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It's now been just over a month since I found myself standing outside the news building as a parade of soon-to-be-former Star-Bulletin co-workers marched out the doors just after noon, crowded onto the sidewalk, then moved rapidly to the corner and off down South Street towards their future. I remember Burl Burlingame following the pipers at the head of the procession while pushing a blue Star-Bulletin sales rack rescued from the heart of the old newsroom, and Gordon Pang doing the heavy lifting on a "we make waves" sign. I left with nothing so dramatic. One plastic shopping bag containing several leis received earlier that morning along with a few last items removed from my desk, and a white large kitchen garbage bag shielding an original caricature by Corky Trinidad, inscribed by departing colleagues with brief expressions of support, regret, and hope.  After chronicling the emotional, political, and journalistic ups and downs in the Star-Bulletin newsroom during the 18-months since the paper was first threatened with closure, I found myself in the surprising position of being left behind, literally and figuratively. More correctly, booted out. "Your services will not be required by the Honolulu Star-Bulletin after the company assumes ownership of the paper." The nut graph of the terse five-sentence letter from John Flanagan had been a surprise. Despite clear signals that the Star-Bulletin's new management, then operating in exile down at Restaurant Row, was not amused by my online newsroom diary (now available at www.ilind.net), I had an underlying faith that such journalism, even if controversial, might be appreciated, understood, or at least tolerated by professionals. After all, I figured, it should be obvious that one can't survive in the ranks of investigative reporters without a bit of an attitude, a proclivity to stir things up and see what happens next. Surely good editors would understand the value of that edge, or so I thought. I was wrong. So there I was, after the whirlwind Star-Bulletin procession departed, standing on the sidewalk exchanging empty pleasantries with a few Gannett old-timers, watching history being made by others. I returned several hours later to collect a modest severance check, and then left the building, and perhaps the daily news business, for the last time. It felt like high school or college graduation day, when you realize those times are gone and you're being thrust inexorably ahead, for good or ill. A familiar reality falling away, replaced by both a sense of anxiety and foreboding, as well as possibilities and potentials. So I'm living through the problems that I speculated on in my online diary back on November 15, 1999, when I recorded this entry: "Then came Rupert's announcement and, zip, the world shifts ever so slightly, there's that feeling of the ground dropping away momentarily, and I can see or feel it all vanishing in an instant. What does an investigative reporter do without a newspaper? There's so much investigating to do, but not a lot of ready ways to put the results into public view. "I'm rooted here in Hawaii, and am not likely to venture off to the mainland to fit into another existing newspaper job. So what happens next? It's a question I'm trying to avoid as long as possible, because it goes into territory full of dragons by forcing a series of questions: If I'm no longer Ian Lind the investigative reporter for the Honolulu Star-Bulletin, who am I? And what's my identity when that security key is disabled and I've carried the last box of stuff out to the car and left the 2nd floor newsroom for the last time? You don't really want to visit such questions if it isn't necessary, and I keep hoping that new directions will open up without having to face the identity issues straight on. We'll see." It's been a month, and I'm still waiting for those new directions and potentials to reveal themselves. As I said then, we'll see. I faced an immediate identity crisis soon after being cut loose when my SPJ membership renewal notice arrived in the mail. I admit to a moment's hesitation but, hoping for the best, I paid my dues and prepared to move on. I've got an office now, with computer, phone, Internet access, and a place to stash my files. You can reach me a 955-1819. In the short term, I'm slowly committing to a few freelance assignments, I'm stopped several times a day, sometimes by strangers at bus stops or in the grocery store, asking me what it's like at the new Star-Bulletin, and I grope around for a polite explanation of my departure from the paper and a suitable description of my current pursuits. Investigative writer and researcher, sometimes advocate, still seeking to make a difference. Suggestions appreciated. |
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