When I heard about the Journalism Museum closing two nights ago on the news,it just made me mad. I was mad because I did not know it even existed, it made me mad that it closed. It made me mad that I heard about it on TV. It seemed so smug, another example of print journalism failing. I wrote the bones of this poem in twenty minutes and filed it soon after, I was so mad. My first thoughts were of all the people I worked with and how tough they were, and I thought of that history of toughness. I have been adding to the poem ever since. Tough and angry and they were so angry all they could do was laugh in the face of their anger and fear. I was inspired by these flawed wreaked angry,happy people. I would live my life by that code. They all had lives before journalism,they will all have lives after, none would have consented to be in a museum of anything. They just wrote and photographed everyday, they wrote fiercely and photographed fiercely. They never gave up.
The Journalism Museum is Closed – Good
It never should have been a museum;
Nor a Hall of Fame,with rings.
It should have been in a bar like the rest,
Like the many Journalism museums,
with living artifacts and dead ghosts,
blood and puke stained carpets.
The smell of newsprint and scotch
and cigarettes.
These days may be gone but still not ready for that.
Evangelicals and alcoholics,
mixed with novelists who need a good job.
Dead ghosts still alive in the hardwood,
Sitting on bar stools,upright,forthright,
ghastly fun people,losers of a hundred bar fights.
Still sitting exhausted or valiantly standing,
Knights with notepads and mighty pens,
Cameras, microphones and bar tabs.
holding glasses of the the hard stuff,
Still laughing loudly,sad hard people.
Tough people.
Another rises,Ryan Thorpe infiltrates a hate organization, he will likely start drinking soon.
Be careful young Thorpe.
They were not thin skinned nor without sin.
They did not speak nor think correctly and did not require a dress code.
There was no code but the truth.
Ralphie was a commando in WWII
could kill ten ways with his hands,
at a hundred pounds soaking wet and,
was as funny as hell. Fought Nazis in Italy.
Still fighting Nazis.
Sir Mike as evil and hateful as they come and died a saint.
Another slept in a stairwell, one an Olympic boxer.
Elman would win an NNA in1962,with a gun and a pen,
helped capture,escaped prisoner Percy Moggey.
One a great writer who fathered a Rock Star.
An intern was assigned a stay in prison and later became a judge.
Another wanted to do the same but they did not LETT him.
Another brilliant one was fired for using the F-word hidden in a column.
David the Chain Smoker, would wake up every hour to have a dart.
Barry the leader, a giant, fearless and could hit a softball a mile.
One quit on principle and died by suicide a year later.
Len would move to Hollywood and never come back.
Chuck kept smiling all the way to the bank after winning the lottery.
Manfred would survive the bombing and the Russians at the end of WWII,
He loved small gadgets and with pride spoke English better that most Canadians.
Ironic, we would both ride a German Leopard tank in Shilo Manitoba for a story.
Ned a part time clown who tricked Thomson's minion during the takeover.
One a stalker and did time.Another put a staff car in the Assiniboine River.
Many won awards,some wrote books but Bill wrote many books.
One photographed pictures for National Geographic.
Margo and Julie made a pink paper for cancer month, and also saved the newsroom.
Margo waded into a demonstration against the paper,
and within ten minutes was on a first name basis with the leaders,
ten minutes later they were singing songs to her.
A copy editor would donate her kidney to a fellow copy editor.
Mike D put a 3D picture on the front page.Glasses included.
Marge the librarian knew all the building's secrets,you just had to ask.
She could have been the FBI or CIA,
She also drove 69 Camero convertible.
Scott the hardest working sports writer,
and self proclaimed,"greatest fat athlete."
Our photo editor's name was on every local picture credit the day of his funeral.
Gerry defended pictures spinning in his chair everyday
and relentlessly decried omissions and poor crops.
Many punched holes in walls and others just banged heads.
The Sifton family owners of the Winnipeg Free Press
never laid of a single worker during the Great Depression.
Gordon, the soul and the heart of the unheard and unseen.
One would hire a stripper for a newsroom send off to the Star.
The legend would see the Nazis for what they were in 1930.
Cora would be our most famous female reporter starting in 1901,
she was told a newsroom was no place for a woman.
Catherine and Alice would be just as tough,and could also hit a softball.
Mary Anne was a class personified.
A few saw the Internet with a News Cafe.
They charged at wind mills, everyday.
The fought gangsters, evil politicians, some where both,
walked cold police lines,knocked on doors
and went to funerals of the unlucky.
They listened all day to evidence in courts,
met deadlines every hour,
and closed bars in the wee hours of night.
None of this could ever be in a museum,
because it is still alive and true.
Journalism may never see more varied and dedicated group.
Journalism doesn't need a museum,it needs a drink.
Everyone listed part of the Winnipeg Free Press staff and rich history.
Every newspaper needs to write it's own history in book form ,the real history because those who lived it are still around and their memories are clear.It is a good story. Those combined histories will identify where it all started to go wrong,that data is necessary. (1970's & 80's pre-internet)This website also needs an origin book. That data will help save this business and democracy's essential building blocks. A correct story is only a half story.It has never been a perfect business, it's grand sweep of history is rich in texture and it's fall is pure tragedy. Ken Gigliotti
Topic: Journalism Museum Closes - and The Good News (Read 956 times)