Happy Thanksgiving

As I ruminate on Thanksgiving, I find one of the most pleasant surprises for me as a journalist has been that I’ve rarely encountered the unbridled hostility so often directed toward members of my profession. Perhaps it’s because I’m just an unimposing features writer and not an investigative vigilante. Or maybe I simply exude an aura of trustworthiness as the people I speak with sense my genuine interest in their stories. Whatever the reason, it’s been my experience that the journalist is not a pariah, but a priest. In interview after interview people invariably bare the deepest secrets of their souls, and not merely because I happened to ask the right question. Time and time again they bring up something totally unrelated with the segue “This isn’t for publication, but…” or “This is off the record…” or “Please don’t print this, but….” Admissions range from the sheepish confession of a woman who, unbeknownst to her husband, named her son after an ex-boyfriend, to a hospital chairman who confided that the new wing of the medical center was originally going to bear someone else’s name. Following a polite refusal from the would-be namesake, a second community philanthropist was approached under the guise that she had been the sole choice all along.

Sometimes this overwhelming need that people have to unburden their souls makes me uncomfortable. I've had people angry with me because—and again, keep in mind that I’m just a harmless little features writer—I asked a question that they didn’t want to answer, and instead of just telling me they were uncomfortable with responding, they answered but resented me for broaching the subject.

On the upside, because I hear and deal with the truth so much, I know exactly when I’m being played and can always tell when someone is trying to blow smoke up my skirt. I try to never tip my hand to let them know that I know.

Pregnancy is similar to my journalistic experience, in a way. Not only has it been a positive experience (except for the losing my mind part), but I feel a sense of belonging, a comradeship, a camaraderie with other moms, even though I haven't actually gone through the birthing and parenting process. So often I catch other women giving me a kind smile, an almost wistful expression as I waddle up to the counter at Target or stand in line at a fast food restaurant. I get the feeling that most of them are remembering their own pregnancies, and all of the sudden I realize that I'm an ambassador of sorts, that my being pregnant bestows happiness beyond just me, Chip, and our families. In an amazing, unwitting way, it also brings others a modicum of joy and nostalgia.

How serendipitous.