Journalistic Imperatives – a morality tale

By Holley Meagher

Find the story, get the facts, meet the deadline, make it interesting. Four imperatives that discipline the lives of journalism students.

During a fact finding field day we were instructed to ‘get a story’ while discovering the sites of information resources available in Sydney. A difficult quest.

Touring the National Library, we were on the lookout for interesting stories. Just as we spotted a patron researching the dubious subject of horse racing, our tour leader held aloft his symbol, "Hedwig" the owl - a pre-arranged signal which indicated ‘huddle time’ or ‘follow me’.

We abandoned possible stories and gathered for ‘fact finding’ information. In stage whispers we learned about various research engines, trying to comprehend which machines provided what information and how they should be operated.

Library patrons looked up from their research with eyebrows raised. Security guards grinned, while library staff ignored us. They were accustomed to ‘rites of passage’ for the uninitiated.

Sidling up to the guard, I engaged him in conversation. His story was shaping up just as "Hedwig" flew past and up the marble staircase.

Despite our attempts at invisibility , we were perfectly obvious. Despite the abundance of brochures, we could not find the ones we needed – guides to the various research sites in the library. Despite our pleas, the information officer shrugged us off. "Sorry, there aren’t any". This research business was not going to be any easier than story finding.

Moving between sites, we caught glimpses of the ‘real’ world. In Hyde Park, an ancient bag lady shuffled by. Dressed entirely in red, from boots to bag, she sneered at me. "Bloody war, bloody demonstrators" she cackled, throwing herself on a pile of Plane-tree leaves. Here was a story.

But then "Hedwig" waved from the distant pebble-crete steps of the Supreme Court. Time to discover another source of information. Bloody deadlines!

Behind me, troops of mounted police assembled. I’d forgotten. Students were marching for ‘books not bombs’. Horse flanks shivered with excitement. A ‘running story’! Should I play truant? – Yes? – No!

Gathered around "Hedwig" we were educated on Court proceedings and the toilet locations. Perhaps their graffiti would reveal something interesting? No such luck. The toilets were spotless.

A law student joined our group. Our leader disclaimed any connection to the law. "We haven’t slipped that low" his voice rang out in the hallowed hall. "We’re journalists".
Black-gowned, bewigged inhabitants of this lofty world glared at us. Heads turned to look. A bored, lonely photojournalist, lounging outside the entrance, twitched into life - more desperate for a story than we were. Unperturbed, our leader marched triumphantly to the lift, holding "Hedwig" aloft, ignoring the stir we had created. Shuffling behind, we felt like institutional inmates on a supervised tour.

Despite an ingrained respect for authority, I felt a reluctant admiration for such boldness. I realised if any one could find a story, "Hedwig" could. In fact he’d shown us stories all day. In my panic to ‘find a story’ I had not seen it staring me in the face. "Hedwig" was my story.
Too late. We dashed to the train station. I’d missed my chance.

It was then I discovered something about life as a journalist. Deadlines, discipline, interest and facts were all very well. First I had to ‘find’ the story.

"Hedwig" had given me a new set of imperatives. Be confident; be bold; be persistent; be observant. I’d been wailing over ‘lost’ stories like a child wailing over lost toys. I recalled my father’s usual response. "Shut your mouth and open your eyes".