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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.

You don’t need grad school to succeed as a journalist. Here’s why I went anyway.

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Six minutes from the front of the line, six days until graduation, my classmates and I wait at the University of Georgia student bookstore to buy our caps and gowns. We don’t need to do this. Our grad school doesn’t require it. But we have decided to splurge, to indulge in a dash of pomp and a sprinkle of circumstance in this rare setting that encourages it.

The jokes begin. I turn to a classmate, an award-winning reporter at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, and wonder aloud how to most pretentiously celebrate our pending degrees.

“What if we change our e-mail signatures to include our degree? What if I signed every message with ‘Matthew Pearl, MFA?’”

“Yes,” he responds, “and you should add a photo in your cap and gown with a serious, academic expression. And you should list your published works underneath.”

We envision this. Then we envision how quickly our coworkers would chuck us out of our respective newsrooms.

In the world of daily journalism, an MFA in Narrative Nonfiction may not seem like much. It won’t add extra digits on my paycheck. It won’t increase access on my stories. It won’t bring a new wave of followers to my Facebook page. I work in TV news, where the average script runs maybe a page. One might question the wisdom of honing the skills to write book-length projects.

But this isn’t about wisdom – at least, of the conventional type. It’s about growth, craft and passion.

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I’ve read 30 nonfiction books in 12 months. These ten hit me most.

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Before last summer, I always balked at the seemingly straightforward question, “Do you read a lot of books?”

Do I read books? Sure! Well, I always mean to. I start quite a few, but it’s been a while since I actually finished one. I just get so distracted, you know? I can never sit down for long enough – and consistently enough – to really get into one. I wish I read more. It’s what I should do, right? I’m an educated adult. I want to know more about the world. Heck, I’ve even written a book. Surely I should want to read them. But life is so busy. And reading too often feels like work. I can’t just sit down and enjoy books. I don’t have time. So I rush through them and barely remember them a week after I finish. Maybe I’ll just never be a “reader.” But I’m sure I’ll keep trying.

I condensed that inner monologue into a sheepish but socially acceptable, “Sure … every now and then.”

That changed when I soon had no choice.

Twelve months ago I began an MFA program in narrative nonfiction at the University of Georgia. In two weeks I’ll begin Year Two. And the curriculum requires me to read eight nonfiction books every semester – essentially two a month – in addition to crafting twelve long-form works of my own.

So I read constantly. I knew I would force myself during the semesters. I didn’t know I would feel compelled to keep reading when they ended. I submitted my final assignment for the year at the end of April. I have continued reading two months a book through mid-July. I read while I walk on the treadmill. I read while I relax on the couch. I even read select books aloud to my four-month-old daughter while I feed her. (I read her children’s books too. But when you use one hand to hold a bottle and the other to keep your child’s head in position, you appreciate being able to swipe a Kindle screen rather than hold open a hardcover board book.)

As a human being on this spinning planet, I appreciate the education and perspective I receive from an powerful book. But I also benefit as a journalist. I study how authors structure their stories, use words to convey emotions, and construct a scene without any visual aids. I recently listened to an episode of the Longform podcast where food correspondent Helen Rosner spoke about the difference between an author’s intention and reader’s perception. “It doesn’t matter what you say,” she said. “It only matters what they hear.” As a TV reporter and photojournalist, I must guide my viewer through a few minutes. A nonfiction writer must do so through hundreds of pages.

In the last year I have read writing of high quantity and, for the most part, high quality. I have been exposed to writers with different backgrounds, perspectives, and life experiences. Here were the ten that moved me the most:

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Matthew Desmond’s Evicted: How do we measure impact as journalists?

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As part of my MFA program at the University of Georgia, I write. A lot. And I enjoy it. I relish constructing a three-dimensional scene with verbal imagery. I read two books a month and deliver 350-word responses, which allows me to weave narrative into my work and ponder its process and impact. I have decided to share those pieces here when applicable, such as this entry about Matthew Desmond’s Evicted:

“We’ve all heard the complaints about television news.”

The man with the gray beard smirked and sighed, his boutonnière the same red velvet color as the podium.

“It’s superficial. It’s sensationalist. It’s trivial.” The compliment? “But it isn’t all ‘Action This’ or ‘Eyewitness That’. They’re not all Ron Burgundy.”

The crowd laughed. The Hillman Foundation this year awarded national journalism prizes for seven formats. Only the broadcast honoree needed to force a smile through a roast of his profession.

I watched the video online and prickled at the cheap shots. I value my job in television news. My goals far exceed Ron Burgundy.

But I know it has shaped my work. I fear the channel-click. I craft my stories to never lose their grip on the viewer. Jon Stewart once said, “I am very uncomfortable going more than a few minutes without a laugh.” I dread going more than a few seconds without a “moment” – a beautifully composed shot, turn of phrase, burst of natural sound, or anything that will snap a viewer back to attention.

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PODCAST EPISODE #49: Vicki Michaelis, journalism professor, University of Georgia

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How can we help journalism students do better?

What are the things journalism students should know before they enter the business?

So many of us in this profession, I fear, rarely think about how we welcome newcomers into that profession. I grapple with it often and have written about it in several entries in this blog.

I have even authored a how-to book for aspiring local TV news reporters: The Solo Video Journalist, available now through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and the publisher’s web site.

Vicki Michaelis has taken her own path to help our industry’s future. She became a nationally respected and renowned sportswriter, leading USA Today’s coverage of the Olympics on six different occasions. She also served as the president of the Association for Women in Sports Media.

Then she received an opportunity that she had not foreseen.

Michaelis, in 2012, learned of the chance to head the University of Georgia’s new sports journalism program. She applied for the job and got it, and for the past five years she has helped sculpt a wave of young sports reporters as they prepare for their grueling entry into the professional world.

Michaelis is my guest on Episode #49 of the Telling the Story podcast.

I really enjoyed this conversation, in which Michaelis gave important insights into the mindset of current journalism students. We also discussed, at length, my recent blog post about what I learned (and didn’t learn) in J-school. What should students expect to gain from a college journalism program? Michaelis and I dive deep into that topic.

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