I am not by nature or nurture an angry woman, but sometimes I get a Bee in my Bonnet and simply need to allow my well-heeled anger to buzz as much as any reeling, radical and righteously raving man.
But this is one rare time when my feminine flourishing must leave me. Bonnets, stylish hair and bees have no place in my life when the duty of integral journalism calls.
I may even find myself even saying "out loud" unthinkable swear words that belong only to the likes of sailors, lawyers and moronic imbeciles who pass themselves off as human beings or actors who pretend to be people.
Sometimes, I truly wonder how I can still manage to call myself a journalist with a straight face and a strong sense of nerves that have now become so steel-engaged, they could easily rival any pet project by NASA.
When television stations, namely CNN, some radio shows and so-called news websites immediately broadcasted the news and face of the Ex-Cop who went on a murder rampage immediately after the President's State of the Union Speech . . .
I was not so much horrified and disgusted by the news and the story itsef, but rather by the decision to air this particular news immediately after so much carefully worded ideologies and sentiments were passionately delivered by our President to our great nation of people.
Think about it for a nanosecond. Our first Black president delivered one of his most forceful and important speeches to date, and while I was barely settling into the glow of his message, there it was . . like a Superbowl announcer who just wanted to deliver the next better thing,. which in this case, was a lunatic mentally challenged cop killer, another psychopath who would become glorified because he was a full-fleged murderer.
What happened to the days of simple civility, gracious manners, well-soldiered and solid reporting, and a respect for the Office of Presidency?
As a young college student, I can faithfully say that I believed wholeheartedly in the integrity of journalism. As a matter of fact, I saw journalism as a special calling, if you will. Not much different than priests, nuns, doctors, soldiers or teachers.
As a kid, I looked up to the likes of Walter Cronkite, Ted Koppel, the "younger more hard-hitting" Barbara Walters, Dan Rather, David Brinkley, Peter Jennings, Edward R. Murrow and many other great journalists and reporters of my time.
I worked my butt off and spent years interning at The Wall Street Journal, CBS, The Los Angeles Times and CNN.
As an unpaid intern and college student, I helped to cover and uncover local and national politics, business, the poor, homeless, women, welfare, foster care, children, men, the disenfranchised, corporations, small businesses, race, the Los Angeles Riots, and even the freak show that was to become the the O.J. Simpson double murder trial, now hailed as the trial of the Century, the last century of course.
At college as a Journalism major, I adored my professors; and along with my fellow colleagues and students, I thought I could and would help change the world. We had no doubt.
We got together often and met in cheap coffee shops and well-worn dorm rooms as we yelled and got excited about every lead, every possible story and every headline.
We loved to report any and all important and interesting stories about the people, places and things that so challenged, angered, confused and inspired us all, and we covered each story individually, gave perspective parties their due and say, and were proud servants of the written truth, of each careful word, and how we presented each thoroughly researched article with triply-checked facts.
But alas today, I do not know what to even call my so-called profession, and I find myself often embarrassed to inform others of what I do.
Write? Report? Deliver the facts?
Impossible is what their eyes tell me.
Sometimes I sincerely believe that I would gain far more respect if I announced that I was a hit man, a drug dealer, a Stock Trader, pimp or some used car salesman out of a job.
The news media has largely become a paparazzi-driven circus inspired most by money, corporate interests and ratings.
There is no need to call me naive. I know that money has always been a large part of news, as it is part of nearly anything one can roll off their tongues, if they still can.
I do not belong to a socialist left-wing brand of idealism. Rather, I am well-schooled on the merits and original intentions of journalism, harkening back to the days of our forefathers, and their fathers as well.
So should we say goodbye to truth-telling, un-biased reporting and telling two sides of any story, let alone the correct side of one story?
It seems so.
But I am sentimentalist, a romantic, an eternal optimist, so I will not bow out just yet.
And even though there is a swarm of bees currently buzzing in this female journalist's bonnet, I plan to continue to fight the fight, and will do so with integrity, grit, intelligence and some well-earned chutzpah.
Perhaps I will stay grounded in the name of my great grandfather who was a Newspaper Publisher Baron, a former Yankee, politician and hard-staunched reporter from Oklahoma.
What might he say? This man called William, who looked like Mark Twain on a good day, he would tell me the following . . .
He would tell me that I am especially needed now.
Not just because I am a woman with a Bee-Filled bonnet- which by the way looks mighty fine on me; not just because I took the Journalism Oath, but because I have a heart, a brain and I am passionate to the core.
He might also simply say that I owe it to him, as he genetically paved the way for my incessant and feisty reporter ways.
And I would agree.