I was sitting in my psychology class at Utah State University on Wednesday, scrolling through Facebook, when I saw an odd status from a friend.
“Stay safe out there friends, and avoid Waterman.”
I know every square inch of that street. I grew up not far from there.
I took to Google, assuming it was a stolen car, a police pursuit, or maybe a robbery — unfortunately standard stuff for San Bernardino.
I wish that is all it had been.
I immediately texted my mom to make sure she was OK and to see if she knew what was going on. She — like the entire media, the police, the world — had no idea what was happening. All we knew was that two masked gunmen had walked into a Christmas party and opened fire. All we knew was that we were scared.
When I got home I sat idly for six straight hours, watching the stream of a local TV station. My computer screen filled with familiar images and my social media feeds exploded.
My high school was on lockdown. My best friend’s parents, who work for the county, were on lockdown and terrified. My neighbor was in the building that was targeted.
I wanted to know who did this. I wanted them to be captured. And I feel sad to admit it, but I wanted blood.
I needed the media to help me make sense of what I was seeing, of what I was feeling. But all I was getting was “we don't know.”
As a media consumer I was beyond frustrated. As a journalism student, though. I felt terrible for the reporters forced to cover this tragedy — because this story wasn’t just in my backyard, it was in theirs, too.
One journalist in particular continued to apologize because she was so distraught at the scene of a building where families were going to find the fate of their loved ones. She apologized to the audience for not being able to interview anyone going in or out, because she saw the look of hatred and heartbreak on their faces when she approached with a media badge.
But press conference after press conference passed, and my sympathy for the media turned to frustration. Journalist after journalist asked exactly the same question, exactly the same way.
Is this terrorism? Is this terrorism? Is this terrorism!!?
That’s when my hero showed up — well OK, not my hero, but a journalist who actually seemed to care about the sorts of things I’ve been taught that journalists are supposed care about. She asked one spokesperson: “Are the doctors at the hospital having a hard time doing their job with the tragedy happening so close to home? Is the hospital staff OK?”
The poor spokesperson broke into tears.
“We are all affected by this,” she said. “This is our home. We all want information, but we do not have it.”
I sat in stunned silence and in appreciation of the humanity that had been exposed by a compassionate question.
Please understand, I am aware that when no information is out there journalists are desperate to find out the bare facts, but as a person sitting watching this, I felt like the media was supposed to be asking the questions I wanted to be asking. When they asked the same unanswerable questions, I felt like my voice was being silenced.
Social media was no better. Twitter and Facebook were full of rumors and false reports. On Thursday I learned that more than 330,000 people had tweeted #PrayForSanBernardino and spelled Bernardino wrong.
I can’t tell you how hard I laughed and cried in that moment.
Whether you are a professional journalist or just someone with a Twitter account, I’d really like for you to know something: You have so much power.
And in tragic moments, you are not just speaking to people like you. You are speaking to people like me.
You are speaking to people who are worried about their friends and family members. To people who are heartbroken for their community. To people who are helpless and who are looking desperately to you for help.
Please use your power wisely. Spread information that is true — and that you know is true. Ask questions that need to be answered and accept that sometimes there are no answers.
And when there are no answers, for God’s sake, ask other questions. In times like these, there are lots of stories to be told.
And if you can give nothing else, offer comfort and compassion. Believe me when I say that, in moments like these, that’s something worthwhile.