I have landed
I am a journalist. I am part of that rare breed of men and women who see themselves as rare, exotic, special. I always have a pen in my pocket (average lifespan: 2 days), and some piece of paper somehwere in my body (average lifespan: 2 hours). I have an inelegible handwriting (encrypted notes to prevent copying), and I only have a few friends outside the industry. That is my life, that is my curse.
Many journalists consider their work as a staus symbol. They brandish their press cards and announce to every room they enter that they are journalists and they should be treated special. Many of my colleagues driver their SUVs or walk around like celebrities. Most of these guys are dead. Like many other industries (politics especially), our profession lives in a world of hypocrisy. We fight for other people’s rights yet many of our kind are underpaid. We call for fairness and equal access to everybody yet we flash our press card likes it’s an access pass to just about anywehere (screw the rules I’m from the press). We announce that we represent the people yet we think we are celebrities who deserve special attention, who deserves pampering, especially from government officials. We are as worse as everybody else.
But many are still here. I am here. This is my livelihood. I am like an accountant, an engineer or even a call center agent. I am here because I earn from this industry. I stay here because this is what I do best. There is no money here. There are a lot of problems here. But this is home I guess. That makes the difference.
