Beyond The Microphone

The logo flipped across the screen as my story unfolded before my eyes. There I was with the microphone held tightly in my hand, my hair gently blowing in the breeze. “Breiley Bahn Super Reporter.” The news of the day was being thrust at the locals half-heartedly watching as they scrounged the kids together for a spaghetti supper. If they did not have my story, they did not have their world in order. Maybe I was going a bit beyond. I was in the spotlight, but I didn’t feel the realness of this new world. I just saw this foreign person on the television. It was supposed to be me, but it seemed like someone jabbering the news. Not me. My hair was flying in the wind. My voice did not rise in the correct places. And I stumbled over a few words in my package. I shook my head and changed the channel as my story changed back to the anchors transitioning to another story, probably a more important story. I turned around to look at my roommate staring intently at the screen. “So, what’d you think?” Merril cocked her head to one side. Always my best critic. Always my best supporter. “Why don’t you be a bit more natural? Show the public Breiley Bahn is the best reporter and best friend to the world. They’d listen to you then.” I sometimes thought Merril didn’t believe in me at all. Everyone else cared about my celebrity status, but not Merril- maybe it kept me grounded, maybe it kept me human. I wanted her to praise every onscreen performance as if she was watching Barbara Walters. I was her best friend, yet I was someone she could rip apart on a daily basis and I would actually listen. We both understood landing my first job was the hardest mountain I had to climb in my twenty-three years on earth. She had watched me wallow in self-pity for months, eat pints of ice cream, jog a million miles and finally triumph as I got that first position. So I didn’t exactly want to be this storyteller all of my life. I wanted to climb higher mountains and interview someone more exciting than the lady at the counter of Merle Norman. They say everyone starts somewhere. Oprah got her start on a radio show. Diane Sawyer must have started somewhere. Even Jerry Springer didn’t have a knockdown drag out show at the beginning of his career. I was waiting for life to happen.

I wrapped my hands around my Starbucks sipping it slowly. Yep, a fat free peppermint mocha was a must. A cup of coffee every morning kept me going. If I didn’t have my caffeine, I was better than nothing at work. I needed that coffee to face everyone during the day. It seemed caffeine was my personality drug. I stood at the desk of my “mom,” my assignments editor, Ariel McGee. Her face was serious, yet quiet. At times Ariel was our best friend, she was young and full of fire. I respected every moment I spent with her. She had kind eyes, but a shell like a knight. I could break it sometimes, but usually Ariel was all business. “What do you have for me today?” I sipped my coffee and peered over her desk. She laughed. “You want to go live down at the Court House? Big story on trial today. Ha, no way, you aren’t ready yet for that big of a story. We’ll put Stacy on it. Hang in there, Brei, you have a big road ahead. If I didn’t believe in you, I wouldn’t put you on any story. Go research me something for tonight’s show. I want it by the meeting in thirty minutes. Good, hard news. No feature material.” I turned away. Features were so much easier to find than hard news... my gosh, I had no contacts yet. I had been told once I wasn’t hired at a station because green talent cannot be trusted. They didn’t even know me, but green talent is a criminal to the public. Ariel had no idea if the public would trust me, but I thanked God she took a chance on me right out of college. I didn’t know whether to kiss her feet or curse the intimidation she put upon me.

I flipped the DVD player on “Sex and the City” and grabbed my bag of soy chips. Merril was out for the night with her boyfriend, the small number of close friends I had in this city were all busy scurrying along with their own jobs or with their own lives, and of course Brad hadn’t called. I wasn’t used to boys turning me away. I had always had a prospect, if not a boy in the wings. I wasn’t per se one of those girls who “needed” a boy every minute to survive. I was one of those girls that enjoyed having a trophy on her arm at dinner and parties. Brad was different than these boys. I had fallen madly “in love” with him the first night we met at a friend’s house. We tried to go on a few dates, but somehow he pushed the idea of dating to the outside of our conversation circle. I always envisioned myself going to college as a fresh college freshman and raking in the boys. I would play the field then after a while settle down with the perfect man for me. We would get married a year out of college, go into our respective careers and live happily ever after. Somehow God didn’t have the same plans. I focused back on Season Four. A night of women sitting around talking about their relationships, addicting soy, a glass of wine and my flannel pajamas. What a way to spend a Friday night.

I sat down at my desk pushing the Internet button leading me to the browser. “Hey, kid, what’s your story on today?” I looked up to see Stacy Hildebrand standing there with a burrito in her hands. I did not understand how I was killing myself keeping away from every extra calorie and carbohydrate in sight and she could stand in front of me with a calorie-filled heart attack. Oh, because it was Stacy Hildebrand, that’s why, let me not forget. The news goddess to this city. Stacy was a legend, my mentor, and here she stood in front of me making me jealous with her stupid burrito. “I think it’s a back-to-school story. Phillip and I are going to one of the high schools interviewing some kids. What’s your story?” Stacy took a bite of burrito and laughed. “Some big whig Democrat in town. I don’t like interviewing Democrats,” she said. I rolled my eyes. I hated being treated like the new kid on the block. I just wanted to be equal, but how do you fast forward time, how do you gain respect in only a few months? “Hey, high school is better than your prairie dog story. You had a good live shot the other day. You don’t seem nervous at all anymore. I better watch out before you rip my stories from under me.” She laughed and began to walk away. “Brei, listen,” Stacy said turning back. “Don’t get down about these random stories. You’re new, you’re good, prove it to them. Don’t just think you’re good because no one cares what you think. You must show. Want the rest of this burrito?”

I felt the crown between my hands and memories flooded back to me. Happy memories from high school. I lifted the yearbook out of the box laughing as I sifted through the pages. My friends filled the pages taking me back to the blanket of security that once covered my picturesque life. The real world was full of sharks swimming at me trying to eat me alive. Back then I was someone. Now I was just a face on the nightly news. No one knew the real Breiley Bahn. They saw the girl in the pictures, not the girl sitting on her bed with tears falling onto her teddy bear. My parents never understood why I enjoyed the lights of this profession. I could have moved to a big city with all of my friends to be a teacher or a nurse, but I decided to balance on my own branch walking out of the limb of reporting. I had joined a world far away from my friends keeping in touch with Sprint PCS to PCS free minutes and frequent e-mails inquiring of our new lives. I wanted to join them one day, but my ladder was much taller than their ladder. I had to climb many rungs in order to reach their city in my field. I wanted more for myself, but I wanted this for myself. I wanted this profession, this life, this light, this feeling. The feeling was often sad remembering the laughing times of my college life. Sometimes it was a feeling of lonesome or feeling of fear I wouldn’t reach the stars I grabbed upon as I hung from my tree limb. Most of the time; however, the feeling was proud I had ventured upon that limb and I was busy conquering my wildest dreams.

“I don’t care who you think you are. I don’t want to date the girl with the microphone.” Maybe taking Brad out to eat for his birthday was the wrong idea. I sure didn’t think he would take this opportunity to claw at my personal character. Who was I supposed to be? I was so tired of people telling me who I should be and how I should act. One must put on a tight mask filled with superiority or no one respects them. One must walk around with their head held high and stare down at those that did not believe in them. I shook my head at Brad. “I’m me. Who do you want me to be?” “You’re still stuck in high school and you’re still stuck in college. This is the real world, Brei. No one wants to know about your tiara. Haven’t you ever heard one cannot play in a tiara? And no one cares you anchored the newscast in college. No one cares you were Prom Queen. No one cares you sang the main solo in the Children’s Choir. You get so mad at Merril all the time because she tells you the truth. You hate the truth. If you want to be whoever for the public, then fine, do it. Don’t bring it beyond the microphone.” I stuck my fork in my salad having a sudden urge to throw it in his perfect brown hair. I was trying to be me in every aspect of my life. I had lost the little girl deep inside. I had become so wrapped up in the microphone that I had forgotten I wasn’t the girl waving at the audience in her tiara. I was the girl shrieking inside, wrapping her arms around her stuffed bunny and bowing on my knees that night thanking God for that blessing.

I watched the old man lean over and kiss his grandson gently on the head as the little boy playfully jumped into his arms. An older lady walked outside setting a pitcher of lemonade on a small side table. I smiled and waved at them as I passed on my nightly walk. Walking through my neighborhood brought so many memories to me. New thoughts. Old memories. Memories of growing up sitting on the porch outside with my parents and neighbors. Throwing the football outside in the street with the neighborhood boys as our dads grilled chicken in the backyard. People seem so happy in those hours as the sun sets and they stand around to gleefully socialize after their long days at work. I desperately wanted this life for myself. I was 23 years old just waiting for life to happen for me. I wanted the swing on the front porch… the potted plants on the lawn… the neighbors bringing by leftover apple pie. I wondered what these people did during the day. I quickly imagined myself in their shoes one day. I certainly wasn’t going home to lemonade and apple pie. Maybe this was every young woman’s life at my age. I could wrap my mind around the thought we all weren’t married with cute little gardens at my age, but I could also wrap my mind around the thought we all wished somehow though we didn’t admit it that this was our life playing on the movie reel. We all wanted the white picket fence and the view of the sunset as we laughed gleefully with our neighborhood friends.

I handed Phillip back the microphone and sighed. I loved covering the fun stories, the high school kids made me smile with delight. I saw them in me and somehow I connected to them as if I was their best friend. Ariel wanted hard news… well, then why send me to the local high school? Truthfully, I think somehow I liked the fun stories because they drew me away from reality and let my creative juices flow. Walter Cronkite never interviewed a high school freshman about their favorite lunchmeat. I don’t care if it was the first day the new salad bar opened. I didn’t want to be Walter Cronkite, I wanted to create a new era of journalism. A woman passed beside me grabbing my arm on my way to the car in the high school parking lot. “Are you Breiley Bahn?” she said excitedly. “You’re so much shorter in person. It’s so good to meet you. I just love your stories. You’re so cute. You must sign something for my little girl.” I almost laughed at this woman. She wanted my autograph? I was just some girl jumping out at her from a small television screen while she knitted late at night. She is one of those that saw the girl with the microphone. I smiled feeling warmth inside that I had reached a dream I could only imagine as a little girl interviewing her schoolmates with a Fisher Price microphone. I looked over at Phillip who could barely contain his laughter. We all saw one another within the station. Just as people, not town celebrities. I often wondered if those in Hollywood saw other actors just as people. I had to admit it was a hard feat for me to accomplish. I reached into my purse quickly signing a business card. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to sign for the little girl. I certainly didn’t carry about 8 x 10 pictures of myself. I wanted to hug the lady, my first fan, telling her how she had made a young reporter realize so many things about this profession. I was Breiley Bahn, Super Reporter.

I closed my eyes as I approached the wreckage. Two young boys on dirt bikes. One dead. One sitting beside his bike with his helmet cupped in his hands. The families stood around weeping and frantically trying to put together the pieces of the machines that formed the puzzle to this tragedy. I wanted to run away, but I knew it was my job. I stood there with the warm breeze violently blowing against my hair interviewing the young boy that had just lost his friend. I couldn’t understand why he seemed so poised and talked to me like he had lived a hundred years. Maybe he was in shock. His recounted the accident step by step as I gently asked him questions. I wasn’t playing like the concerned reporter. I was the concerned bystander only doing my job. My heart ached and I wanted to run over to the mother of the deceased to offer any condolences I could. Instead I stood there with my tough armor gathering the pieces for my story. I walked back into the station approaching my desk with the tape tightly clasped in my hand. My hair was blown everywhere out of place. My white shirt now was strewn with dirt from the tracks. I didn’t care. I walked by Stacy as she was typing her story for the night. She grabbed my arm. “How was it?” Because she was once the young reporter approaching a family piecing together the puzzle pieces of a tragedy. I shook my head. “Fine.” I didn’t want to tell Stacy my heart was ripped in pieces. She was the perfect tough reporter. I wondered if Stacy ever shed a tear in her life. She had the iron skin and velvet heart. She was Super Reporter if the label was ever truly assigned. She stood up beside me looking into my eyes. “That’s the toughest part of reporting. You get through stuff like that, you get through anything.” “I forgot when I became a reporter this is stuff we deal with every day. I forgot it isn’t all just hard news, it’s tragedy and talking to families that lose someone. It’s tough.” I felt tears welling in the back of my throat, but I pushed them quickly away. Reporters do not have feelings. We can go home and have feelings, but not in this station. It was often hard to put that mask above my ethical feelings about a situation, but I knew it was in my job description. I wasn’t going to face a tragedy every day. There would be some days I would face the thousandth baby born in the county. Some days I would get to interview the high school spelling bee champion. And some days would be like that day. Putting the puzzle pieces together, trying to understand, trying to explain a tragedy as an everyday story.

I began to realize while I was waiting for life to happen, it was passing me by like a freight train racing a turtle. This was life. This was now. It wasn’t the last football game of my senior year. I wasn’t moving into the dorms. I wasn’t even at my first job interview. It had all been life and it had all happened. I didn’t know where I would be in ten years. I didn’t want to look into the crystal ball. I didn’t know if I would find my soul mate, I didn’t even know if Brad would ever ask me on a real dinner date. I would play in the arena of lights and microphones until I learned every rule. I finally realized that old man sitting on his porch with his grandson didn’t get that way just sitting there day by day. He was once my age. He was once the one walking around his farm wondering if he could ever have the life his parents has as they sipped lemonade and watched the sunset. Life happens as we get up each day to God’s sunrise. The sun has never failed to rise; therefore God has never failed us another day. I didn’t realize as a young girl playing “radio” with her girlfriends that one day I would be interviewing a woman that had just flipped her car ending a life. Nor did I realize I would one day interview a past President of the United States. I learned something new each day. I didn’t want my viewers to know me as a friend, but as a trusted colleague they allowed in their living rooms each night. And I had learned the most valuable lesson in the news business. We know Oprah Winfrey’s boyfriend is named Stedman. We don’t know what scent of candle she burns as she relaxes at night. We know Barbara Walters makes most of the celebrities cry. We don’t know what type of cereal she ate for breakfast. And we know Walter Cronkite is the most trusted man in America. We sure don’t know what type of toothpaste he uses. Behind every microphone is a person just like every other person. Behind every microphone is someone fulfilling a dream. And behind every microphone is where the trust is stored, the passion is greatest, the light is bright. If I knew anything from my short journey, I know I would let the world see the girl beyond the microphone.