The morning after the morning after the election, while on my daily walk at Blackburn Park with my dog, Henry, we found ourselves facing east, along a path lined with fallen leaves of purple, gold and red, just in time to see the sun rise.
Overcome with emotion, I immediately thought of my parents, immigrants who came to this country to escape a dictatorship, willing to risk the familiar for the unfamiliar, in hopes of building a better life for their family.
Then I recalled what happened 24 hours prior: As the sun rose, most Americans woke up to the news that the next president had been elected. The numbness felt familiar; but I was clearheaded. I had to teach that day and face a roomful of student-journalists, most of whom were tasked to cover their first-ever election the night before. I knew what I had to do but struggled with how to do it. I wanted to talk to them as their professor, but just as important, as a journalist. In an email, I invited them to join me in the newsroom to “rehash, regroup and reset.”
I walked into a classroom shrouded in darkness, literally and figuratively: With the lights turned off, they sat in silence, their heads down, shoulders slumped, and one student – perhaps in an attempt to lull and comfort himself – crouched semi-prone in the corner.
I opened the floor for discussion. A hesitant hand or two was raised. The first student expressed concern about paying for college, something she most certainly won’t be able to afford if not for federal aid. I told her to start a list, to write it down. The next student came ready with a list of concerns: As a trans student, he had planned to begin hormone replacement therapy (HRT), something that might no longer be an option. He was also worried about his friends, some of whom already struggle with mental health with regard to their identity. I told him to hang on to his list. Another student told us of his visit earlier this year to Mauthausen, the site of a former Nazi concentration camp, where he found his family name in the memorial book. The conversation continued until everyone in the room had a chance to say something, with every new concern written down on a list.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room, which had become emotionally charged. When it came my turn to speak, I began by telling them journalism is not for the faint of heart. But while their chosen profession will break their hearts many times over, they have to remain steady and steadfast.
I shared that some of the most heartbreaking things I’ve ever encountered happened while I was on the job, including my visit to Oklahoma City to do a story on forgiveness five years after the Oklahoma City bombing. I recounted the gut-wrenching shock of seeing 168 empty chairs illuminated as if suspended in time, as well as a lone baby shoe, missing its pair, displayed on a pedestal. I also recalled an interview with Nobel Peace Prize recipient Rigoberta Menchú, an advocate for the poor and oppressed in Guatemala. Through an interpreter, I asked Ms. Menchú about the motivation behind her perseverance. Aided by the expression in her face and the emotion in her voice, I knew enough Spanish to understand her reply: Her parents and brothers – poor, indigenous farmworkers – were executed by the Guatemalan army. There was no translation required. Both experiences unraveled me, and many more instances throughout my career would leave me disturbed and distressed. But, as I told my students, stories have to be told and the voiceless need to be given a voice. Stay steady and steadfast.
Journalism is considered the fourth estate for a reason. Its role in a democracy is crucial in demanding accountability and truth. But journalists are human, too, and they are at their best when they let the humanity shine through in the stories they tell. I called attention to their lists, to use what they wrote down to guide them in refocusing and finding the stories that will bring these concerns to light.
Regardless of this election’s outcome, America was already confronting an uncertain future. But uncertainty is not necessarily a bad thing. For centuries, generations of immigrants, faced with uncertainty but filled with hope, have made this country their home. It is this hope that compelled my parents to leave everything behind and start anew. It is this same ray of hope that drives me to do my part to encourage the next generation of journalists to never extinguish that light. Hope is what we must cling to, for we know it will always be there, just like the sun will rise in the morning and in the morning after.
Trish Muyco-Tobin, a journalist for 30 years, serves as the faculty adviser for the Webster Journal.
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