Accepting a Role as Intruder
By Brian Passey
I'm an intruder in worlds not my own. I trespass in the lives of others. I write about strangers. I'm a reporter.
Walking around neighborhoods I've never been to, asking personal questions of people I've just met, and going places I don't belong are all parts of the career I have chosen. Yet, I like my privacy and respect the privacy of others; but in my job I am called to invade the lives of strangers. I wonder: Will I ever feel comfortable in this role?
* * *
I am trying to be brave. I'm in the one part of my beat I have not made the effort to explore, Big Bayou. Sometimes I drive through this neighborhood, but I never get out because a resident told me there are problems with crime. I worry that I will be an intruder just by being here, let alone asking questions. Not only do my Idaho license plates brand me as an outsider, I'm the only white person I see.
Outsider, intruder, whitey. I call myself these names, believing the people staring at me as I walk down the sidewalk are calling me the same ones in their heads. I realize I'm not physically afraid of the people I see; I'm afraid of not being accepted among them. I'm afraid they will think I'm butting in where I don't belong. I talk with some people sitting in their yards; they are nice but seem to guard their words. Though they all stare at me, none make me feel too uncomfortable about being there…except one.
As I'm about to climb back into my 1999 Subaru wagon and retreat without a story idea, I see him. He's sitting on a 2-foot high brick wall, holding a bottle in a brown paper bag and glaring at me. He seems to be about my age, 25, but I feel like a scared little kid. My first instinct is to jump in my car, lock the doors and speed away. But I've already done the intruding and it's time to follow through.
I approach him and his lips pull back in a silent snarl. Four gold teeth shine from his mouth. There are letters engraved on the gold teeth but I can't decipher them. I see the distrust in his eyes. They tell me I don't belong here, though he hasn't said a word. My voice shakes as I tell him why I'm here. I ask if he knows of any stories about the neighborhood that need to be told.
The man looks at me blankly. He hesitates. Then he says the neighborhood doesn't have any stories worth telling; it's poor. He tells me he can't get a job because of his criminal record. He tells me he can't wear gold jewelry anymore because white cops will stop him for no reason, except for being black and wearing gold jewelry. He tells me if he had a gun he would find these cops…and shoot them.
If this were presented to me as a hypothetical situation, I would probably say my next move would be a mad dash to my car. But instead, I feel shame. I feel guilt. I feel responsible for the life this man was living. Not because of anything I did, but just for being white and knowing what others who look like me have done to him and to his ancestors for centuries.
Suddenly I feel like an intruder more than ever. I feel as if I am one of those white cops harassing him for walking down the street. I feel I pushed my way into his life just by walking up to him and asking questions. Since I didn't know what else to do, I thank him for his time, extend my hand and tell him my name. He refuses to give me his and only offers what people call him—Critter. He doesn't trust me. Why should he?
* * *
This is my dilemma. As a reporter, I'm supposed to intrude on the lives of others every day. I learn new things and become an instant expert in whatever—or whoever—I'm writing about. But often I don't feel as if I belong. These are people's lives I'm pushing myself into. What right do I have to be there?
Sometimes this fear of intrusion makes me feel like an imposter. How can I be a good journalist when I'm afraid to ask the difficult questions, or to get out of my car or to talk to people who intimidate me?
It's not just in the field I feel I'm an imposter. As I first arrived at Poynter, I felt the same; I did not think I deserved to be among the other young journalists in the program. When I covered a Kerry-Edwards presidential campaign rally, I felt like an imposter again, intruding in the world of the big-time journalists covering the event for such publications as Newsweek and The New York Times.
I know there are many places in my life where I do not feel like an intruder—places I belong. I belong in Rexburg, Idaho—where I grew up—with my parents and my grandmother. I belong in Cedar City, Utah, at my grandfather's house. I belong in Moscow, Idaho, where I went to college. Moscow was one place where I felt I didn't belong at first. But as I found a purpose for being there and acceptance among others, I did eventually feel comfortable.
Is that what I need to feel more comfortable covering my beat: acceptance and purpose? Purpose is necessary for journalism, but acceptance cannot be expected. Sometimes, however, journalists are accepted by the subjects of their stories. But even when there is acceptance by some, I still feel like I'm intruding on others.
* * *
I'm in Driftwood, a quiet upper middle-class neighborhood under a canopy of 50-year-old oaks. My purpose is to show the beauty of this neighborhood and the uniqueness of its people through telling the story of their Independence Day parade. At first, the families of Driftwood seem to accept my presence, though I'm a stranger here. Most don't notice me, but occasionally there is a strange look. It's a public parade on city roads, but I begin to feel I'm encroaching on something sacred to this close-knit community.
After the parade, I approach a man I had spoken with earlier. He is walking with his mother and daughter up the driveway to his mother's home. Since I know the son, I call his name and begin talking to him. The older, white woman's eyes, like Critter's, watch me with distrust. But instead of Critter's glare, there is fear. I get the feeling that outsiders don't often enter the shady confines of Driftwood. I see the confusion in her widening eyes as she wonders why I'm asking her son all these questions.
Finally, I realize that she didn't notice me at the parade. She doesn't know why I'm here in front of her home. I'm just a stranger invading her privacy, standing on her doorstep. I introduce myself as a writer from The Poynter Institute, but it seems to do little to ease her fears. She lets her son answer most of my questions. She refuses to give me her age.
Though the circumstances are quite different from my encounter with Critter, I am an intruder once more.
* * *
It is probably unreasonable to want to find acceptance from the subjects of my stories. I know I will have to write about people who do not want their stories told. They may tell me to my face not to intrude in their lives. Those will be stories I will have to do anyway. Stories where they become news out of circumstances beyond my control.
But what about the stories I find in those who have not thrust themselves into the spotlight? What about the people I seek out just to tell an interesting story? Maybe it is right for me to feel like an intruder in their lives, because that is what I am doing. I'm taking ordinary lives and letting thousands of others read about them. I'm bringing all the readers with me as we enter the lives of the people I write about.
Intruding, as a journalist, is probably unavoidable, and it may very well be necessary. If I were to feel too comfortable around the subjects of my stories, I might not see all that is there. It could damage my objectivity. As a journalist, I'm supposed to remain unattached to those I'm covering. I can't accept gifts from sources or write about people I have close personal relationships with.
* * *
I'm with a Coast Guard patrol boat crew in the middle of Tampa Bay. We are heading back to St. Petersburg and I'm beginning to feel comfortable around the crew. Five hours earlier, when I first strapped on the mandatory lifejacket and body armor, the crewmembers had intimidated me. I've always felt uncomfortable around military types, but after accompanying them on their daily routine for five hours, I was beginning to feel at ease.
Suddenly the noise from the engine begins to fade and the boat slows down. The driver turns around and admits they have run out of gas in the middle of the bay…again. Because of inaccurate gas gauges on some of the newer patrol boats, this has happened to them before. But it doesn't make it less embarrassing. The engineer jokingly tells me not to put this in my story. Or is he joking?
Part of me wants to leave it out. I had entrusted my safety to these men for the last five hours out on the water. They are nice guys and I don't want to make them look bad. Besides, the gas problem was out of their control anyway.
I suppose this is, in a lesser way, similar to how embedded journalists in Iraq felt about the soldiers responsible for their lives. Some have argued that those journalists were unwilling to portray the soldiers in a negative light. As I think about this, I realize I can't let my personal feelings influence the story; I need to tell the truth of what happened on the patrol. I remind myself I'm an intruder in the lives of the Coast Guard crewmembers today. I start taking notes.
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