Emotionally Invested

I’ll never forget hearing the wailing sounds the mother made. I remember thinking how painful her breathing sounded — her throat constricting as she tried to suck air in.

I’ll never forget the dad giving me a kiss and choking out a “Gracias” on his front lawn.

I’ll never forget the two little caskets resting in front of aisles of family, friends, classmates, loved ones and me — the only media member invited.

In the summer of 2015, I interned at the Reno Gazette-Journal in Nevada. I applied, figured I would never get it and then a few weeks later I packed up my apartment in Los Angeles and moved to Nevada. After proving a little competence to my editors, they started letting me cover bigger stories and then, eventually, cover whatever came my way.

On June 22, I was the only one in the newsroom. I had the police scanner on my desk, half-listening and working on a brushfire story.

“Requesting backup.”

Not an uncommon phrase.

“We need the coroner. We need backup to restrain the parents. Car crashed into house. We think the kids are dead.”

Kids. Dead.

“Ambulance is on its way. Hang tight. We’ll get you the assistance you need.”

I grabbed my go-bag — a backpack I kept under my desk with my camera, notepad, pens, sneakers, badge and recorder in it — and I was on my way.

The SUV drove straight into the house where a big tarp now lay on top of it sheltering the bodies of two young children inside until the coroner could arrive. According to the CDC, more than 9,000 children under the age of 12 died from car crashes 2002-2011. That fact didn’t change what I saw in front of me now.

The driver lost control of the car due to a medical event and crashed into the home. He survived. The family of the children stood off to the sides behind police tape where media members couldn’t reach them — and rightfully so. I found my favorite police officer, and was able to get the scoop.

Television broadcasters kept bothering the police to let them get a closer look, a better shot. They bothered neighbors to tell them more about the family — were they illegal? Did they have other children? Were they good neighbors or not?

Getting enough to put together a 45-second piece, they left, but I stayed. I just sat on the grass, started to write my story and waited — for exactly what, I wasn’t sure. This was, after all, the first time I’ve ever been to the scene of a crime.

“You know, for a media kid, you don’t seem so bad,” a voice said behind me. “Who’re you with anyways?”

“The RGJ. Are you a neighbor?” I asked, and from there, I made my first real contact.

The next day my first A1 story was published: Car Hits House, Kills 2 Children. “A 2-year-old boy and 4-year-old girl were killed after an SUV crashed into a house Monday afternoon, the Reno Police Department said…” and the story went on.

A few days later, the neighbor called me telling me the family was hosting a kermes — a carnival. If there’s one thing I learned so far it’s if I have to work a Sunday to get a story right, I will. So, I went.

I wasn’t welcomed, and neither were the TV cameras. After staying 20-minutes at the carnival with barely any people, the other media left, but I stayed. People started trickling in, bringing tamales, giving hugs. A band showed up. A local casino donated some carnival games. More people. There was dancing, singing, and then silence when the mother and father came to speak. I can’t remember what they said anymore, but I remember going up to them afterwards and saying, “Lo siento por la muerte de sus hijos. Espero que descanse en paz en el cielo,” and reassured them if they ever needed to talk to anyone, I was there.

I got in my car and cried. I was warned of becoming emotionally invested in stories during classes, but this was real, right in front of me.

“When you’re talking to people and they’ve been through these horrible experiences, those images stay with you,” said former Globe and Mail health editor Paul Taylor in “How to keep your emotional distance as a journalist” by Ishani Nath. Nath explains, “In a 2010 survey of more than 80 television reporters exposed to violent footage on a daily basis, a majority of the employees reported having recurring and intrusive memories.”

The memories were intrusive, more so now that I had a four-month-old nephew. But the story had to be written — readers had to know of the magical kermes and how a community came together in a time of need and celebrated with the lives they all still had.

Days later, the father invited me to the funeral.

The service was beautiful. Family members carried out two tiny coffins —one pink and one blue — to the hearse, the mother and father right behind, letting their children lead the way.  After talking to some family friends, I decided to leave, but took a moment to walk back inside and look at the flowers.

The little boy’s preschool class sent balloons. The little girl’s best friend left her a Dora the Explorer doll — apparently, Dora was her favorite. 

I went to leave when I ran into the dad again. He came up, shook my hand, kissed my cheek, thanked me for being respectful of their space during this time and to keep in touch.

The story being written, I didn't do a great job of keeping in touch with the family, but that wasn't my place. I also never got an exclusive interview with the mother and father like my editor wanted, but it wasn’t my place to pry. There was a lot I didn't do, but there was a lot that I learned. To be a true journalist, one needs empathy and understanding — we need to know when to push and when to back away. Without these basic human elements, all of media gets lumped into a negative category — one that is difficult to break free from.

This wasn’t a Pulitzer Prize winning series of articles, nor articles that many people will remember, but I will, and so will the family.  I didn’t do it for the front page. I didn’t do it for the recognition.

From the bottom of my heart, I did it for them.

by Sarah Litz