Old News

“Some go to J-school to become better writers, to become investigative reporters, to learn how to interview well, and write clearly. Others head straight to newsrooms or combat zones. All this takes time, money, and dedication. Yet trashing the media has become a favorite pastime, in some cases innocently enough but in others a calculated step to creating confusion and skepticism. If folks keep bandying about the term “fake” news, one day there will be no “real” news we can trust at all. Quite likely, that’s the point. Once upon a time there were clear lines between fact and opinion; misinformation, disinformation and blatant lies weren’t purposely flaunted. Of course, snake oil’s been around a long time, but Walter Cronkite wasn’t selling it.”—Kathryn E. Livingston

Words & Wonder

By Kathryn E. Livingston

“Freedom of the press is not just important to democracy, it is democracy.”―Walter Cronkite

“I think being a liberal, in the true sense, is being nondoctrinaire, nondogmatic, non-committed to a cause―but examining each case on its merits. Being left of center is another thing; it’s a political position. I think most newspapermen by definition have to be liberal; if they’re not liberal, by my definition of it, then they can hardly be good newspapermen. If they’re preordained dogmatists for a cause, then they can’t be very good journalists; that is, if they carry it into their journalism.”―Walter Cronkite, from Interview with Ron Powers (Chicago Sun Times) for Playboy, 1973

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—January/February 2025—At the age of five, I placed a sheet of tracing paper over a page in my Little Golden Book in order to practice forming letters, and ever since writing has been my passion. Though I tried my hand at creative writing, I was later drawn to journalism and reporting: I considered journalism to be a form of service—offering to the public, to the community—facts that would help people live their lives safely and knowledgeably. Ah, the naïveté of youth! And yet, I still believe this.

At nine-ish, I produced a one-page “newspaper”; on my street in Schenectady, New York (if memory serves, called The Gillespie Street Gazette, but I can’t swear to that). For a very brief period (because hopscotch and roller skating swiftly won out), I interviewed neighbors, collected data, and kept track of lost cats, potholes, kickball games, and the like. My self-appointed mission was to be accurate, because no reporter wants to be called into an editor’s office due to misleading statements or mistakes (though I was my own editor back then, and I sure didn’t have an office). I used my dad’s Underwood typewriter and made carbon copies to pass out, though I could barely type.

In high school, along with typing class, I signed up for journalism. We learned to report on who, why, what, when, where and sometimes, how. We threw spitballs and made obnoxious squirrel noises at a teacher we didn’t adore when she turned her back to scribble on the blackboard. But we revered the cool Mr. P—he rode a motorcycle and introduced us to coffee (we had our own coffee pot, a big tin of Maxwell House, creamer, sugar—used in copious amounts—and who knows if the principal was aware of or even cared what went on in our little fiefdom).

Mr. P insisted that our stories be factual, lucid, and significant. We went out into the field, gathering experiences and information based on research, observation and interviews with credible sources. We were only in high school, yet we had begun to realize that some “real” reporters traveled to war-torn countries and risked their lives on the job. (Four of us drove down to Greenwich, Connecticut to write a story on an “Open School” there—that was adventure enough!)

On to Kirkland College in Clinton, New York (then coordinate with Hamilton College) where I volunteered for the college newspaper, The Spectator.  I spent long Thursday nights in the newspaper office, walking or biking back to my dorm at 5 a.m. after the newspaper was “put to bed.” I was smitten not only with the gorgeous boy who wrote headlines and sports pieces, but also with words, truth, and accuracy. I graduated and—after briefly and clumsily waitressing at a pizzeria—snagged a reporter gig at a community newspaper where I not only wrote articles but also delivered the papers (in my sputtering, used, Buick Skylark) to various shops in New Paltz and its environs, making less than $100 a week. On a slow news day my editor would suggest I call all the gas stations and interrogate the bemused attendants about whether the price was up or down (this fascination with the price of gas apparently hasn’t abated since the late 1800s).

Within a few months, I got a better offer and joined a newspaper start-up, The Huguenot Herald. For a while, I was the first and only reporter (along with the editor). I wrote nonstop, attended school, town, and planning board meetings and met my deadlines, sometimes handing in a piece the morning after a session that ended at 2 a.m. I always got quotes from all sides of an issue, reported the pros and cons, and checked my facts. Once, the Town Supervisor called my home phone in a rage because someone had told him I’d misquoted him. I was horrified and embarrassed, but a few hours later he apologized: He’d read the article and said it was spot on.

Later, after a move to Manhattan, I began writing for magazines. I interviewed experts (psychologists, scientists, photographers and others). Today, some scoff at “experts,” and insist that truth is relative or subjective (“your truth isn’t my truth”) even when the earth is clearly not flat. As a magazine writer, however, I answered to fact-checkers, editors, and copy editors. Every detail was checked and rechecked. Even a seemingly simple piece about ear infections or baby toys for a parenting magazine brought out fact checkers as persistent as bloodhounds. And imagine! This nit-picking process, for much of my career, was accomplished without social media, laptops, or cell phones. (It’s my understanding that fact-checking in the age of digital media is not as strict; everything moves and changes too fast, for one thing.)

Some go to J-school to become better writers, to become investigative reporters, to learn how to interview well, and write clearly. Others head straight to newsrooms or combat zones. All this takes time, money, and dedication. Yet trashing the media has become a favorite pastime, in some cases innocently enough but in others a calculated step to creating confusion and skepticism. If folks keep bandying about the term “fake” news, one day there will be no “real” news we can trust at all. Quite likely, that’s the point. Once upon a time there were clear lines between fact and opinion; misinformation, disinformation and blatant lies weren’t purposely flaunted. Of course, snake oil’s been around a long time, but Walter Cronkite wasn’t selling it.

When I was five, I already knew that words mattered. But I didn’t yet know that like the sun, the truth always rises—often, due to the devotion and hard work of journalists. Yes, there are a few bad—and sometimes highly paid—eggs (and more than a few mediocre—if not outright rotten—news outlets).

Yet the vast majority of journalists respect and strive for truth and accuracy; most journalists write or report not to harm, betray, or confuse, but to inform, help, and clarify. That’s my perspective, anyway. Fact-check, please!

More: To read more of Kathryn E. Livingston’s work, write to her at [email protected], or order her books: click here,  and here. (Yin, Yang, Yogini: A Woman’s Quest for Balance, Strength, and Inner Peace is available at Amazon.com or through your favorite bookseller!)