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I have traced blood stains on concrete to visualize the motions of a killer. I have seen police pull a duffel bag filled with body parts out of the Hudson River. I have watched parents bury their children. My mother calls me every day to make sure I’m OK. She worries about the doors I knock on, the convicts I talk to, the strangers who invite me into their homes. She fears my press badge won’t protect me when it matters. Once, I asked the President of the United States a question; he didn’t answer. I have been kicked out of more hospitals, funeral homes and apartment buildings than I would like to count. I have cried behind the wheel of my dented 10-year-old car and used notebook paper to collect my tears. I write ideas on napkins, addresses on my palms. I love the smell of newsprint on my fingertips. I am terrified of of being wrong. I have been called a vulture, a mouthpiece, a stenographer. I go to work every day because I know I am none of these. I am a truth seeker, a story teller, a human being. I pray my words make a difference. I live and breathe this ethereal thing called truth. I don’t know how to do this any other way.
I am a newspaper reporter.