Backstory: Everyday lives, at times extraordinary, for our nation’s press

The first time I walked into a professional newsroom, I was impressed by the sight of a large set of numbers hanging on the wall: 1,227.

There to apply for an internship at The Associated Press, I asked the news editor what the numbers meant.

“Oh,” he said, “that reminds us how many days Terry Anderson has been in captivity.”

It was a sobering moment for a rookie like me.

Anderson, as you may recall, was the AP bureau chief taken hostage by Shiite Hezbollah militants in 1985. He finally was released after six years and nine months or 2,454 days.

Years later, I was working on the International Desk at AP’s New York headquarters when he walked in. Those of us at the desk rose from our chairs and greeted him with a hero’s welcome.

This past week, I thought of Terry and many others whose lives have been shaped, disrupted or tragically ended while pursuing journalism for American news audiences. Stunningly, the press – the body of people whose responsibilities are enshrined by the First Amendment – was labeled by our nation’s leader as “the enemy of the American people.”

Journalists often are tagged with sweeping labels: the liberal press, the mainstream media. The grammarian in me shivers every time someone says “the media has” or “the media is,” as if we were one singular body that meets every morning to plot out our strategy.

Media is a plural term. We reporters are individuals. We are just people who wake up every morning, drink our coffee, feed the dog, get kids off to school and do all the other mundane things of life.

Sometimes those lives are profoundly altered from the ordinary.

Terry had just wrapped up a tennis game when he was thrown into a trunk in Lebanon. Sharon Herbaugh’s life ended in a 1993 helicopter crash in Afghanistan, far from the Colorado home where her young daughter waited for her return. Anja Niedringhaus and Kathy Gannon were sitting in a car when an Afghan police officer opened fire on them in 2014, killing Anja instantly and leaving Kathy wounded. Last week marked the fifth anniversary of the death of my former editor Anthony Shadid, a husband and father, who died while making his way out of Syria on foot.

There are so many others.

Perhaps because I grew up in a small town here in the San Joaquin Valley, I was eager to know what was going on in the rest of the world. I joined the AP right after college because I knew it would give me the best chance to go abroad and bring news of the world to readers back home.

When I finally was given a foreign posting to Mexico City, I took part in an AP ritual that had us meet key editors for a series of dispatchment briefings. Two moments from that tour were particularly illustrative of the risks and responsibilities journalists accept.

In one, I sat with the head of our Latin American report. He warned me: Record every interview. You never want to be accused of misquoting someone. Things are different there, he told me, and if you were to make enemies with the wrong people, “it will be your fingernails, not mine.”

The other moment came on my trip to our bureau in Washington, D.C. It was this farm town girl’s first visit to the capital. Between meetings, I had a brief moment to rush over to the White House where, in awe, I stood at the side of the north lawn, staring at the presidential center of power. I was overwhelmed by the history of that place. I realized I was about to be a sort of ambassador – both a representative of my country and someone who would be the “eyes and ears” for my countrymen.

Not too long ago, my love for California brought me to Merced. I wanted to tell the stories of a place like my own hometown. I wanted to be the eyes and ears of a community like the one I’d grown up in.

Despite the years, I’m still an idealist. A print of the famous Norman Rockwell painting “Freedom of Speech” hangs in our newsroom and, hokey as it may be, it still inspires me.

There is no great conspiracy, folks. The press may anger some people at times; it’s part of our mission. We are democracy’s watchdogs and, when done right, we pursue news with neither fear nor favor.

Rarely, if ever, are we called heroes. And that’s OK, though I know many who deserve the recognition.

At the end of the day, we’re just people. We go home, pet the dog, wash the dishes and tuck our children into bed. And, for many, we know we’re lucky to do so.

This story was originally published February 22, 2017 at 4:08 PM with the headline "Backstory: Everyday lives, at times extraordinary, for our nation’s press."