An Ode to Journalism: Sam Steps Down From the Soapbox
Bittersweet. I can think of no better word to describe the prevailing emotion as the sun sets on my time with Huddle and on my decade-long run in the news business.
Full disclosure, I have loved and continue to love journalism. But have been mulling a turn to the “dark side” (read: PR and communications) since I was closer to the start of my twenties.
This was not a hastily made decision, because each time I was pulled to the brink by the possibility of a new career path, there journalism was, dragging me back in.
There’s a place for reporters in the world – voices of truth, questioning, critical voices that keep the rich, privileged, and powerful accountable – and that place should be up on a pedestal, as far as I’m concerned. Voices that elevate the little guy, expose to light the vices and virtues of the world, alike – necessary voices.
While I wanted to continue to be one of those voices, I’ve recognized that I can no longer occupy that place with the same passion and drive I once did – it’d be a disservice to myself and to you, my readers.
It’s with mingled triumph and sentimentality that I step down, making way for someone with more fire in their belly to come along and keep up with those ever-important questions.
Moncton, you are the jewel of the Petitcodiac watershed. My only complaints are how terribly most people here drive and the eye-popping cost of rent. You’re home to some good food, great beers, and hard-working people – and were a welcoming city. I like you much better than Halifax.
My wild ride actually began this month, ten years ago when I packed everything I could fit into three bags and flew to northern Alberta. This was after applying for everything under the sun with a portfolio of freelancing I’d scraped together over the preceding months. It set me upon one of the most interesting intervals of my life and my first “grown-up job.”
This wild ride saw me rove across the Prairies covering the fortunes and follies of the oil patch, the paradigm shift underway at Southern Saskatchewan’s largest coal plant, various summer games events, and the ups and downs of temporary foreign workers’ careers.
I got to chart the rise and fall of political dynasties and cover a number of elections that, tallied up, entirely justifies my dependency on caffeine.
I’ve kept a critical eye on overambitious grocery chains, hunkered down and sifted through the aftermath of post-tropical storms – and have given voice to the justifiable indignation of people screwed over the worst by Nova Scotia’s shambolic health care system – and, speaking of healthcare, the enormous pain in the neck we can all agree Covid-19 is and was.
My stint entailed the saga of Northern Pulp’s mill controversies, the ambition of small nuclear reactor proponents in New Brunswick – and things like how hard it is to make a freggin phone call from Cape George.
I’d pick clippings from more of my past gigs to hyperlink in here to reminisce, but alas, the seismic changes to journalism, including closures, consolidations, and god-knows-what-else have made a much of my past work vanish into the ether, in a flurry of “404s” and disappearing bylines.
What I don’t need clippings to prove is that it was a blast, and that it’s no sycophancy on my part, to say that some of the most fun I had as a reporter was right here, with Huddle.
But, I digress – and here comes the disclaimer – it’s not always a bed of roses.
I’ve dodged and weathered a surfeit of layoffs that pulled the ground out from underneath me each time, reduced to protracted “Pogey Beach” vacations I’d have preferred rain checks on.
I’ve had nightmares about some things I’ve seen and heard, chasing fire engines and court reporting – and about my interview on a feud with the local chamber of commerce, with a man who’d later go on a shooting rampage that claimed two lives.
I’ve endured my fair share of public harassment on the job, and have (of course) worried (a lot) about my finances.
I’ve spent many weekends enduring the rookie-grind of covering high school sports and small-town AGMs that have bored me half to death. I’ve had to sit through interminable speeches from wealthy dignitaries (whom I’ll do the favour of keeping anonymous) with the audacity and monumental tone-deafness to quote voices like that of Ayn Rand.
But hey, I’ve also met some remarkable people, on both sides of the camera and interview table, doing remarkable things.
You also can’t knock on being one of the voices narrating the show, as we witness a cascade of historical events occurring within our lifetimes.
Not bad, I say.
I have packed up everything and moved more in the last ten years than most people will in their lifetime – but I’m not complaining.
I chose this path of my own volition, fresh out of undergrad, without a plan – and no actual vocational degree in journalism – full of idealism, and maybe a little bit of frustration at the gap between the “haves” and “have-nots.”
I walk away from this path balder, somewhat wiser (I hope), with harder work-life boundaries and tremendous respect for anyone who persists in this business.
It takes grit to stay in an industry weathering this constant turbulence.
It takes outright chutzpah to press on and keep cranking out copy in an era where too many reporters use too many keystrokes to write about the demise of other reporters’ careers.
So, to everyone I’ve worked with and everyone who’ll continue in this wonderful, stressful, ultimately rewarding world of ledes, bylines, headlines, and deadlines, I salute you.