Week Four: History on the Run

The Smith Corona that started it all
The Smith Corona that started it all

I use it as a door stop now, but my mother’s old blue-and-white typewriter is close by. She clacked out university essays on it and later, she would dig it out for me and plunk it on the rug in front of the television, to keep me as a school child occupied on snow days. A few of those days, by the time the roads had melted clear and supper was on the stove, I’d have produced a family newsletter, with articles about the goings-on in the house and a word search.

It turned out that those early bits of reportage were setting me on a path to a career in journalism, helped along by my eldest sister’s reminder of my little newsletters the summer before my senior year in high school, when I asked her what I should do with my life. I got into Ryerson’s journalism school, arguably the best in the country, and was pumped like the scores of others into Canadian newsrooms.

But it seems there are increasingly few places to put the grads who have come after me. When I left Canada for what was to be a temporary volunteer gig in 2005, I wondered what I would have to go back to. And the longer I stayed overseas, the more I realized I may never again have a place in a Canadian newsroom.

For the brief time I did, it was fun. Eight months in Victoria at the Times-Colonist, internships at the Toronto Star and the Hamilton Spectator, six months at the Daily News, a Halifax paper that no longer exists after it shut its doors with a suddenness that made me gasp when I read the news in a little hotel room in central Ghana.
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I also spent a school internship of about six weeks at the Chronicle Herald, one of the last independent papers in the country that’s been making its own news in Nova Scotia with acrimonious union-management negotiations that have fallen apart. And across the country, 90 journalists were unemployed this week in one fell swoop – industry veterans and kids not too long out of school who, if they’re checking journalism job boards today, might not feel a lot of optimism.

The thing is, there’s no better place in the world to be than in a newsroom on a breaking news day, no one with more focus and dedication than a group of reporters and editors cracking into a hot story. I wouldn’t trade my collection of press passes that remind me of the incredible, bizarre run of events I’ve covered in my career: an economic forum in Tunisia, a presidential election in Guinea, a ship sailing off to war in British Columbia, a high school sports competition in Iowa.

When I was punching away at a typewriter, I didn’t know I was starting on a career that would send me across my own country and further afield, to a decade in Africa, and to a lifetime of curiosity and question. And even though I question what dwindling place there is for journalistic thought and debate, I’m answered by hardworking reporters and editors like those at the Herald who, I heard today, might run an online newspaper in between shifts on the picket line if it comes to that. Because no matter how dismal the industry seems, there will always be more kids poking away at more typewriters. There will never be an end to the people who need to witness, to see, to record our history on the run.