www.goldietaylor.wordpress.com
Kid in the Attic
Once upon a time–in a land far, far away—I was a journalist. And even though the job paid something akin to a can of pinto beans, it was a vocation I could proudly tell my mother about. After all, scoring an entry level staff writer’s job at a big city daily meant free coffee, an official security badge, and a coveted by-line every once in a while. I spent most of my time editing and re-editing poorly conceived drafts of stories that surely nobody but my mother was interested in.
As is the case with most bad memories, I cannot recall most of my assignments.
Except one.
I was all but paralyzed in fear the day my editor called me into his glass enclosed office. After just ten days on the job, I was certain I was going to be fired. My writing wasn’t worth a hill, let alone a can, of beans. I was half right. I didn’t get fired.
“I want to you write about real people,” he said, sternly, peeling through a pile of never published stories I’d written. “But don’t write them. Let the stories tell themselves.”
“Dictation?” I asked, somewhat relieved, but insulted.
“Right,” he said. “Take it down as it’s told to you.”
“Where will I find them?”
“Goldie, there are a million people in this city,” he said. “And if you’re half the reporter I think you are, you will find one that should be told.”
He was half right. There were at least a million people living in metropolitan Atlanta.
Happy that I hadn’t been summarily fired, I scurried to the phone and started dialing. I’d heard about a friend’s sister who, like me, was struggling to stay off the welfare rolls and take care of her young children. I asked a few questions and she started talking. She told me about how tough it was to get by on food stamps, pay the rent on time and chase down the utility workers who came to shut off her power every month.
I knew that story. It was mine too.
In a voice so compelling, so authentic, Michelle told me her story and I dutifully took down every word. The result was a weekly column. It didn’t take a lot of effort to find dozens of Michelles, all with something powerful to say. Using their collective voices, I found my own.
That voice was muted last week, as I sat in a local bar staring at the flat screen television as a silver balloon came to rest in a field somewhere in Colorado. According to the news reports of the day, there was a little boy inside, 6 year old Falcon Henne, and the balloon had been afloat over many miles and many hours. The basket Falcon’s father swore had been attached was missing and we feared the worst. My heart collapsed over a plate of fish tacos.
My own son, now 18, was safely at home a few blocks away. The uncertain news about little Falcon and what his parents much have been going through left me speechless. It was a layman’s science experiment gone awry, they told us. The Henne Family was just like every other American family trying to survive, cope and make it and now they were facing the loss of their youngest son. Only they weren’t.
The truth is it was a hoax. In a bid to land a star on the reality show walk of fame, Richard Henne concocted a plan to showcase his talents as a storm chasing, UFO tracking scientist. Only that wasn’t true either. Richard is not a scientist. He’s a high school graduate with a few acting classes under his belt. And according to some reports, if they are to be believed, he’s a three time convict with a hair temper and a fancy for bouncing his wife around.
In the hours after the landing, the story took a sordid turn. Falcon emerged from the attic above the family garage and in a made for television moment, told the world that his parents told him the stunt “would be good for the show.”
And what a show it was. The search cost an estimated $2 million, as air traffic over Denver’s airport was halted and a multijurisdictional force of public safety officials was dispatched.
In the words of Malcolm X, we’d been hoodwinked, bamboozled and deceived. Falcon wasn’t able to hold on to the guilt. He threw up twice on national television. His parents, once crying on 911 calls and posing for countless press interviews, swore they weren’t selling anything.
In a few short weeks, after the charges and the plea bargain are entered, we will get back to the business of worrying about our own children. Falcon, now known as the Balloon Boy, will be largely forgotten except for the occasional Google search.
Which brings me back to Michelle and her children.
It’s been sixteen years since my interview with her and she’s still on my mind. I wonder if she made it. I wonder what became of her children. For that matter, I wonder about all of the children who aren’t hiding in the attic because they don’t have an attic to hide in. Thousands of Americans face layoffs, lose their homes to predatory lenders, have no health insurance and can barely put food on the table. I wonder where their “balloon” is.
With few exceptions, we were all glued to the television set hoping that Falcon was safe. We got our wish. If I could have one more, it would be that we put as much attention on the millions of children who stand in harm’s way on a daily basis. That deserves road block coverage.
If a foreign power treated our children the way we do, we’d consider it an act of war. Newt Gingrich said that. And for once, he’s right.
Today’s journalists would serve themselves (and us) well to take a little dictation. But, the sad truth is we don’t want to watch that story. News organizations aren’t really in business to tell it. They’re in business to show us what we want to see. Until we change, they have no reason to.
