Common Decency

I read today that the media will not be allowed to photograph the efforts to recover the dead in New Orleans.

Many journalists are outraged, citing censorship (among other issues) as a reason for reporters to be present to document the tragedy and it’s real (and horrible) aftermath. Others are defending the order issued by the embattled Federal Emergency Management Agency.

Mark Tapscott, a former editor at the Washington Times newspaper who now deals with media issues at the Heritage Foundation, said the FEMA decision did not amount to censorship. "Let's not make a common decency issue into a censorship issue," Tapscott told Reuters. "Nobody wants to wake up in the morning and see their dead uncle on the front page. That's just common decency."

I have to disagree with Mister Tapscott. And I disagree from a very personal and a very less-than-impartial perspective. The line between one man’s decency and another man’s dictatorship is a very fine one. And the distinction, I would argue, is not in the act of debating the distinction – it’s whether or not the debate occurs in the first place.

When I woke up on a cold December morning in 1995 and I read a story about my father’s death and saw a photograph of his dead body being airlifted from our family farm, I was saddened and pissed and angry and upset and horrified.

But I was saddened and pissed and angry and upset and horrified by his death, not the news coverage of his death.

I could have screamed and yelled and hollered about decency – but the issue at hand was his death and how he died – not whether the photographer (who also went to high school with me) was doing his job.

I will never know if the news coverage kept one farmer from crawling up into a grain silo to meet the same fate my father met, and I will never know if one person’s life was radically changed by reading about the horrible accident that killed my father.

I do know that folks responded with kindness and sympathy when they read that story. I do know how the small farm community where I am from reacted when they read of his death and saw an image of his dead body being recovered. And their response brought some comfort to my family. The small community where I am from reacted with the outpouring of sympathy and kindness and generosity that I saw this past weekend when I volunteered at a hurricane relief event here in St. Louis.

At one point this past weekend, a cameraman showed up to document our efforts as we assembled basic hygiene kits for the survivors of the storm. He arrived during a lull and shot footage of a group of frustrated volunteers waiting for more supplies to be delivered. To his credit, he waited and was able to shoot footage of a 4 year old jumping out of his mother’s car, carrying a bag of soap, water, bandages, washcloths and other materials. It was, to sound a bit cynical, the ideal photo-op.

The camera crew left and within minutes, my friend Tim arrived – with a car full of supplies – and our efforts began, again. Tim did not enjoy the benefit of a televised cameo, but that’s not why he spent the amount of money he did in buying us much-needed supplies. I know he didn’t do it for this public thank you – but I greatly appreciate his efforts and his generosity – and I’m sure someone in Louisiana appreciates the soap, washcloths and supplies we assembled this weekend.

I bring this up to highlight the important role that media plays in an open and free Democracy.

The task of media is to capture and recount the experiences of our existence. Sometimes they capture moments of frustration and despair; sometimes they capture moments of promise and hope; and sometimes they capture moments of tragic and sad consequence.

All of this depends on their ability to do what they are supposed to do: which is document and detail the reality of events as they, themselves, experience. Never forget that living-and-breathing men and women are handling those cameras and writing those stories – and what confronts them can uplift their spirits and can rip apart their souls.

I think of the New Orleans police department’s media spokesperson Paul Accardo who killed himself when he could no longer confront the reports of death, dying and suffering that were filling his office. His death is a very real and very sad reminder that media and the reasonability of media can be a terrible burden – even for seasoned media professionals.

Anyone and everyone who works in media has a responsibility to document and record the experiences that they, themselves, experience.

Denying them that opportunity, for whatever reason, is tantamount to censorship. I firmly believe that the government should never, EVER, be able to restrict our Constitutional right to document our nation’s history – from the bright eyed four year old who delivered supplies to the four year old who drowned in his mother’s arms.

I’ll be the first to admit that the barrage of images coming out of the South has deeply troubled me. I’ll be the first to admit that I can be a hyper-critical bordering-on-hypocritical asshole when it comes to media. But I made a simple decision when I felt overwhelmed and freaked-the-fuck out by what I was seeing on television and reading and seeing in the blogosphere: I turned off the TV – and closed my browser.

I said it before and I am trying to wrap my thoughts around an expression that’s been making it’s way around the newspaper where I work: All we know of this world is what we choose to know.

And when our government decides which experience, or story, or image, or thought can be broadcast, printed, televised or recorded…well…that is censorship. Especially when it is cloaked in the shroud of decency.

How the story is told…if it is told at all…is left to the discretion of writers, editors, news directors, publishers, bloggers and so on.

Whether you watch it, read it or react to it is your decision to make.

My life and my experiences will always shape the way I view, interpret and react to the world. The same goes for everyone alive today and the generations to come who will look back on these very challenging days and assess our failings and our successes.

If I have been successful in documenting the failings of my life, it’s been by keeping a journal (in one form or another) for almost two decades. Tucked among the pages of one of them is that story about my father’s death and photograph from our local newspaper. It’s a very real testament, at least to me, of how he died and tells a story of those who still mourn his loss, the paramedics who tried to save his life, the reporter who wrote the story and the photographer who did his job.

Which is a decent living, in an often indecent world.

Posted September 8, 2005 12:27 AM