Remembering Valerie Boyd, and honoring the mentors who’ll mean more than they’ll ever know

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I just wanted to call her.

This past December, with one day off before nine days of winter break for my toddler daughters, I sat up in bed and reached for a book that had shuffled unopened around my end table.

“BIGGER THAN BRAVERY,” read the title of an anthology of essays about, per its subtitle, “Black resilience and reclamation in a time of pandemic.” Many names graced the cover, from a half-dozen featured writers to the actor Courtney B. Vance, who gave a quote of endorsement. But only one name mattered to me:

Valerie Boyd.

She had edited the anthology. Several years earlier, she had been both a personal mentor and the program director during my pursuit of an MFA degree from the University of Georgia. Valerie had created the program. She had met me for coffee when I expressed interest. She had waited patiently when a scheduling conflict forced me to delay my application for a year. And when I finally took my seat, she alternated between inspiring and challenging, as she did virtually everyone in her orbit.

Being in that orbit, even if only possible through an application and hefty tuition, meant witnessing graceful greatness. It meant occasionally disagreeing with Valerie in class and being forced to probe my perspective in ways I hadn’t intended. It meant occasionally reading Valerie’s own work – a canon that includes years of essays, long-form stories, and the definitive biography of Zora Neale Hurston – and recognizing the narrative bar I hoped to reach. Valerie and I didn’t have much in common, but I hung on to her insights and never minded when a half-hour lunch meeting to discuss my writing turned into ninety minutes. Thanks to Valerie, I became a more thoughtful, clear-eyed writer.

A year ago this month, Valerie passed away.

Cancer, I was told. I hadn’t known. Neither had most of us in the program. We were collectively shaken.

We commiserated on a Zoom call. Many posted memories online. I moved on but never quite got over the shock. Then, ten months later, one month after its posthumous publication, I purchased Bigger Than Bravery. I opened it. I scanned the table of contents. And I set my eyes on Valerie’s introduction.

The feelings came flooding back.

In ten pages, Valerie reminded me of all I admired about her. At the top was her writing. She folded Toni Morrison and A Raisin in the Sun into stories of her childhood and passages about grief. She wrote about her recently deceased father with dignity and empathy as well as years of lived-in research. She spurned ordinary phrases for get-to-the-heart gems, describing a gambling bet as a “three-digit prayer” and saying of his death, “We weren’t ready. We still aren’t.”

Reading her words, I was reminded of the alchemy we writers aspire to achieve, the alchemy that seemed effortless when Valerie oversaw it.

Beyond her writing, I admired her purpose.

All those details about growing up on the largely Black west side of Atlanta? They tied back to the theme of the book. Her elegant prose, worthy to introduce a tome on any subject, was the opening act to a series of Black writers describing Black resilience.

Valerie’s essay was in the service of others. So was so much of her career, including my footnote within it.

Were this during the program or in the years immediately following, I would have reached out with my admiration. We didn’t communicate often, but I reached out whenever I read – or, better yet, wrote – words I thought she’d value.

I almost reached for the phone. It was my instinct, for just a moment, before reality returned.

***

I just wanted to call her.

Earlier this month, I flew to south Florida to shoot a pair of TV news stories as a national correspondent for the E.W. Scripps company. The second story – about the economic success of Black businesses in Port St. Lucie – took me to a Black business incubator in nearby Fort Pierce, led by a woman named Canieria Gardner. She gave a tour of the building and then chatted with me in its main room. I scanned the space and saw a mural of the word “LOVE”, plaques of supportive messages, and, on the back wall, a library of dozens of books by Black authors or featuring Black subjects. On one shelf was Michelle Obama’s first memoir. On another were several books by her husband. And on the middle shelf stood a whole collection of books by or about one of Fort Pierce’s most distinguished former residents: Zora Neale Hurston.

Sure enough, in the middle of the middle was Their Eyes Were Watching God, written by Valerie Boyd.

By this point, my experience reading Bigger Than Bravery was weeks in the past, buried behind the ensuing winter break and the many new memories that had followed. But seeing Valerie’s name on the cover of her most famous creation, the feelings flooded back again – this time, for a different reason.

In the days after Valerie passed, I had scanned Twitter for reactions and was amazed at how many popped up. Some were from folks like me, whose craft Valerie had helped mold. But many were from readers, particularly Black readers, who revered her many efforts through the years to champion Black voices, document Black stories, elevate Black thought, and, through works like Their Eyes Were Watching God, immortalize Black excellence. I was reminded, as I often was during my MFA studies, that as pivotal as Valerie was in my journey, she had meant so much more to so many more.

Authorial alchemy is its own miracle. Alchemy that resonates through years, sea changes, even the death of its author: that’s no less than the bedrock inspiration for nearly every journalist with giant dreams. I saw Valerie’s name – and her book – on that shelf, and I felt immense pride.

I wanted to call. But, of course, I couldn’t.

Instead, I spoke about Valerie to Canieria. I pointed her to Valerie’s other books, including the one I had started weeks earlier. I regaled her with my admiration and then informed her that Valerie was gone. In person, anyway. Certainly not in her words. Certainly not on Canieria’s wall.

And then I choked up. I restrained tears. I excused myself, retreated to the bathroom, and paced atop the tile. I breathed deep and collected my emotions. And then I paused. I knew I’d need to get back to the business of the day, but I made sure to acknowledge this beautiful moment and the beautiful person who made them possible. And I was reminded of her again a few days later, the one-year mark since her passing, and how I felt when I heard that Valerie’s soul had left her body.

I wasn’t ready. I’m still not.

Four stories that floored me at the NPPA Best of Photojournalism Video Workshop

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I’m fortunate to occasionally get asked to speak at journalism workshops, which gives me a good reason to attend those workshops. It’s hard to carve time away from my family, especially on weekends. But I do it for the chance to embrace an atmosphere of passion, enthusiasm, and devotion to a complicated profession.

I especially embrace the critique sessions. Whether one-on-one or in a small group, they offer substantial windows for substantive conversation. Journalists ask my advice, and I dispense it. But I always learn plenty myself, and sometimes I wind up asking my own questions.

Such was the case earlier this month.

I spoke alongside my E.W. Scripps teammate Justin McCray at the NPPA’s Best of Photojournalism Video Workshop in Nashville. Our presentation was Saturday. The critique sessions came Sunday. And three-quarters of the way through, I watched a story that could easily be its own workshop presentation.

That story – and several others – left me stunned. I hope they have a similar effect on you:

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Sometimes to tell stories, we need to confront our own decisions – and address them

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“I’m not just reporting on this city and this university. I was a student here.”

That’s how I introduced myself to viewers in dozens of stations across the country. In my first story as a national correspondent with E.W. Scripps, I covered the efforts of advocates in Athens, Georgia to gain recognition for a long-forgotten Black neighborhood. Linnentown existed adjacent to the campus of the University of Georgia … until the city and university used eminent domain to clear it out to build three new dorms. In 2021 the city apologized and pledged reparations to Linnentown descendants. The university wanted no part of their efforts.

Inserting myself into the story felt like a leap. The next lines of my stand-up felt like a pole vault.

“[I was] a graduate student in the journalism school,” I said, standing on downtown Athens’ main drag. “A school named for an old newspaper editor that once declared the white race was superior.”

With that, less than two minutes into my on-air career at Scripps, I had revealed the complexity both of my story and in my heart.

***

In storytelling circles today, you hear two increasingly loud schools of thought about how much journalists should reveal about themselves. One school says we should stay in the background, keep our social media feeds clear of opinion and controversy, and focus on being not personalities but reporters. Then there are folks like Julia Munslow, a senior platform editor for the Wall Street Journal who wrote a recent piece for Nieman Lab titled “Gen Z demands personality from journalists.”

In her essay, Munslow makes the case that younger viewers want to know – or at least be able to find out – more about who’s delivering their news. “Gen Z values authenticity,” she wrote. “They crave reality after growing up among scores of Photoshopped advertisements; they believe strongly in ethical consumption and value high-quality experiences. I believe they’ll demand these things of the news industry, and that it will lead to a call for radical transparency.”

There are two components of how “radical transparency” is taking hold. One is the lane where journalists become mini-celebrities. We post about what we’re doing behind the scenes. We post about where we went last weekend. We post photos of our families, and they become semi-public figures too. That lane comes with its own complications and is worthy of way more than a paragraph.

But that’s not where I’m focused here. I’m focused on how much we are willing to reveal about our identities, subjectivities, and life decisions. Should journalists need to reveal their voting records? Should they discuss how the stories they’re reporting make them feel? Should they project their complexities?

And, per Munslow’s point, in the future, how much will we be given a choice about these questions? Will our audiences demand answers we feel uncomfortable providing?

In my case, the choice was mine. I had lived in Atlanta for a dozen years and spent numerous days in Athens shooting stories. I didn’t go to the University of Georgia as an undergrad, but I spent weeks there during grad school walking around campus and patronizing numerous Athens restaurants. More importantly, I had made the decision to attend the journalism school and gave little thought to the man for whom it was named. I only knew about the program to which I applied. It was diverse and exhilarating. It encouraged me to think deeply and richly about the subjects I covered.

(Seriously, look back at my previous posts about the program. I rave about it. And I still rave about it.)

My time at UGA was filled with many conversations about race and culture, including at the university and its city. I walked away with complicated feelings about both. And when the time came to do a story about race in Athens, I was equipped to cover it with the complexity it deserved.

I also felt I should reveal my experience in the story.

I wrote about not just the actions of the past but the experience of living in Athens in 2021. I noted how the first major sight off the highway was the Plantation Buffet. I shot footage of a downtown restaurant called General’s that until the previous year had been named for a Confederate general.

And for a piece that spoke about the power of institutions, I spoke in my standup about having been a student at this one.

***

I have produced dozens of stories for E.W. Scripps so far, many of which have included standups. I haven’t involved myself anywhere near the way I did that first time.

I didn’t receive any backlash for it. In fact, most people who responded to the story – including fellow University of Georgia graduates – applauded my transparency. But while I stand by my decision, I acknowledge how every story brings its own challenges – and how we bring our subjectivities to them.

But whether I reveal them or not, I always do my best to consider them. I believe in constantly challenging my preconceived notions and biases. I think my work continues to get stronger because I continue to push.

I encourage the same out of my colleagues. Those of us who carry the storytelling mantle owe it to our audiences to think critically about every story we produce.

The Solo Video Journalist is available for purchase. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and the publisher’s web site.

Matt Pearl is the author of the Telling the Story blog and podcast. Feel free to comment below or e-mail Matt at matt@tellingthestoryblog.com. You can also follow Matt on Facebook, Twitter, and his web site, mattpearl.tv.

PODCAST #86: Greg Bledsoe, solo video journalist, on the Family Geography Project

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When I started this podcast nine years ago, I assumed at some point I would interview Greg Bledsoe.

At the time he was the reigning two-time NPPA national Solo Video Journalist of the Year. He was one of the most talented photojournalists in the country AND one of the most talented writers in the country. His work gleamed with empathy.

I eventually reached out to Bledsoe for an interview for my book, The Solo Video Journalist. I met him in his home city of San Diego and asked him all about his gear: what he used, how he stored it, and how he found time to manage and maintain it amidst his many responsibilities. Bledsoe was generous with both his time and his tremendous knowledge.

The book’s second edition came out in the fall of 2020, shortly before he took the biggest leap of his career.

Bledsoe had worked at KNSD in San Diego for roughly two decades. He had risen up the ranks to morning show anchor and enterprise reporter. But last year he decided to embark on a long-held dream: to travel the country for a full year and visit all 50 states with his wife and two children.

He’s ten months into the journey now. It’s called the Family Geography Project, and it includes dozens of stories Bledsoe has produced through the trip.

Bledsoe is my guest on Episode 86 of the Telling the Story podcast.

The Family Geography Project – and the sharp career break it has required – is fascinating. But  just as compelling is Bledsoe’s advice on storytelling, managing gear, and simply taking chances. As always, it’s a worthy listen.

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I’ve been to Kentucky twice to cover tornado damage. I’m stunned by how fast most have moved on.

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I’m not sure what I expected.

Did I expect, a month after tornadoes that ravaged towns across four states, everything to have magically recovered? Of course not.

Did I expect, upon arriving in Mayfield, Ky. – the town that suffered the most damage and received the most attention – to see throngs of camera crews and reporters? Not necessarily.

I didn’t expect miracles, nor did I expect the eyes of the world to remain fixed on these few towns. I guess I expected what I ended up seeing: slight progress, continued emotional toll, and few journalists to witness the damage and potentially redirect the spotlight back to communities that could use it.

But I was definitely still thrown off by it.

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A new year, the Webb telescope, and a reminder of what’s possible

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I can’t stop following the Webb Telescope.

Is it me, or are we as a collective society not making a big enough deal about it?

Just before the end of 2021, a year that saw the continuation of the COVID-19 pandemic as well as numerous natural disasters, NASA launched the most powerful telescope in history into space. Over the next month, the Webb Telescope will unfold and reshape itself into an instrument that will potentially be able to explore the most observable distant galaxies in the early universe. It will begin detecting planets and gases and sending back images, according to NASA, by the summer of 2022.

As the Washington Post’s editorial board wrote in a recent opinion piece, “Now we may finally learn just how we ended up here, in 2022, nearly 13.8 billion years after the big bang.”

The audacity is astounding, especially considering it’s been less than 120 years since the Wright Brothers flew a 600-pound “airplane” into the sky that could travel no faster than 30 miles per hour.

To me, during what has been a particularly stifling period of our existence in so many ways, the telescope is a reminder of what’s possible.

As journalists and storytellers, what’s possible can be easy to forget, particularly in a lane that is currently losing much of its workforce.

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PODCAST EPISODE #85: Reshma Kirpalani, documentarian, “Inside the COVID Unit”

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Last spring, when so many of us were frightened and nervous at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, when the world of journalism and the world as a whole felt chaotic and upended, Reshma Kirpalani leaned in. She cold-emailed a hospital group in south Florida to see if she could obtain access to its COVID unit, through videos shot by its employees. She received that access and embarked on a half-hour documentary … that ultimately turned into five half-hours of an episodic series. She convinced her bosses at the Miami Herald and its parent company, McClatchy, to enable her to focus entirely on this project.

And just as she was about to start putting it together, Kirpalani learned she had been laid off.

McClatchy decided to eliminate Kirpalani’s video team. For Kirpalani, it meant the end of not only regular paychecks but also the documentary she had poured nine months into producing.

Or, at least, it would have meant the end … if she hadn’t fought to finish it.

Kirpalani convinced her bosses to let her stay on for three more months. In that time, she produced an unforgettable and necessary document of the early stages of the pandemic – and how those grueling weeks impacted the lives of the health care workers who couldn’t avoid it. The project, titled “Inside the COVID Unit,” can now be seen on miamiherald.com. And it’s riveting.

I’ve watched – and produced – numerous stories on the pandemic, but few if any moved me like this series. It puts on full display the initial chaos of those early months, which weighs over every impossible decision faced by the health care workers profiled here. Kirpalani’s commitment shows throughout. She captures moments that are equally brutal, frustrating, raw, and heartbreaking. She has an intuitive sense of narrative and context.

More importantly, she does it all with extraordinary empathy – the quality that most enables this series to stand out.

Kirpalani is my guest on Episode 85 of the Telling the Story podcast.

When I listened back to this interview, I immediately wanted to hoist my camera and tell a meaningful story. I’m in awe of storytellers like Kirpalani who embrace their work with such devotion. It’s what I seek in my own stories, and it’s what I appreciate in the journalists I admire most.

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PODCAST EPISODE #84: Emily Chan, restaurant owner, on being the subject of a story

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I’ve done 83 episodes of the Telling the Story podcast and, in the process, interviewed nearly as many talented storytellers and journalists.

Episode 84 is different.

This time, I interviewed someone on the other side of the camera – someone who was the subject on an in-depth story I produced late last fall.

Her name is Emily Chan. She’s the co-owner of JenChan’s restaurant in Atlanta. I did a five-minute story about the restaurant last year, spotlighting hers to represent the challenges faced by so many in that industry during the COVID-19 pandemic. I spent six shoots in two weeks with Chan, and I was able to tell a compelling, all-encompassing story as a result.

Last month I learned the story had won an NPPA Best of Photojournalism award for Hard Video Essay. When I posted about it on Facebook, Chan responded with a lengthy comment that included the following sentences:

“This interview still haunts us…and not in a negative way; it simply captured our vulnerability – which is truly every small business owner’s vulnerability during this past year. I went back and watched it last week and it was painful; it still is. We are still fighting week to week and we still see the light at the end of this tunnel. Thank you for sharing our story so thoughtfully and carefully.”

We shouldn’t need reminders of how our stories impact those we interview, but this was a big one. I decided it could be a subject of further exploration.

Chan is my guest on Episode 84 of the Telling the Story podcast.

 

I’m so grateful Chan took the extra time for this, and I think you’ll find it a worthy listen.

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5 lessons from the NPPA’s Best of Photojournalism 2020 video winners

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We were all tested in 2020.

Every life was touched in some way by the COVID-19 pandemic, which remains a constant factor in our activities and decisions more than a year since it began. Video journalists faced a wave of limitations and restrictions as we attempted to stay safe while doing our jobs, in a year where our jobs felt more vital than ever.

I was reminded of this as I watched this year’s winners of the NPPA’s Best of Photojournalism awards for video photography and video editing.

Some were shot before the pandemic. Most were shot during. All reflected dedication to the craft of journalism and storytelling – with an extra dose of perseverance.

Here were five lessons I learned from five winning entries:

THE STORY: The Uprising, by Corinne Chin, Lauren Frohne, & Ramon Dompor (Seattle Times)
THE LESSON: Cover the macro and the micro.

After George Floyd was killed in late May, protests broke out across the country. So many visual journalists arrived on the scene and produced moving, powerful stories, often through the raw emotion on display. At a time of massive unrest and racial reckoning, these stories were essential in conveying the anger, heartbreak, and frustration of those in the middle.

I particularly appreciated those that found the big picture through the journeys of individuals.

That’s what this trio of Seattle Times photojournalists accomplish here. They cover the evolution of the protests in Seattle, from the days after Floyd’s death to the creation of the Capitol Hill Organized Protest (CHOP). But they deliver this narrative through the eyes of three protesters, each with distinct personal histories and outlooks, to show the micro in the midst of the macro.

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PODCAST EPISODE #83: Ed Ou, visual journalist, on finding detail in documentary

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On his first day covering Twin Cities protests after the death of George Floyd, photographer Ed Ou briefly became the news.

Ou says he was set up with a group of journalists as curfew hit. He says state troopers fired tear gas, rubber bullets, and concussion grenades. Ou was hit in the head and received four stitches in the hospital.

That night, he still filed a report for NBC News.

And days later, after many journalists had left, Ou found a story unlike any I’ve seen from that time.

Earlier this month, NBC News released online Ou’s half-hour documentary, “The Intersection: Fatherhood at the Heart of George Floyd Square.” It’s a beautiful work of journalism, and frankly, the less I say beforehand, the better. But it’s embedded right here:

It’s the latest gem in a spectacular career that has taken Ou to multiple continents and earned him national honors.

Ou is my guest on Episode 83 of the Telling the Story podcast.

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