pope, who has two extremely allergic children. It was the first in-person interview I'd done since I interviewed Angela. I found myself comparing the two stories, but stopped once I got into the details and immersed myself in the story of the woman in front of me.
She surprised me with information I hadn't considered: shopping for children with allergies takes hours, is cripplingly expensive and has essentially forced her to stop working. As I biked back to the Missourian to finish off my copy desk shift, I felt myself pondering the life experiences of Amy. She had invited me into her world, as each subject of a story hopefully chooses to do.
I felt honored, as I typically do following an interview. I learned something. And, even though the timing was tough — my mind will wander back to Angela for probably quite some time — it was a good step back into more everyday reporting. It was also a good reminder that every interview is unique, is surprising and has something to teach.
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