Reading reflection - Week 2

When I was 18 and a freshman in college, I was about 20 feet away from a homicide-suicide shooting. A man enraged with jealousy walked onto my campus in Tacoma, Washington, and sought out a professor in the music department to kill and then turned the gun on himself. A friend and I were walking up from the science lab to our dorms and just seconds before the shooting began, we parted ways. I headed to the administration building and she headed toward the dorm. A few moments later, I heard the shots. Boom, boom, in quick succession and then a pause before another boom.

At first I thought it was fireworks, but I remember the feelings in the air changed. It felt different and chilling. It was scary. Once I realized it was a shooting, I ran behind a tree. I don't remember how long I crouched behind that tree waiting. Time passed and I eventually decided to run. Without looking back, with my backpack still on my back, I ran toward the administration building. I remember running into the lobby and shouting that someone had a gun and someone had been shot. I have no idea how I knew that. I hadn't seen anything or heard anyone say anything. But maybe I had. My memories are jumbled. Everyone stared at me and some people looked at me like I was crazy. The students weren't responding so I ran to the back of the building and asked someone to call 911 (this was the world before cell phones). I don't remember going back to my dorm room after that. I was in a daze. My friend, the one who had walked toward her dorm and witnessed the entire incident, transferred schools a few semesters later. She was the one who gave the bloodied and already dead professor CPR. Unlike me, she knew the shooter was dead. The only thought I remember having while crouching behind the nearby tree was that I needed to get away. I was close and if the shooter picked a new target, he could find me there.

Looking back, I should have gone to a counselor after this experience. For years, I hated the Fourth of July because the fireworks reminded me of that shooting. I didn't have nightmares or flackbacks and I'm certain I didn't have PTSD, but it was upsetting and it probably would have helped to talk with someone. But the great thing is that it's never too late.

The first few chapters of "The Unthinkable" were really fascinating to read, both because it is very instructive by itself, but also because it offered me a framework for my reactions to that event. As I read through the phases of a disaster response, I remembered entering each one. The denial phase occurred when I thought the gunshots were fireworks. I'm not sure how long that phase lasted. It could have been minutes. I do remember time almost standing still. Then I saw a nearby tree and knew I needed to get behind it. My deliberation phase also probably lasted awhile. I crouched behind that tree calculating my risk. I was trying to decide it the shooter would come for me or if her or she would shoot me while I was running. My "disaster personality" as Amanda Ripley calls it, decided to run for it. And instead of dropping everything to make for a quicker getaway, I took everything with me. It doesn't make sense, but that's what I did. My disaster self also apparently doesn't rescue. I ran the other direction of the shooting, so it seems I'm not going to be the person to stop a shooter. But, it seems like I am the person who wants to alert authorities. It was my mission to get help. I remember not needing to convince people that there was indeed a shooting. When people didn't believe me I didn't stop to convince them, I just kept searching for someone who would take action as quickly as possible. Once they did, I felt my part was done. I left the scene, but I don't recall where I went.

My impressions of the phases are that they are quite simple. Denial, deliberation, action. But, as you can see from the length of the blog post and from the length of the reading, they are moments that last much longer than any normal moments. In disasters, seconds last minutes. It was really clear from the reading and my own experience that the way time is perceived changes. I think the time distortion and the assertion that you just don't know how you'll behave are my key takeaways from that school shooting experience. And Ripley illustrated the realities so well in her examples. It's a part of the human experience you see for only a few moments in your life and it's something you never really forget.

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Interesting quotes from The Unthinkable (Introduction through chapter 2.)

The survival arc: denial (the initial shock), deliberation (we know something is wrong, but we don't know what to do about it), the decisive moment (taking action).

In a disaster, "Life becomes like molten metal. Old customs crumble, and instability rules." -Samuel Henry Prince

"Hazards have personalities" -Paul Slovic

Democratic societies breed distrust.

Making a call (or not) (week 1)

This week, our professor asked us to think about what justifies a "death knock," which is shorthand for reaching out to a person who has just experienced the death of someone close, either by proximity or relationship or both. She also asked us to determine when we think a death knock is warranted, especially concerning new reporters.

In general, I don't think we talk about death enough as a society. But people who go through the experience of watching a loved one die want to talk about it. I learned this after my friend Laura Barker's dad died suddenly of pneumonia. His death was not shocking because he had recently undergone a bone marrow transplant for leukemia. It was also the second time in his life that he had cancer. The first time he lost his leg. Even though it was an experience everyone feared and had seriously thought about, the finality of his death was hard to take.

After Ken Barker died, I wondered if I should bring up his death with her and how often. My instincts told me to ask and to ask often. A few months later she thanked me for checking in so much. She said people avoided asking her about her dad because they wanted to be respectful, but she would have preferred the questions they assumed were too intrusive. Losing her dad at 23 was terrible, and she really just wanted to talk about it.

I know that's just one story, so it's anecdotal, but I think the theme rings true. Most people want to share their story, work through their grief and tell people what happened. It seems we find meaning or hope to find meaning by telling others about our grief. The question for the media comes down to timing. Immediately following death, myriad reactions are possible.

So, in deciding whether to assign a reporter to a story about someone who has recently died, I would go with my instincts. In general, I would err on the side of asking them to call, which gives the person the choice of whether they'd like to respond. The approach would be crucial and I'd debrief with the reporter both before and after the call and the assignment. The source needs to know that the choice to interview is in their hands and that the reporter will make a good faith effort to avoid all and any mistakes. The incident itself would be a consideration as well. I would not send a reporter to an actively dangerous scene such as an active shooting incident or to an Ebola outbreak without knowing that they had proper training and/or protection. I'd also assess the reporter's ability to handle stress, though this could be tricky since everyone responds differently. Angela Anderson told me that one reporter who came to interview her started sobbing, and Anderson said it was inappropriate. The reporter hadn't just lost two of her children.

Also, if the situation seemed too dangerous or too intrusive, I'd consider following up later. In the case of Anna Steele's mom, I agree that an immediate call might be too triggering and intrusive, but a call after the initial shock has passed could be acceptable if she is willing to share. More time would also give the reporter a chance to write a stronger article and include information and context about shaken baby syndrome, etc.

Before sending a reporter out, I'd stress the importance of leaving the scene if they sense any sort of danger. A story is not worth getting injured, dying or becoming psychologically scarred. Bearing witness is important, but, in my opinion, is not worth dying for. I know some journalists would disagree with this, and I thank them for taking such risks and putting their lives on the line. I would not ask a reporter to stay in a dangerous situation. 

With new reporters, I'd also be sure to check in after the experience to make sure they debrief and have time to process the experience, especially if the reporter witnessed devastation or a grisly accident. First-time experiences can leave a more lasting impression because defense mechanisms have not been built up yet, so that's why it's important to spend more time talking about it and guiding them through the experience.

It's a tough question and I'm sure one that takes years of practice and reconsideration.

Reading reflection - Week 1

I wanted to study two things when I first came back from the Peace Corps: journalism and emergency medicine. Two months after getting back to Oregon, I found myself at Portland Community College enrolled in an emergency medical technician class. I had taken a few first aid courses and had anxiously enrolled. The instructor talked authoritatively and passionately about the great responsibility and honor that is involved in being an EMT. It's a tough job, the pay is low, but it saves lives and it's a practical skill. (sound familiar?)

I loved it, but I felt myself stepping back. Something deep inside me told me I was in the wrong place. I chatted later that night with my friend Dilanga, a paramedic from L.A. who has spent the past several years building up emergency response systems in Asia. I told him I desperately wanted to learn those skills, but that my heart was telling me to go study journalism. He said I had to listen to that voice. Emergency medicine would always be there; I could learn it later. That Friday, I withdrew from the course, packed my bags for New York City and started the long process of applying to graduate schools in journalism.

I also kept wondering why in the world I wanted to study those two things. My mom even commented: how are those two disciplines related? I couldn't say. I just knew I wanted to learn more about both.

The writers in this week's reading introduce journalists as first responders. I'd never thought of it before. Two and a half years later, I finally realize there is some overlap. Of course, I realize the job skills are quite different from each other, but the overarching principles are stunningly similar.

Assessment skills, quick thinking, piecing together information, evaluating risks, arriving first. A journalist and an EMT must do these things in order to be effective. It's a parallel I've never thought about before.

It's going to be really helpful to frame my work as a first responder. My whole life I have taken it for granted that in an emergency situation, the media show up. Bloodhounds, they've been called. Our news values have mixed into a strange reality of breaking news. There's the public's need and right to know, our collective fascination with trauma and violence and the pressure to break the story first.

Somehow the public never considered that watching all of this tragedy unravel might be taking a toll on the journalists, too. I have to admit I never considered the possibility that it might be hard either. Then I was assigned a life story. Death sits eerily nearby during those calls. It's close and undeniable. It's part of what makes us human and also part of what makes those life stories important.

I think talking about trauma in any field is necessary, but often neglected. Even though I attended only one session, my EMT instructor took the time to talk about self-care during that first session. It's a high burnout job and the work can be overwhelming, he warned us. Indeed. I didn't know it at the time, but his advice would also apply to me — a different type of first responder.