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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