Editor’s note: This is part of The Know’s series, Staff Favorites. Each week, we give our opinions on the best that Colorado has to offer for dining, shopping, entertainment, outdoor activities and more. (We’ll also let you in on some hidden gems.)
This is not a traditional Staff Favorite; nor is it a farewell column.
In my last week before retirement, it’s a personal indulgence, a tribute to some journalists who left their marks over my more than 40 years in the profession. Many of the names won’t really matter to you; some of their stories might.
On the front lines
I have a T-shirt that reads: “We are putting out a damn paper tomorrow.”
People who read it tend to laugh. They think it’s merely a boast by some determined journalist to get the job done.
But it’s more than that. The words below read: “Capital Gazette, 6.28.2018.” That was the day a gunman forced his way into a newsroom in Annapolis, Md., and shot and killed five newspaper employees, then fired at and injured two others who were trying to escape.
More than staff reductions and newspaper closures, that event (and others like it) shook many journalists I know, leaving us wondering if anti-journalism rhetoric and threats would bring violence to our own newsrooms. That we were being made into targets.
The quote on the T-shirt was from , who — despite the murders of his peers hours before — promised to keep doing the right thing: covering stories and reporting the unbiased truth, no matter the hate spewed against journalists by those who would rather reporters keep quiet.
It also made many of us more determined than ever to keep doing the job we were trained to do: fight for and protect First Amendment rights every day, to be accurate and unbiased, to continue to shine a light on both the beautiful and the ugly in our community. Like we’ve always done.
Like Helen H. Richardson, a Denver Post photographer who was assigned to an Oct. 10, 2020, protest at the state Capitol in Denver, and recorded the shooting death of a demonstrator just feet away from her.
Like Ann Schrader, who knocked on parents’ doors shortly after the Columbine killings in. At the time, her 10-year-old daughter was in a classroom just blocks away from the scene. She later admitted just how traumatic it was. But not in the moment; then, she gritted her teeth and did her job.
Like Virginia Culver, one of a legion of female reporters who fought her way into the male-dominated field and paved the way for so many more to come. (Think “His Girl Friday” of the 1960s, but Culver was way cooler than Rosalind Russell.)
Like Denver Post reporters — Carlos Illescas, Kieran Nicholson and Jordan Steffen among them — who diligently covered the Aurora theater shooting trial in 2015, sitting in court every day to record the horror of that event.
Like the deaf reporter at the Springfield Morning Union in Western Massachusetts who fought for and won the job of TV critic well before closed captioning. (“I can read lips, and want to try,” was all he would say about the matter.)
Like Sue O’Brien, editorial page editor at The Denver Post, a critical thinker and persuasive writer who had the gift of making everyone around her feel like they were the most important person in the world. When she was diagnosed with cancer, conservative activist and Taxpayer Bill of Rights author Douglas Bruce waltzed into the office unannounced with a huge plant for her, a sign of respect for a worthy adversary.
Like Fred Brown, the conscience of The Post and later of the Society of Professional Journalists. “Ethical Fred,” who died in March, was much-beloved, and known for his honesty, integrity and compassion.
Like assistant city editor Rob Hiaasen, one of those killed at the Capital Gazette, and reporter Wendi Winters, who gave her life in an . She was credited with distracting him long enough for others to escape.
Like Serge Kovaleski, an investigative reporter for The New York Times who by President Trump in 2015.
Like political cartoonist, who won two Pulitzer prizes but still had time to make a young copy editor in Miami feel important by asking her to check his glorious work.
Like the copy editor and IT chief who braved at the Stanley Cup celebration in LoDo in 2001 to collect copies of the early edition of The Denver Post because delivery trucks couldn’t get through. The papers were being used to feed bonfires. (OK, that was me and superhero Erik Strom. I just wanted to boast.)
In good hands
Why bring all that up now? Because after decades as a member of the Fourth Estate, it’s not the work or the accolades or the mistakes I will forever remember; it’s the people with whom I toiled and others I’ve met along the way — world leaders (like John McCain and Madeleine Albright); celebrities (like Harry Connick Jr. and ); sports figures (Don Shula and Richard Petty); and a few unsavory characters as well.
(Well, maybe I will never forget one mistake: I got to scream “HOLD THE PRESSES” when I let a Page 1 headline go with the “L” dropped out of the word “public.” In 84-point Helvetica.)
Journalists constantly find themselves having to defend their profession. We’re unfair. We’re hacks. We’re crooked. We make mistakes. (Of course we do; who doesn’t?)
It’s exhausting to read stories about members of the press being denied access to public institutions, of them being attacked for asking pointed questions of a politician who would rather not give the truth, but instead criticize the questioner to deflect and avoid the subject.
The Fourth Estate is a noble profession, one necessary to preserve a free society — and must stay that way for years to come.
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(That’s an old-time journalism sign-off; it was done to signal editors that the story was done. As am I.)
