American Magazine: November 2016

WITNESS
That’s exactly why John Hyman, director of the College Writing Program, and
his colleagues in the College of Arts and Sciences chose Castaneda’s book, S Street
Rising: Crack, Murder, and Redemption in D.C., as this year’s Writer as Witness
selection: the book weaves the story of Castaneda’s addiction with that of a city in
crisis. Now in its 19th year, Writer as Witness requires all incoming freshmen to read
a “community text” over the summer, which is incorporated into college writing
classes, and allows students the chance to hear from the author after the start
of classes in September.
“DC is the students’ new hometown, but the city is so much more than AU’s little
corner of northwest,” Hyman says. “If they’re having lunch at a café on U Street, we want
them to understand what that neighborhood was like just a quarter-century ago.
“This shared experience also provides a common language, a shared vocabulary
for students,” Hyman continues. “We hope that the conversations about this book will
linger beyond our classrooms.”
In addition to offering a window into a dark chapter in DC’s history and the life of
an addict (Castaneda got clean in 1991), the book also serves as an example of wellresearched,
meticulously-reported, thoughtfully-crafted prose—the kind of writing to
which students should aspire.
When Castaneda, who retired from the Post in 2011, came to campus in September,
he offered tips to the budding journalists and aspiring novelists in the crowd, along
with those who just strive to get an “A” on their English papers. “Do the work; tell the
truth; be resilient; be brave; cultivate friendships with a wide array of people; and
don’t ever, ever give up.”
Words to write by, words to live by.
John Hyman and some of his fellow professors are already reviewing
selections for next year’s Writer as Witness program. “We read the
books and talk about what they say about writing and research,
eventually whittling the list down to four or five,” he says. “It’s terrific
fun—it’s the air that we breathe.”
While Hyman and company plow through the contenders for 2017,
here are the previous years’ selections:
2015
Chasing Chaos: My
Decade In and Out of
Humanitarian Aid
by Jessica Alexander
2014
The Influencing
Machine: Brooke
Gladstone on the Media
by Brooke Gladstone
2013
Notes from No Man’s Land
by Eula Biss
2012
The End of Country
by Seamus McGraw
2011
The Good Soldiers
by David Finkel
2010
The Moral Underground:
How Ordinary Americans
Subvert an Unfair Economy
by Lisa Dodson
2009
True Enough:
Learning to Live in
a Post-Fact Society
by Farhad Manjoo
2008
The Devil’s Highway
by Luis Alberto Urrea
2007
The Ponds of
Kalambayi
by Mike Tidwell
2006
Love in the
Driest Season
by Neely Tucker
2005
Fragments of Grace
by Pamela Constable
2004
Newjack
by Ted Conover
2003
First They Killed
My Father
by Loung Ung
2002
Savage Inequalities
by Jonathan Kozol
2001
Bad Land
by Jonathan Raban
2000
Almost a Woman
by Esmeralda
Santiago
1999
My Own Country
by Abraham
Verghese
1998
There Are No
Children Here
by Alex Kotlowitz
dispatcher to provide further
details. None came.
David shrugged. We could
slam stories into the same
day’s paper as late as 2:00
A.M. Whatever this was, it was
too late to get the story into
Saturday’s paper.
“Up to you,” David said as
he glanced at the newsroom
clock.
Something in my gut told
me this was worth a ride. And
I wasn’t too worried about
being recognized. The S Street
slingers knew my Escort, but
they’d never seen me in the
company car, a Chevy Caprice.
The dealers had probably
scattered the moment the
cops showed up anyway. If it
looked dicey, I could simply
drive past, come back to the
office, and work the phones.
“I’ll check it out,” I said.
Less than ten minutes later,
as I had dozens of times with
Champagne riding shotgun,
I turned left on Rhode Island
Avenue and approached the
corner of 7th and S. As soon
as I made the turn, I saw four
marked squad cars and an
unmarked detective’s sedan
parked directly in front of
John’s Place. The streets were
clean, but banks of snow lined
the curbs on both sides. There
were no slingers or spectators
in sight.
Sirens filled the air.
Ambulances and more squad
cars roared onto the scene.
A patrol cop broke out yellow
crime-scene tape and attached
one end to a light pole near
the club. He was taping off the
entire corner.
A friendly lieutenant was
standing by one of the squad
cars.
“How many down?” I asked.
He gestured with his
fingers: six victims.
Six people shot? Hello,
front page.
I called David. Work as long
as it takes, he said. This would
be for the Sunday paper. I
stayed at the scene until 5:00
A.M., interviewing street cops
and detectives, watching as
workers from the medical
examiner’s office carried two
bodies from the club.
After a few hours of sleep,
I went back to the office and
double-teamed the story with
another reporter. Three men
had been killed inside the club,
and a fourth had died on the
way to the hospital. The other
two victims would probably
survive, a white shirt said.
We wrote it up, and I stayed
in the newsroom through my
Saturday-night shift. At about
1:00 A.M. Sunday, a news aide
dropped a copy of the early
edition on my desk.
Finally, there it was: my
first page 1 byline.
I made a little victory fist.
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