Raise the Bar

“You want me to do WHAT?? No way in hell!”

This should have been my reaction when my grandfatherly new boss at The Mysore Times (where I’m working for my homestretch month in India) asked me to condense two articles published this morning in other papers, and a few lines written by one of our reporters, into a small story for the Times.

Instead I shrug and say, “sure,” and read through the print to pick out the most important ideas for our paper.

But all I can think is: this would be enough to put my editors and professors back home into their graves – and then have them rolling. So much for three years of J-school training on ethical journalistic practices. But this kind of “reporting” seems to be the norm, and the standard. Most story ideas are “discovered” in the fashion of paper surfing.

That isn’t the only questionable practice I’ve witnessed or been involved in for the past three days on the job. Yesterday, I watched one reported dictate somebody’s “exact quote” to staff member who was typing up the article …only, the reporter was making it up as he went along.

“So, when you use quote marks, is it someone’s exact words,” I ask, playing the ignorant card and hoping to both get an honest answer and at the same time not make him embarrassing him.

“Yes. Quotes means someone else said it,” he answers.

I look back at the typed sentence; It’s not even structured like something someone would say. “Oh, I see. OK” is all I can reply.

On my first day, I walk into the office by 10 a.m. and am greeted by a woman at the reception desk. She can’t understand a thing I try to say so I pass, leaving her a little confused and mumbling something in Kannada. The newsroom is smaller than any I’ve worked in before.. In one room, four reporters sit reading the papers and jotting down story ideas on stacks of paper stapled together – makeshift notebooks. In another room, seven or so people sit in front of computers editing copy, paginating and designing the layout. There’s a few other people here and there but I’m still not sure exactly what they do.

One man, an editor, or at least a high up reporter, introduces me to most of the staff. Everyone’s super friendly. The ones who speak English most fluently ask me the usual questions like, “why are you in India,” “How long are you here,” and “Have you taken your breakfast” (something they remember being taught to say in grade school).

After a couple minutes, Krishna, head editor and my new boss comes through the door, all smiles. We sit and talk over small cups of coffee in his office.

“We have nothing to teach you here,” he says, “You’re different than other interns. You already are a very good reporter.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty you can teach me,” I say, trying to boost his ego and confidence a bit. It’s been obvious since we set this internship up that he’s a little nervous working with me.

“Well, you’re not an intern here. You’re a full employee,” he explains. It’s not long before he’s happily introducing me to people as his “granddaughter.”

After getting the rundown of how the paper works, a copy editor hands me a couple pages to edit and I spend the rest of the morning correcting grammar, deleting loads of unneeded words and punctuation, and rewriting atrociously structured sentences and paragraphs.

I can’t imagine how hard it must be for people that speak elementary at best English to put out a whole English newspaper. It’s really impressive despite the errors. I feel bad about making so many corrections – almost like hey, I’m the young American coming in to fix your paper. But I think they know I mean well. Because I have months of experience copy editing at American papers (not to mention a fluency in the language) editing is where I really help out. Hopefully some of it will rub off.

I leave my first day feeling good. Feeling good good. Suddenly people don’t stare mesmerized or angrily. Instead they just smile as if to say, “hello, neighbor.” Rickshaw drivers cease to try to rip me off. I can drink local water without getting travelers’ diarrhea and when I ask for my meal to be “spicy,” waiters actually believe I like/ can handle spicy food…

Maybe not…but it’s the kind of good I always feel when I start work at a newspaper – like the community is important to me and I’m important to it. Suddenly I’m not a tourist or detached observer of some community I happen to ive in. Now I’m responsible for actually knowing these people – what’s important to them, what they’re doing, how the city gets on. It’s like a switch hits and the unique personality whole city turns on. It happened in Syracuse. It even happened in my hometown in New Hampshire and it’s happening here too. In fact, I think I get a high from it sometimes.

There’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s a “cool” autumn day. I decide to walk the 50 minutes home on my lunch break. I really do feel closer and more comfortable to the people around me, now that I have some sort of purpose. After lunch, I get my first real reporting assignment here and get to experience my first ride on a motorcycle, which was fantastic.

I’m still not sure yet, the best way to deal with the new “standards” of quality, but I’m leaning towards the “when in Rome” approach. If it’s OK for them, it should be OK for me. Plus, I like working here and I’m finally beginning to like the people here too. So it’s good. It’s good good.