The other day, someone asked if I could help a French television news crew during their short stay in Peterborough and in the process, I discovered that I would not be a good investigative reporter.
There’s a leap that needs a map, right?
You see, I speak French and am ostensibly a member of the media (because apparently owning a monthly community newspaper with NO politics, bad news or other hideousness still qualifies us as ‘members of the media’). This crew was coming to Peterborough to piece together the back story on Luka Magnotta – the man accused of murdering and dismembering another person and mailing parts to government offices.
I thought what they needed was an interpreter for a day or two of touring Pdot. While that was part of the job description, what they really wanted was someone to put them in touch with Magnotta’s Peterborough family members. By all accounts that I have read, these family members seem to have made it pretty clear that they don’t want to speak with members of the media. And even if they did, I wondered about being a party to that? After all, is it relevant? Some back story is relevant to any journalistic endeavor, but sticking a stunned Grandmother on the small screen to dissect whether or not she had any inkling of Magnotta’s personality, issues, etc… was just a bridge too far, for me.
So I discovered that while I love writing, editing, communicating and the like, I would in fact be a HORRIBLE investigative reporter. I would not, when push comes to shove, be able to ask those
“tough” questions, if that’s what you can call them. I would hide under a bed somewhere. I’m pretty sure that would disqualify me from the job.
It’s quite stunning that you can be my age and still be discovering what you don’t want to do for the rest of your life.