My Latest Child

I want to be

I want to

I want 

I 

I wanted to be a broadcast journalist 

I wanted others to see me

Know that I knew what I was talking about

I wanted to be trusted

Power suited up, high falutin, upper middle class

I wanted to tell stories

But not just what my mommas cousin did 

Stories that inspired movements and impacted daily decisions 

I wanted people to tune in to the program  just because I was on it and my words carried weight - like Oprah with her fat bucket

I wanted my voice to be heard, because I often felt like it was ignored and worst silenced by case workers and adults that mistook my thirst for understanding as just noise 

My desire to create as just business, my thirst for attention as … thirst for attention 

So of course I would be a broadcast journalist. 

I would tell everyone’s business for the sake of saving humanity.

I would wear rain boots in hurricane coverage and pet sad looking shelter dogs on camera to get them homes. 

I was going to change the world and nothing could stop me.

Or so I thought. Until I became a broadcast journalist.

And the work I started became a burden I bared. People trusted me to tell their stories and producers prepped me to target an audience. 

People wanted to see the protest coverage and I wanted to feel safe, I wanted to be safe as a black female face in the midst of a storm of proud boys. 

People wanted to take my words and edit them for clarification in the midst of my young impulsive over explaining phase. 

And no one told me about that part of the job.

They hinted that parts of the job were hard, like most jobs.

They offered their help and feedback from a distance.

[They]were older more developed journalists. Busy with bylines and deadlines. They all told me they would write a book one day.

And now you are all here to hear about mine.

Through the various stories I’ve told on-air as a new to you broadcast journalist.

I learned very quickly that my stories were no longer university assignments.

They weren’t intern projects adding to others research.

These stories were mine - from conception to projection.

They were my babies and I was not a single mother.

They had opinionated aunts and loving grand-editors, I mean parents.

And their father was an executive producer. We were bonded through a contractual agreement - to have and to hold until your 2-year stint would do us part. 

My stories weren’t just bylines marking historical events, and local entertainment reviews marking weekend plans.

My stories were people. 

Our stories are people.

Stories are instructions. Learning opportunities. They are lived experiences being vicariously explored through the shared emotions that make us human.

And if I want to tell stories. 

I damn well better not leave out the growing pains that come with the process. I can’t omit the mistakes made during mic checks and that I forgot to press record when the interview started. I want to tell you a story about making stories. And I want you to know that getting things wrong …makes getting them right so much better.

I want to tell you a story about telling stories

That are emotionally driven yet fact based. And how I learned how to do that. 

How to deal with your future babies first hospital visit and your executive partners crazy and catering side. 

I

I want

I want to 

Make you want to read - 23 and on TV 

My latest child. Not broadcast but still written.