Good morning, welcome to the holiday season: when outlets who owe me money send “assurances” that my check will arrive any day; when contracts for projects are always a day out, but we all know I will see nary a check or a electronic “sign here” tab until January. The start of your Q1, the end of your holiday break. I’ve been not getting paid in a timely manner for awhile now. I know how this goes.
I woke up early this morning thinking about money. It’s still 2020, so why not let the mind swan-dive into the abyss of capitalism while we’re at an all-time low? Last night I finished Jess Walter’s amazing book The Cold Millions, a book that cut me to my core, and I recently became up-to-date on the podcast Death in the West. Both projects made me understand, more than ever, that the story of workers in my corner of America has always been one of struggle, fight, little progress, much retaliation and incomprehensible violence when things get too loud. Not to mention, the research is just impeccable. Both presented me with cold realities: that the streets outside my old apartment, the sidewalks I walked to work every day, once ran with the blood of those who dared speak freely that workers deserve to be treated fairly. The jail where I wrote my first investigative story, about the death of an inmate, was where workers stood shoulder-to-shoulder in cells, where they starved and some died for their ability to be paid fairly and to speak their minds. I knew all of this before. But I think what rousted me from sleep today was wondering why so little has changed — why the gap between us and the people who give assurances never budges. When, or if, people who are self-employed will ever be treated with half as much respect as workers who are on the payroll.
It’s usually the work, not money, that typically pushes me out of bed in the morning. Work, mind you, is not distilling down my thoughts into a “thread” of unreported gut reactions. It’s not awards — god, it’s not awards. A Twitter following can help spread a story I’ve worked hard on far and wide, sure. Awards, as far as I can tell, are useless unless they come with cash. When money pushes me out of bed in the morning, that’s when I have to re-evaluate what I’m doing as a worker. Yes, I deserve to get paid in a timely manner. No, that is not too much to ask. Yes, I don’t have a staff job but, no, that doesn’t mean this year hasn’t been exhausting.
And, no, journalism is not coal mining (though, I think Elissa Washuta’s 2016 essay “They Just Dig” makes a compelling argument why writing and mining are similar). But I would be lying to you if I said it was not without it’s own unique traumas. I think its safe to say that journalists are despised by pretty much everyone: in Portland this week, some left-wing activists continued to nurture a form of groupthink that press are an instrument of the state. But for months, too, the police here have been attacking reporters who cover protests over racist policing. For years, I’ve been called fake news by right-wing extremists who don’t like the the things I write about. I’ve been told to work harder by people on the left — who seem to take great care to always assure me that I am not doing enough. Thank you for honing in on the greatest inadequacies I have about myself. I should introduce you to the priests of my youth.
I have recently had a revelation: I literally cannot do any more than I can do. Sounds simple, but it took me a long time to figure that one out. I don’t think people in journalism talk about the toll the job takes, about the way it never, ever goes off, even when you make your own rules, like I do. If you want to be a freelancer, you need to know a story as well as the people on the ground reporting it so you can jump on a moment, write a pitch, get an editor to sign off on a story for which you are assured you will be paid. People don’t talk about how the reality of writing about racial justice, or systemic inequality, or extremism, means watching videos of people being beaten and killed over and over and over and over until you have their death memorized. People don’t talk about how writing about extremism means consuming a daily diet of racist literature, of propaganda calling to hang journalists, of asking the same questions again and again hoping for some new breakthrough to make it all stop. They don’t talk about how fear creeps in. How you wonder about how many more times you have before someone is on your front step.
People don’t talk about how work that fills your heart and makes you feel useful will make you start crying for no reason. At the store, pushing a cart along the back aisle. People don’t talk about how you start to realize holding onto your idealism is no different than holding onto an extremist belief. Is it true? Can it be real?
I want to think that maybe if people talked about the true toll of actually doing the hard, confusing work of making journalism — of weighing out the complexities of other people’s lives, of understanding systems well enough to question them — and how we do it for very little pay (or none at all), that might change their opinion of who we are. In the past, I had a journalism job where worked from 9 to 5, took an hour off, then worked at a coffee shop until 11 at night. I had to quit because it was just too much. Right now, I teach every now and then to pick up a little extra money. Up until last year, I worked a part-time job for a friend’s record label for $10/hour. I did it to keep going. My value is not the number in my bank account.
When it gets to be too much, yeah, I go to therapy. Why doesn’t everyone? I have friends I call who I can talk to — really talk to. I exercise and I read books and I cook elaborate meals on a budget and I try to ignore the gaping black maw of my phone screen, turned downward-facing, maybe tucked in a drawer. I don’t have my checks, but I have so much more than so many people. That’s the easy part. It’s just the weight of the work I have a hard time shaking sometimes.
The sun is coming up now. The Stone Roses are on my headphones. I really have what I need: a cup of coffee. My dog — my sweet loyal friend who never leaves my side — is under a blanket next to me, her breath a rhythm when I sleep, when I work. I will take a shower. I will make another cup of coffee. I will start my daily rounds: two phone interviews, some on-site reporting, a call with a student who I will encourage to go into journalism because we need numbers and idealism more than ever. I will return your email as promptly as I can. I will deliver my story on time, under budget. I will be the person smiling in a meeting. I will keep going when the assurers don’t pay me, when the assurers don’t send contracts, when the assurers are placing gifts under their trees and when I am waking early, before the sun rises, to ready myself for another day of digging holes, boring toward a light I know has to be there.
It has to be.
I have to believe that.
I love this and I love the work you do and I love you, Leah. Not enough people get it. Not enough people get the work involved with journalism, and not enough people have spent hours on a shop floor/with a chainsaw/driving a rig/operating a machine (sewing, CNC, or otherwise)/etc. to understand what big-L Labor even is and why fighting is so fucking necessary. I'm sorry it's so goddamn hard.
I and countless others appreciate you so much! Good journalism is SO important. You excel at it. It may not pay the bills, but I hope our appreciation helps a little bit!