Faith Wins.

Standing on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, I faced the oncoming storm. The skies turned red with rage, then black with vengeance - mirroring the feeling in my soul.  

I was exhausted. Honestly, 2011 has been a hard year, but not for the usual reasons.  While the economy faltered, my wallet grew fat. While the country suffered, I was secure.  

Yet, silencing the artist inside for a corporate paycheck comes at a cost. The future seems bleak...already lost to an invisible foe who's only goal is to destroy dreams.

"Why did you give up music?"  I  recently asked a new friend who'd quit chasing a career in the industry.  Her answer's repeated a million times in Hollywood:  doors closed. no opportunities. no money. 

"You walked away from music but it didn't walk away from you," I told her.  

Have you ever looked at someone and felt you could read their heart in their face?  I could see she had paid a price for the music inside that someone else needs to hear. 

"There's still a song inside of you waiting to be sung," I said, "music still waiting to be written..." 

"I don't think it will look the same but I will try again," she promised before leaving.

Dreams seldom look the same after they've been broken.

Facing the storm, I challenged the song stealer. 

You might kill my dreams but not my faith.  

Like my friend, my dream is broken but I'm confident that He who began a good work is faithful to complete it to the end. Just as the sun always shines after a storm, faith always wins.

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Half-Naked Neighbors and Miracles

Obstacles conspired against me as I tried to get home for Thanksgiving.  We were even forced to evacuate my building as I was packing - the piercing emergency sirens sent one resident fleeing half-naked and barefoot.

Another resident emerged seeminly ready for the apocalypse: wearing a backpack of supplies, layers of clothes and heavy boots.

"Hey, how'd you pack all that so fast?" asked a neighbor who'd managed to save only his shaggy, white puppy.  "Um, I was getting ready for a trip." 

I confess. I'm the  panty-packing, toothbrush-toting survivalist.  But let me explain, lest my neighbors think they live next to Unabomber's disciple.

One of my first big TV news assignments was covering a freight train derailment miles from civilization.  The engineer hadn't realized that a driver had somehow crashed into the side of the train and had dragged the truck for miles.  

Rescuers had found the body of the driver, a young mom, but not her baby who'd been strapped in a car seat when she left home. There was a chance the baby was still alive, maybe ejected in the crash.

I'd been on my way home when I got the breaking news call so wasn't prepared to spend the freezing night outside in the middle of nowhere; there wasn't even a 7-11 nearby to get extra gloves and snacks.  

Still, my photographer and I walked the dark tracks with the rescuers.  Maybe our camera's light might illuminate the tiny body...

Then at dawn, a miracle of sorts.  Word came that the mom had inexplicably left the baby with a sitter just before the crash--the child had been safe all night.

That long, cold night taught me to always keep a bag packed...and that sometimes miracles happen long before we can see them.

(And the half-naked neighbor? Well, we all escaped the stove fire just fine.)

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Twisted Truths: What Parents Need to Know About the Joe Paterno Child Sex Scandal

As journalists, we make a living reporting about the wreckage caused by peoples' actions, like Penn State's Joe Paterno.  

There will always be questions about why he didn't call police when he learned his assistant coach might be molesting boys.  If the allegations are true, Paterno and others did nothing while the rapes went on for years.  One of the most alarming accusations says university employees knew "Victim 8" was being assaulted in the shower but didn't call 911 because they were afraid "they might lose their jobs."

Every parent should read the grand jury report (if they can stomach the graphic content) to see how a predator got away with it for so long.  As crime reporters, we get so used to people lying to us that we always look for twisted truths.  But most parents aren't so distrusting - as seen in the grand jury report.  It reveals how parents swept suspicions aside and never seriously tried to answer disturbing questions - questions that could protect your child: 

Why does this adult give my child gifts for no reason? 

Is my child acting out when seeing this adult?

Is an adult spending odd hours with my child, like taking them out of school? 

Is something "off" about my child's appearance, like disheveled clothes or wet hair, after being with this adult?

If this scandal has a redeeming side, it's that maybe we'll be better equipped to identify predators...and also compelled to protect children - even if they're not ours.

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Ridiculous, Crazy Faith

Artists Wanted.  © 2011 Maria Peterson Photography

create.

A reporter being given a new assignment says in Overheard in the Newsroom: “I’m kind of glad to get away from pot for a while and move on to perverts.” 

Sometimes you feel so stuck that even covering stories about sadists and rapists brings a needed change.  

I'm about ready to go back to covering perverts.

I thought freelancing would give me more time to pursue creative dreams.  Writing children's books. Studying photography. Acting. Baking. 

I was wrong. 

"Being a freelancer means being a hustler," my friend Patrice says.*  "If anyone tells you that being a freelancer is easy, they are on some serious 1985 cocaine."

I'm not good at hustling so on top of freelancing, I took a coporate job writing marketing materials and the work has exploded. But there's a cost to doing work you're not passionate about. In time, the artist inside revolts.  A sense of futility sets in.  A crisis of faith hits.
 
"Being a freelancer takes a person of ridiculous, crazy and often stupid-looking faith," says Patrice.  

So we cling to this ridiculous, crazy faith that God is working out His plan...and because the true artist will continue to create - must create - even when there is no paycheck.

*Read Patrice Patrick's post on freelancing here

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Most Wanted: Whitey Bulger

James "Whitey" Bulger as a young mobster

I've been mourning my losses.  Well, not exactly my losses but what could have been my gain if I'd been more observant of my neighbors.

The press is reporting that a former beauty queen named Anna will get the $2 million reward for the tip that led to the capture of mobster James "Whitey" Bulger.  Bulger, who ran the Boston Winter Hill Gang, had been on the FBI's "Most Wanted" for the murders of 19 people in the 1970's and '80's.

I walk by Bulger's apartment nearly every day on my way to the beach. The area is unremarkable except for it's proximity to the ocean; mostly 70's apartment buildings along a wide, palm tree-lined street.  

Posing as a retiree, the mob boss had been living "in plain sight," as cops put it, for more than a decade. 

Seems simple "girl talk" brought down the most wanted fugitive who'd been right up there with terrorist leader Osama bin Laden.  

"Anna had befriended Bulger's girlfriend after the two women took an interest in a stray cat," says writer Randy Economy. 

Anna turned in the 81-year-old Bulger and his girlfriend after seeing them on a TV report. She's now $2 million richer and certainly the heroine of a future movie.  The TV crews are gone for now but I'm sure they'll be back when a deal is struck. 

During the raid on Bulger's place, the FBI found a tidy nest egg stashed in the walls of his apartment, along with an arsenal of weapons.  Forget Bingo - wonder what else those retirees across the street are up to? 

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After the Vows...

Wedding day.  Photo: K. Lewis 

If marriage is God's design, why does it seem so hard to make it work? And virtually impossible in Hollywood?  

I got to thinking about this as a friend announced her engagement; the same day another friend announced her break up. 

Sadly, I've seen as many endings to marriages as beginnings.  Covering the crime beat, cops will tell you some of their riskiest responses are when one partner is trying to leave the other.

To make ends meet at my first small market TV news gig, I took a part-time job at a women's shelter.  Police brought in most victims with only their kids and the clothes on their backs.

I never got used to seeing the swollen faces, black eyes, bruises...I didn't understand how mothers stayed with men who shattered their kids' bones, or worse. 

"They feel like they have no choice," the director tried to explain, "Most go back."

Later, I was the one dialing 911 for a friend fleeing an explosive husband.  She was terrified he'd come home and find her packing. 

I'd been there when they met.  Celebrated their engagement.  Helped pick the wedding decorations.  We saw no warnings; the beatings started after the vows.  

"I'm calling the police," I said, "That'll give you time to get out."  I'd covered enough crime stories to know this one could turn fatal.

My friend's experience is common; one in four women are in abusive relationships.* The reasons a marriage goes from flowers to fists are as intricate as the lace of a wedding dress.  And love's promises - to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish...until death do us part - just as fragile. 

*Domestic Violence Resource Center www.dvrc-or.org

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She Still Stands

The LA Times is running this photo I shot outside a West Hollywood antiques store.  The owners display collectibles and old movie props  but weeks have passed without a buyer for the 8' statue.  

Just before the 10-year anniversary of 9/11, Lady Liberty reminded me...

As journalists, we make a living reporting other peoples' tragedies.  Lost lives usually mean bigger ratings; 9/11 was no exception.  Except it was our tragedy, too.  There's a saying, "History always leaves a witness."  We were all witnesses.

I lived near the Golden Gate Bridge at the time.  The area around the monument went into lockdown.  The F-14 military fighter jets flying overhead made a threat to our lives seem imminent.

Tears are of no use in the newsroom; mine would not stop.  Only one other story had hit me so hard: the crash of TWA Flight 800.  

I'd instantly felt the explosion that killed 380 people was not an accident...even before I learned that my friend, detective Sue Hill, was on board; we'd met years earlier working the same crime scenes.

No tributes mark the crash site of Flight 800.  No monuments honor the victims.  No one can prove whether a missile or mechanical failure brought down Sue's plane but I'm convinced  these tragedies five years apart - on 7/17 and 9/11 - were somehow linked. 

These lost lives remind us of the price we pay to live in a free country - by no means perfect, her leaders are often wrongly motivated; her people often selfish and arrogant.  Yet, despite terrorism, catastrophe and war, her Light still shines.  She still stands.

*"The Mysterious Death of Detective Sue Hill," The Rap Sheet, Nov 2005
http://www.portlandpoliceassociation.com/rsissues/Nov05Rap.pdf

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With This Ring

Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith. Photo:  Mr L. Davis

It's impossible to live in Hollywood and avoid celebrity gossip like the Will Smith and Jada split rumors.

The Smiths have stood out as a triumph over divorce statistics - especially for African-Americans. We apparently have the worst rates of any racial group, according to an article, "Marriage is for White People."*

"This author is writing a story on the state of relationships between men and women," said a colleague who called to ask me to be interviewed for an Essence magazine article.

The subject matter made me skittish. Truth is journalists often make lousy partners. Constant deadline stress, long separations from home, traumatic experiences - our relationships pay the price.

The numbers are especially dismal for highly educated black women - we're the least likely of any group to marry.* 

But I don't want statistics to keep my heart locked up.  Just because we screw up marriage doesn't mean the plan is flawed any more than a car wreck means the engine design is defective. No matter how "hostile" - the Essence writer's description of male/female relationships - I believe the vows still matter.

Due to  the magazine's lead time, the article won't come out for a few months. Maybe Will and Jada will be on the cover - celebrating another anniversary.

*Marriage is for White People, Joy Jones, The Washington Post

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Fighting Fires

Most girls I knew wanted to grow up to become teachers or lawyers or wives.  I dreamed of a less traditional path - like a superhero. or a firefighter. 

Shay at Firefighter Training School

As kids, my brother and I would race outside at the sound of sirens - chasing red trucks down the street to watch firemen save a life...even if it was just a cat stuck in a tree (our small town firefighters really did rescue pets).

Most of us outgrew our childhood dreams but I sometimes wonder what if we'd followed those paths? 

Me? As a journalist, I chase fire trucks for different reasons now. Maybe the signs were there all along that I'd become a writer.  A shy kid, I'd preferred Reader's Digest over boys. did crossword puzzles in ink. laminated my library card. 

Ironically, my job as a journalist let me experience my childhood fantasy of fighting fires and saving lives.  I jumped at a chance to attend Firefighting Academy for a series on why there so few women pump hoses for a career.

I'm not sure where the Academy dug up gear small enough to fit my frame but there I was at roll call, along with several mostly-male journalists and a class of new recruits. 

One test required rescuing a 200-pound man (a REAL one acting unconscious, not a dummy!) from a burning house. I don't know anyone petite woman who could carry that much weight - also wearing 60 pounds of gear, including oxygen tank and mask, AND racing a stopwatch.   

So I did the logical thing. 

The trainer stopped me - apparently dragging a man by his arms down a flight of stairs is not the correct way to rescue him.

Another test required saving victims from a wrecked car using the Jaws of Life.

So again, I did the logical thing. The trainer stopped me again - apparently hoisting a 75-pound hydraulic tool with one's knees is not safe technique.

 Shay at firefighting training

Then there was a test to reach occupants in a burning highrise, which required climbing a five-story truck ladder and dangling over the concrete below without a net or harness. 

This time the trainer did not have to stop me. I made it only part-way before fear won out. 

But this test wasn't about strength.  While I may not be able to carry a 200-pound person or manhandle a monster tool, this test didn't require muscles; it required courage.

"Let me try again," I asked the captain.  Made it to the top (higher than any other non-recruits) but failed at the last step - my shaky legs and arms of jello couldn't be trusted to hold me five stories in the air.

The truth is that while many women lack the physical strength firefighting requires,* we are often filled with a heart and determination that can change the world.

*Less than 3% of firefighters are women (LA Weekly)

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Hollywood johns & egos

Reason #316 I'm grateful to live in our great country:  plumbers on call 24/7.  

My throne room flooded at midnight. "Turn da wata off!" the plumber instructed in response to my emergency call. No use. Niagara Falls kept flowing.  The plumber trekked out at 1 am.

Ironically, I'd just been reading about Hollywood johns, egos and the problems they cause. In his blog, The Hollywood Railroad,  my friend Karl writes about a $200,000 private bathroom that led to the downfall of a TV exec.

"I have seen this sort of deluxe doghouse/executive bathroom before not 60 feet from my news desk," Karl writes. "Not a six-figure model, but it did house a lot of...hand-lotion."

I think I know the one; worked at the same magazine. I vowed to keep quiet about industry secrets (until I'm paid to write a TV show) but for the record, this exec did keep a bizzare lotion stash - dozens of bottles lined in near-obsessive rows.

A perk of working at the magazine was tickets to red carpet events. The top exec would leave early to get ready but the rest of us often worked right up until show time.

That's when it paid to know the Guardian of the Executive Loo.  She'd slip us the key after the exec left so we could  use the shower in his office. As Karl said, this john wasn't a six figure model like the one at NBC, but it sure beat baby wipes.

And for the record, I never touched any of that lotion.

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Stalkers

Photo:  Maybe Sparrow Photography and Design

An article about the ESPN reporter who was spied on in her hotel room infuriated me that the crime is punished so lightly.  Erin Andrews says she still gets perverted phone calls about the nude footage the stalker leaked. Fans still yell, "I've seen you naked!"

"People don't understand that while I wasn't physically touched, I was violated," Erin said in an interview.*  

I get that.

...I'm at your window. A man with a deep voice on the phone was on the other end of the phone. Lurking. Threatening.

I dialed 911 and hid in a closet until police arrived.  They looked for footprints in the snow or other signs of an intruder but found nothing.

For a while, the TV newsroom was one of the only places that felt safe to me.  Security is always tight to keep someone from hijacking a live broadcast.

Safe...until the night a man was waiting for me in the lobby.

As he came toward me, it looked like he was hiding something behind his back. Instinct said to grab the newsroom door before it shut and locked. I bolted back inside without asking any questions.

"Do you know the man in the lobby?"  I asked our producer.  The guard was supposed to notify him if a visitor came during a broadcast. The guard never did.

Who knows why the stranger showed up near midnight claiming to be my boyfriend.  He fled before police arrived. The security breach cost the guard his job but things could have been far worse. 

Erin's stalker, a salesman she had never met, got 30 months in jail .  Many stalkers never spend a day behind bars.  

And the victims?  "I'm traumatized every day," Erin says, "This will never be over."*
---
*Read Erin Andrew's Marie Claire article for advice on handling stalking

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4th of July

I've been thinking about someone I never got to meet...can't help but think about him around the 4th of July. 

...The newsroom burst to life with the frantic buzz that means one thing: breaking news. 

"Double team it!" shouted our news director. "Go live at 5:00!"

Speeding out of the station, we raced to the scene where several National Guard soldiers were missing - swept away in a creek.

We had only a few facts: a training drill. turbulent waters. a capsized boat. divers searching. 

My job was to get details to feed our more seasoned reporter who would give viewers live updates throughout the broadcast.

With air time about to hit, the lead reporter shoved the mic into my hand. 

"You take it," she said, "You're better at this."  

Even though I didn't have as much live shot experience, I think growing up as a military brat helped wire me for the intensity of breaking news - calm, clear-headed in chaos - stuff they can't teach you in journalism school.

"Divers search for four National Guard soldiers after their boat capsized..."

I don't remember my exact words to open the newscast but I still see the vivid contrasts of that summer day: brilliant sun rays piercing murky water. lush trees casting shadows over brittle grass. life/death. colliding.

"Guardsman who drowned was Sioux City sergeant," read the headlines. 

Divers had been able to save all but one of the soldiers. I still think of him around the 4th of July.  I'm sorry I didn't pray for you that day. Thank you for your sacrifice.

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Climb Again

You taught me how to climb, to swing, to kick a football when I was a child. In a way those are the greatest gifts anyone's given me.

I seemed born with an instinct to climb. As a baby, I'd try to escape over the confines of my crib. Eventually you decided to teach me a way to scale the bars safely so I wouldn't fall on my head.

Soon I wanted to climb trees, especially a three-story giant in our yard. We were content swinging from the lower branches but you knew it was only a matter of time before we'd try to go higher. 

"Stay close to the trunk," you warned, "The branches are stronger there." 

As a struggling teen, that towering tree became my refuge.

I was about 11 the first time you let me go rock climbing and rappelling with the Army recruits. I loved going with you on those ROTC trips. 

We'd never had an accident until Starved Rock. falling. slamming into the rocks. You tried to hide your fear but I saw it in the way your eyes never left me whenever I put on a harness after that.

I've lost my footing a little over the years...fear. falls. failures. But I'm ready to climb again, Dad. Thank you for teaching me. Happy Father's Day.

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The Tunnel's End

Another one of my photos is running in the LA Times! I recently shot this picture under the Santa Monica pier.

I was trying to get a photo of the pier's iconic ferris wheel at sunset but the angle wasn't working so I decided to take a shortcut to the other side before the sun slipped away. There's a path that runs under the dock but I've always avoided going that way; it's dark, wet and smells like urine.

I was determined to get a photo for a photography project though so I entered the tunnel. Near the end, I saw light streaming through the pillars. At first I kept walking toward the beach but I was drawn to turn back and take in the message: Though shadows linger, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

In that moment, the light piercing the dark passage, it didn't seem like a cliché.

The photo above, "Where the sun never shines," can be seen in the LA Times Southern California Moments photo gallery

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Even in the Storm

Available for hire: one experienced storm chaser and live shot reporter.

I woke up thinking about a 15-month old baby missing after the Midwest tornadoes. News reports say the father had used his own body to shield his son and wife but the tornado ripped the child away. Reports said the hospitalized parents were too injured to know their baby is gone.

So here I am again, ready to head back if I get an assignment. Why? Why give up comfort and security for a story? Why face danger for potentially no reward?

I grew up in tornado alley and went to work at a rural TV station after grad school. Racing down dirt roads, chasing funnel clouds, tracking a path of twisted trees and flattened corn stalks...just another day's work.

"Please don't go," said my friend Esther when I told her about my plan. 

"It's not the risk or the adrenaline," I struggled to explain. "I know the child's probably dead but there's something about that family's story..."

After reflecting a minute, Esther began to speak. "It's because the father covering his child with his body - it points to God," she said. "Even in tragedy, the father was there. The tragedy doesn't discredit the father's love. That is the true character of God."

A father's love - that is the story worth telling.  A love that cannot be quenched...even in the storm.

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The End of the World, Again?

May marks my 11-year anniversary in California. 

The world didn't end as predicted in 2000 (remember Y2K?) so that spring I'd packed the few things that fit into my two-seater, headed south on I-5 and showed up on a friend's doorstep in the Bay Area.

Fast forward seven years. 

Spring again. Packed again. Back on the I-5. This time bound for LA. 

"God has released you to pursue the adventure of His calling," said my pastor and friend.

Even though I didn't clearly see the reasons for change, it felt like time. I was happy when the move fell into place so quickly; my roommate and I took the first place we found on the Internet that would rent to us sight unseen.  Seemed to confirm it was time to go.

"I feel like LA holds part of God's redemptive plan for me," I'd told friends. Yet I have a lingering sense of delayed destiny. 

Blinded my ambition when I was a young reporter, I'd wasted the platforms I could have used to help others. 

Regrets? Certainly. 

Redemption? Absolutely.

Spring again. A fresh start. 

But why do my moves always seem to coincide with the end of the world? In 2000, it was Y2K.  This time it's supposedly Judgment Day.  Starting right here in the Pacific Rim on May 21st (read the prophecy here). 

Guess I'll be happy either way with a front row seat to either the sunset...or the Rapture.

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He said. She said. the iPad said.

They say dog lovers choose pets that look like them. And that after a while, even couples start to resemble eachother. 

If only communication worked the same way.  Instead it seems many couples barely speak over time.

The breakdown starts when we're singles seeking love. 

He texts. We should hang out. 

Does he mean I think you're hot or The guys are busy hang out?  

We make it just as confusing for guys. 

You ask us for a date and we say: "Find me on Facebook." Which means, You're not my type, or Leave me alone, stalker.

The Millennial generation - they consider texting and sexting a quality relationship - often gets blamed for the death of dating but maybe they're not the culprit.

I wrote on Facebook: "Saw the sweetest proposal! Guy takes his girlfriend to look at iPads. When she turns it on the message on the screen asks, 'Will you marry me?'"

He needed to man up and not do it via technology.

He needs to stop hiding behind technology.

I am not a fan of men trying to get at women via technology.

Quelle backlash, ma cherie!  And from my 20-something friends!

I saw how much effort the guy put in to surprising his girlfriend so I defended the digital proposal. "I don't like guys using FB or texting to ask for a date, calling's better, but he'd obviously spent time to make the proposal memorable."

My 20-something friends won't budge. They say people hide behind technology. So maybe dating's demise can't be blamed on Millennials but instead on the enduring fear of rejection...or that we'll wind up looking like a pug.

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You Are Beautiful

Photo: Maria Peterson Photography

An elderly woman approached me in the store. "You have a cute nose," she said. "Is it yours?"

"She asked because you live in Hollywood," a friend said. Maybe. Or have we become so used to images of injected, tucked, implanted women that the real thing surprises us?

Friends said my feelings about cosmetic surgery would change as I got older. They haven't. I still think women often look less attractive after their procedures.

One friend's lips are so plump she reminds me of the Joker. I'm not being mean; I just thought her mouth was the right size and shape for her thin face before the fillers.

I used to dread representing my station at public events; viewers often slammed my natural hair, full lips, curvy (size six) hips. 

So my TV bosses would hire a stylist, hair and makeup artists to mold me into the perfect talking head. 

"I don't care if you make me a blonde," I told them, "It's your money."

I've learned to accept the ugly side of show business but I still don't want to try to look like Beyoncé. Of course, she's gorgeous but no amount of nipping, Botoxing or augmenting will make me Beyoncé.

Thankfully the mirror doesn't have to remain our enemy. Accepting our natural beauty is worth far more than any perpetually perky boobs or flawlessly sculpted abs will ever be.

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Going Back

Sometimes a writer starts a story with no idea how it'll end. Like a painter, you start mixing colors - words, images - with no idea what they'll look like on the canvas.

Such is the case with this blog. I started blogging after meeting a TV producer who wants to do a show about journalists. I thought this blog would be a good way to archive some of the stories I've covered in case she might want to use them in a TV series.

Then an earthquake hit 3,000 miles from Hollywood. No red carpets. No stylists. No paparazzi.  A make-believe TV show would have to wait. 

Instead of a newsroom, the base of a mango tree became my office. Armed security for escorts. Broken, dry ground for a bed. 

I was afraid to go but I had to. I get why CBS reporter Lara Logan vows to return to reporting despite being gang-raped in Egypt; sometimes nothing can keep you from doing what you're meant to do...

I was a grad student the first time we were attacked on a story. A deranged man tried to smash our gear to the ground. We weren't hurt but we learned the camera is a magnet for nuts - and to keep an eye out for a rock if you need to defend yourself.

I thought about getting a gun permit as my assignments got more dangerous (growing up on Army bases, we were taught how early how to use weapons), especially while covering the murder of a young mother.

Two masked gunmen had burst into the offices of a gang prevention program yelling, "Give us your purses! Give us the money!"  

They shot mom of three, Christina Clegg, as she sat at her desk.

The crime was made to look like a botched payday robbery but who pumps five rounds into a mom at work?

"Get off the story," neighbors warned me, "They'll kill you, too."

I eventually got enough facts to air exclusives about a suspect police refused to name. He threatened to kill me after we ambushed him, cameras rolling, at his lawyer's office. 

I looked over my shoulder for months until police had enough evidence to arrest him.

Bastard husband. 

Grover Clegg is serving life in prison for hiring his own brother to kill his wife.  For insurance money.

And so I go back. to disaster areas. and war zones. and inner cities. Because sometimes all it takes to see justice prevail is a mic and a camera. 

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The Storyteller's Calling

I was walking along the beach when I ran into a man in an orange prison jumpsuit. I was a little afraid since the shoreline was deserted except for us and a few seagulls.

Should I keep walking? Run like mad? Call 911?

You'd think living near Hollywood I'd know by now things often aren't what they seem. Turns out the "escaped convict" was an actor waiting for a camera crew.

Watching the actor, photographer and ocean move with each other was like turning the pages of a book. Storytellers - crafting lines with images instead of words.

In my mind the beach melted away and I was back in Haiti where I'd write sitting under the mango tree. This is where I finally got it: for some of us storytelling is a calling, not merely a job.

"The times when I got to uncover someone's story," said Kezia, "when I got to ask questions and discover something I would not have known had I not hunted for it, those are the things that moved me."

Watching the story being written on the shore stirred something in me. The calling. Yes, it's still there.

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Jump Cut

Photo: Maria Peterson Photography

"Mommy says my legs are fat," the little girl said quietly.

I'm all for fighting childhood obesity but she didn't even look chubby. Labeled "fat" by first grade, I wondered what demons lurked in her future: self-hatred? depression? perfectionism?

I was such a perfectionist that a professor worried I'd crack under the intense pressure of a TV career. 

"You're too hard on yourself," she cautioned as I tried to fix a jump cut (an unintentional edit in news that makes it look like there's a jump between two shots) in my story.

While a jump cut isn't fatal, there's no room for imperfection when performance is measured frame-by-frame. The bad edit was like a neon sign: FAILURE. FAILURE. FAILURE.

To prepare us for TV's relentless demands, certain mistakes meant automatic failure. 

Misspelled name? "F." 

Mispronounced city? "F." 

Late to class? Don't bother coming. "Doesn't matter who you are," our professor warned, "the news airs without you."

It took years for me to see the difference between perfectionism and excellence. I finally got it when I heard a speaker say, "If your perfect life is coming between you and love, you're paying too high a price."

What he meant is: If your husband is afraid to kiss you for fear of smudging your perfect makeup and your kids walk on eggshells for fear of ruining your perfect house, then your perfect life costs too much.

For the times when life is messy or our thighs are fat or there's a jump cut in our story, perfectionism is unforgiving; excellence gives grace.

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