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Journalist’s Trade
pital. A new patient, who claims to be
an alien, faces southeast to communicate
with a star. The psychiatrist thinks
the man is simply crazy, but the patient
has strange powers. One day, the alien
plays a fugue on an organ and patients
who normally are freaking out are calm.
Dumbfounded, the doctor asks how
he did it. The alien explains that it’s the
magic. But is the magic in the mind of
the composer? In the organ? In this
man’s fingers as he plays? Or is it in the
ears of his listeners?
The film’s answer is that the magic is
everywhere. And so it is with journalism.
It’s as much an art form as a
profession or trade and, as such, it
should be treated differently within a
university. Journalism is intellectual—
[Journalism is] as much an art
form as a profession or trade
and, as such, it should be treated
differently within a university.
the part of the intellect in which intuition
and people skills are just as critical
to use as the knowledge one has
about historic and social contexts. Journalism
is raw and fast and wild, often
coming as much from the reporter’s
gut as from the mind. It’s art, too, and
not just in the writing but in the approach
and execution of journalists.
It’s also coal-shoveling hard work. It
has a power that goes beyond the
printed or spoken word. Some stories
win prizes; others change the world.
Some do both. Some run 12 inches,
unread and forgotten. But among these
stories might be one that forever
changes the reporter and subject because
of their human interaction.
In short, it’s the collection of many
skills that don’t translate into the form,
for example, of a program on Latin
American studies or communication
theory. We don’t hear clamoring calls
for revamping of music departments,
film or fine arts programs. Most of us
wouldn’t presume to be experts in
music, making a film, or writing a novel.
But everyone, it seems, picture themselves
as experts on journalism.
Like many who teach journalism, I
have struggled with what journalism
education should be. I’m an accidental
professor. I don’t even have a degree.
My journalism education was school of
life. Nor was it ever my intention, at the
start of my career, to spend the past 11
years teaching journalism—at Columbia
University a few times, but mostly at
Stanford University. Before I joined
the academy, I’d spent 15 years as a
reporter in newspapers and published
a few books. But I write in strong
defense of the Columbia program, even
as I have doubts about journalism and
my role in the process.
A few years ago, I had the opportunity
to act on these doubts. At Stanford,
we set out to
change our program
after a review
of our department
raised questions
similar to those
now being debated
at Columbia, albeit
in a much smaller
way. (There are
never more than 16 students in the
Stanford program.) For quite some
time, we had offered a general journalism
education. As part of our discussions
about possible changes, we talked
about the idea of opening up the university
to our journalism students. They
would select their own area of concentration,
in addition to taking the classes
taught in our department. But this
would have lengthened the journalism
program to two years, which meant
students would spend over $80,000
for this education—for jobs that often
start out paying less than $30,000. Only
the very rich could come to such a
program. We couldn’t do that.
Even though we set out to reinvent
the wheel, in the end, what we had was
pretty much still a wheel. After much
discussion and soul searching, we’d
decided to specialize our teaching efforts
on public issues reporting, but
still I had to teach all the other areas of
this “magic”—writing on deadline, slogging
out stories, and being edited, edited,
edited.
After more than a decade in the
classroom, I now realize I made a mistake
when I began teaching. My course
readers were stouter than computer
magazines at the height of the dot-com
boom. When teaching about reporting
on social ills, I assigned books by sociologists
such as Charles Murray, William
Julius Wilson and Christopher
Jencks. The next week, I’d have these
same students read multiple tomes on
education or health care. It was just too
much. They couldn’t take it all in. What
I learned is that sometimes less is more.
Now my students read such works,
albeit at a slower pace.
I don’t think the answer is putting
more emphasis on the study of such
experts, or becoming a narrowly specialized
reporter, adding a year or two
to a program. Nor am I arguing for
dumbing journalism down. Quite the
contrary. Our job is to create journalists
in whom inquisitiveness is their
guide, including questioning what they
do and how they do it. It’s to create
journalists who are hungry for engagement
in ideas and for the pursuit of
information which, in many cases, those
who possess it don’t want to give up.
We have to remember that no matter
how many changes we put in place,
we will never graduate students—except
for the rare and gifted ones—who
are ready to drop into a top reporter
slot at The New York Times. After all,
programs in music, film and fine arts
don’t churn out students who become
instant Beethovens, Orson Wellses or
Faulkners.
One, two or even three years is rarely
enough to hone the variety of skills that
good journalists require. Those who
come to graduate school for training
are there to be primed, not crammed.
If we do our jobs well, in time, they will
find their way. In time, too, they will
discover the magic. ■
Dale Maharidge, a 1988 Nieman
Fellow, was a journalism professor
at Stanford University. He has published
five books, and his current
one is “Homeland,” a work-inprogress
about nationalism and
McCarthyism in post-September 11
America. He is now a visiting professor
at Columbia University.
110 Nieman Reports / Winter 2002