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Heatherjune Olah lost one of her best
friends to murder when she was in high school in North Bend, Washington.
Now, 21, she is a journalism student at Western Washington University
in Bellingham. She wrote about dealing with the media in the aftermath
of the murder for an ethics class taught by Visiting Professor John
Harris.
To me, privacy in journalism, particularly issues of intrusion,
is the most important issue we’ve addressed because I have
been the most personally affected by it. My experience with journalists
— on the end of being interviewed by them — has left
less than a savory aftertaste of how the profession can affect
people. Even the briefest nexus with a grieving person is always
remembered.
One Saturday during the spring of my senior year in high school,
I came home after work to learn that my best friend, her sister
and mother had been murdered — presumably by her stepfather.
That night I began grieving, and within hours the phone rang with
the first reporter. The police weren’t releasing much information
at the time, so the reporters decided to try alternate means of
information-gathering. How they got my name remains a mystery,
which bothers me still.
I was in shock and wasn’t able to offer much information
at the time. I watched the news broadcasts that night, and was
angered to see their insufficient and incorrect stories —
they were unclear on the names of the victims (the family had
been notified), they were unclear on the relationships of the
people in the house, etc.
The next morning, after checking news Web sites and still getting
no helpful, recent or correct information, I contacted some news
sources to tell them what was going on. I received replies from
all but one. Two of the replies were from an editor who thanked
me for the information and offered resources of help. Others sent
generic “thanks for the news tips” replies, which
angered me, especially when one asked to interview me on camera
the next day. I didn’t want to do it but my parents encouraged
me to, saying it was a “great opportunity” to not
only share what happened but “maybe learn something”
about the news process. I think they meant well but were in shock
themselves and didn’t know what else to do.
When my Explorer troop leader found out about the interview,
he pressured me to wear my troop vest on camera. Still dazed,
I agreed, but looking back I realized it was a heartless attempt
at free promotion for our group (we run a Christmas tree lot each
year and depend on word-of-mouth for sales). I couldn’t
concentrate on the interviewer’s questions — I don’t
even remember what he asked — but I was scared and kept
looking right into the camera, making much of the interview unusable,
which visibly irritated the crew. The worst was that I couldn’t
cry, and I knew they really wanted that shot, the one that would
tug on the heartstrings of their viewers. I felt the pressure,
but I just couldn’t give them that.
It seemed they only wanted to talk to me. None of my other friends
were equally harassed — and it felt like harassment. Those
first few nights I got several calls from other news sources and
gave a few interviews. At the time, little was known about the
stepfather, so everyone wanted to know about him. Everyone figured
I was the best friend, and I should know. But I didn’t.
Again, I felt pressured from these sources to give them information.
I wanted to help, but I couldn’t, and was so dazed that
I doubt I would have been able to rightly judge how much to tell
them anyway.
I was very confused at the time. The reality still hadn’t
set in — I still sort of expected to see her sitting next
to me in our sci-fi lit class when I got back. So I wanted to
talk. But I feel like I didn’t even get to do that. Instead
of expressing how it felt, I was asked questions that cornered
me into giving grabbing soundbytes and arresting ledes. I had
to repeatedly answer the same inane questions about her age, whether
or not she had a boyfriend, did she try to “tell me anything.”
I felt that if they had just let me talk, I would have been able
to give them what they wanted much better, instead of those contrived,
formulaic paragraphs painting a picture of untimely teenage woe.
What I did say was distorted and splashed here and there. Minor
details said in passing became pull-quotes. That fact that my
friend didn’t really talk about her stepdad became the garish
lede, “Salomé didn’t like to discuss her stepfather.”
(Really, how many teenagers routinely have long, detailed discussions
about their parents?) I was mad yet couldn’t care about
it at the same time.
The worst was when I finally returned to classes; the cameras
were there. They were not allowed on school grounds, so they would
stand across the street with 300mm zoom lenses to photograph and
tape us crying on the front steps. That was the most intrusive
and insensitive. One snap of us hugging in tearful groups became
the poster shot of the event: I saw us on every local channel
and in every newspaper. They turned us into public persons: the
poster children of grief. They spread our sadness like sickness,
forcing the world to experience it — but only until the
next major story popped up to fill in, which insulted us the most.
I will never forgive the media for capitalizing on an obscure
and random event in my life. But now that I am the one with the
notepad, I have a bit more understanding of why it had to be that
way — even if I have no more sympathy for their methods.
No matter what, I will never take a story that requires me to
interview someone who has experienced a recent personal loss,
because I now know that those dealing with their grief need to
do so without the impersonal intrusions of the rest of the world,
despite their willingness to share. No good can come from one
stranger cold-calling another to simply have the details of one’s
despair framed and elaborated to fill column space.
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