Michael Paul Williams accepts journalism award

Richmond Times-Dispatch columnist Michael Paul Williams gave this speech after he received the George Mason Award from the Society of Professional Journalists-Virginia Pro Chapter Tuesday in Richmond.

To say receiving the George Mason award wasn’t on my radar is an understatement.
    Perhaps a dozen years ago, Richmond Magazine readers voted me as the reporter “Who makes you want to tear up the newspaper.” I assume it was a landslide.
    To my disappointment, I did not subsequently receive the “Reporter who makes you want to smash your laptop” award. In fact, Richmond magazine readers later voted me as best reporter. That made me wonder: Had they changed, or had I?
    I was equally proud of being voted best reporter and the reporter who makes you want to become a human paper-shredder. But I must say, I’m most proud of the George Mason Award.
    I came into this profession 28 years ago, without much of a clue. The profession had found me, but I hadn’t found myself or my place in journalism.
    I could hammer out perfectly serviceable copy filled with the 5 Ws and the H. But the S – the soul – was missing. What was I doing here?
    I started my career at the Richmond Times-Dispatch at a time when black reporters were still viewed as a liability. I remember reading as much during an anonymous survey of colleagues who said we weren’t up to the prevailing standards.
     I’d leave the newsroom pen and pad in hand and venture into the black community I vowed to give voice to, only to be treated like a traitor.
    Richmond Times-Disgrace, I heard, again and again. I thought it was ironic that so many people held me in contempt for wanting to tell their story. Back then, I was a proud member of the T-D Black Caucus. Even though our beats were diverse, we shared the mission of promoting fairer, richer coverage of the black community and helping to create more opportunity for the young black journalists behind us.
    It wasn’t until a decade after my hiring that I found my personal journalistic calling. It was around the time of the demise of The Richmond News Leader. I marched into my editor’s office and pitched myself as a columnist. For a newspaper such as The Times-Dispatch not to have a black opinion writer on its staff was disgraceful, I said, telling him that if he didn’t let me do the job, he needed to hire someone to do it. To my unending befuddlement and undying gratitude, the newspaper gave me this platform.
    I found my voice.
    In one of my first columns, I got to pay homage to my father, who died three months before my first column. In later columns, I sought to reflect the total range of experiences in the black community. And to offer a perspective not associated with my very conservative newspaper — one that resonated with readers from all communities.
    I got to speak out on behalf of the poor, the unemployed, the disenfranchised and marginalized. On behalf of the rights of gays and lesbians to equal protection under the law. I’ve tried to spark or perpetuate conversations about race, and have been gratified to see how much we’ve progressed in our ability to hold such conversations.  
    I’ve challenged our region’s definition of community. I’ve also advocated on behalf of communities that exist only as a memory, such as Navy Hill, or those hanging on by a precious thread, such as Fulton. As journalists, it’s said that we write the first draft of history. I’ve tried to be on the right side of it.
    Along the way, without trying terribly hard, I infuriated people. This was during a time when readers actually sat down and took time to write snail mail. Some of my letter writers actually cut out alphabet letters and pictures that gave their angry missives the appearance of a ransom note. One reader loved to clip my column and scrawl barnyard epithets on it, before this era when the Internet has taken the effort out of hate. Other folks dialed in their slurs and threats.
    But here, I’m guilty of sensationalizing. There’s always the other side of the story. For 18 years, I have been the beneficiary of an outpouring of support and affection from all segments of the community. The positives — my engagement with readers, the support of my colleagues, a Nieman Fellowship at Harvard with journalists from all over the world — have far outweighed the negatives. Each day brings validation that what I do — what we all do as journalists — has meaning.
    I recently wrote an article proposing a Richmond monuments tour to put our statues — particularly those on Monument Avenue — in their proper historical context. One response made me particularly happy, not so much because he agreed with me but because it showed that people, in such a rigidly polarized society, are always capable of change.
    The caller described himself as “A black Afro American, 76 years old.” Regarding the Confederate monuments, he said: “I never looked at it or thought that way. I was one of those who were adamant about tearing them down .¤.¤. but it has a history. I commend you for your vision and your thoughtfulness.”
    Trying to change minds, or at least have people weigh their opinions through my written challenge, became my calling.
    At times, I wonder if journalism has lost its calling.
    I will never doubt journalism’s capacity to change lives and influence policy. We continue to do work that impacts policy and affects lives, whether it’s holding Virginia Tech’s feet to the fire after the massacre, bringing to light the failures of the judicial system that helped keep problem GRTC bus drivers behind the wheel or writing about how race continues to shape the history of our region a century and a half after the Civil War and emancipation. The Pulitzer Prize-winning series by a Media General paper, the Bristol Herald Courier, exposed abuses that allowed energy companies to drain natural gas without compensating thousands of landowners.
    But our struggle to adjust to the business and technology changes of the last decade and a half has created a crisis in confidence that has infiltrated the industry. Jimmy Carter might describe it as a malaise.
    I see my colleagues being forced out of journalism through layoffs or simply deciding to leave while they can still walk away by choice. These were excellent writers, reporters, editors, artists and photographers in the prime of their careers with decades of experience and institutional memory. You simply cannot replace this.
    As devastating as the loss of a job or a career can be, the loss of journalism jobs is most keenly felt by our readers and viewers. We have reached a tipping point where we struggle to give them what they need. You might describe it as the opposite of critical mass.
    American daily newspapers shed 5,900 newsroom jobs last year, reducing their employment of journalists by more than 11 percent to the levels of the early 1980s, according to the American Society of News Editors.
    The industry’s drive to diversify its staff has come to a standstill amid the job loss, even as the nation becomes more ethnically diverse. The number of minority journalists stands at the same level reported in the 1998 census.
    “The loss of journalists is a loss for democracy,” said ASNE President Charlotte Hall. “The loss of people of color from our newsrooms is especially disturbing because our future depends on our ability to serve multicultural audiences.”
    What are we doing here?
    My fellow journalists, past and present, are like jilted lovers. They did not so much stop loving journalism as journalism stopped loving them back.
    I still love journalism. The first thing I do each morning is read the newspaper. Then I go online and read other newspapers. But our struggles to adjust to cultural, economic and technological changes have clouded our industry with doubt.
    It’s not that we have a problem embracing technology. It’s increasingly difficult for me to recall what life was like before the Internet, e-mail and iPods. I understand the need for our profession to embrace change and to reach a generation that has grown up consuming news online. But, to quote the great song from my favorite movie, the fundamental things apply as time goes by.
    Journalists have always been prone to complaining and navel-gazing. We have become far too preoccupied with forecasting our impending doom, and that robs our industry of the energy and passion our readers and subjects need. We must refocus on our job as watchdog, storyteller and all-around resource. We must believe in ourselves. If we don’t, who will?
    These should be the best of times for journalists, if for no other reason than the times are so challenging.
    Yes, how we deliver the news is changing. It will no doubt change even more. There’s no way for us to accurately predict how technology will shape our industry’s future. But there are some things we can control. The fundamentals still apply. For the laws of sound, ethical journalism that serves the public are as immutable as the laws of physics. Tell truth to power. Be the voice of the voiceless. Serve as a public watchdog. Illuminate.
    America can no more do without a strong and vibrant free press than it can do without a standing army or a federal legislative, judicial or executive branch.
    Our fundamental calling is to afflict the comfortable and to comfort the afflicted. This is the gospel of journalism. It’s a religion America will always need.
    I’m a sucker for journalism movies, from “All the President’s Men” to “The Paper.” In these movies, newspapers are an essential and heroic part of American daily life. Call me a nostalgic old fool, but I refuse to believe those days are over. During the wee hours Saturday morning, when passengers on an U.S. Airways flight were kept on the tarmac for 90 minutes and had their bags rescreened well past 3 a.m., their loved ones called the newspaper to ask us — or tell us — what was going on.
    At some point, we let our inner voice get drowned out by the chatter that says we no longer matter. But from Afghanistan to the Gulf of Mexico to Washington, from our own state capital and City Hall, and from the West End to Whitcomb Court, we’ve never mattered more. (And if you don’t believe that, ask General McChrystal.) We all know what our calling is. We must never cease answering it.
    Again, thank you for this award, which is the sum product of years of support from my family, my friends, my colleagues, my newspaper and, of course, our readers. I dedicate this to all of them.