I write the stories that most often are kept from social media, or have the comments closed. Though disappointing, I’ve always been a bit thankful. I’ve seen what people will say when they have anonymity on their side.
In fact, it’s often just as bad from those who proudly state their names and intentions.
I am a white woman, and I am working a beat called Communities. While it is the stories of my community of Sudbury, it is specifically those of the Black, Indigenous, Francophone and immigrant members of this city.
I am a white woman telling the stories of BIPOC, and my privilege does, of course, blind me to some aspects of the stories I am trying to tell. I have wrestled with this, of course. I am romantic about journalism, but I have no reason not to be. I am a settler, and it is a settler system. It is one that I believe in the way I believe in the United Federation of Planets. Something pure and seeking knowledge for the betterment of all.
But it is a system that is not friendly to all and I must always consider that as a journalist, I am an enemy to many.
I also have to realize that I ‘do not know what I do not know’, to put it vaguely and simplistically. There will always be aspects of my work, of the world and the cultures of the people I hope to work with that will be impaired by my privilege, and I must constantly seek to overcome that.
So far, those who have shared their stories with me have been pleased with the outcome, and this means everything to me. In fact, there are only two voices that I consider important, the subjects, and my editor’s. If they agree that I am meeting and lifting my burden, I shall continue to learn, work and share.
I work hard to make sure that every piece is filled with enough nuance and context to ensure that both sides of the story are told, specifically and truthfully. I stand to the side and let the characters tell the story, then I research and confirm. Trust, then verify.
But stories are not static; they move, they are reinterpreted. If you've ever played the game telephone, you know how these things get mangled.
And so, the moment the person — the human being — at the centre of one of my stories gets the chance to speak, to say something important for all to hear, they must also carry with them a heckler, someone yelling from behind, trying to steal focus.
Why should these stories have to carry the burden of that weight? Why must they travel with baggage? Why must those who have nothing of importance to add have their ideas equally measured against those who have not only taken the time to share a story, to share a piece of themselves, but those who have researched, fact-checked and investigated?
And if a comment section is an opportunity in the war against evil, who are the soldiers who will fight?
Who will battle in the fields of Facebook? Will it be left to the labour of BIPOC, or the LGBTQ2+ community not only to have to share deep and traumatic stories — or personal and wonderful ones — but then be once again required to beat back the racism and discrimination that demands so much of their time to begin with?
What if it is your child winning the science fair and getting their name in the paper and on social media, for you to share with relatives far and wide. Then someone calls your son a hateful and racist name on that story? The one that is now moving all over the country, with his name and that word, together forever.
If I told the story of my own mother brushing my hair — as I did of Ra’anaa Brown’s, or of Waubgeshig Rice’s — in front of the Wonderful World of Disney TV program on Sunday nights, of her braiding it and securing it with an elastic, would I need to make sure that no one used any racial slurs against me? Would I need to pre-emptively close the comments because of the hate that would flow from anonymous keyboards, calling me and my family names you probably can't imagine, because they’re not as awful as any that have been slurred to those of colour?
So, if you ask me would I like to have that story of my mother and I, shared from deep inside my heart as a precious memory, then have it sent across the world to be attacked with racism, hate, prejudicial ignorance and stupidity? Would I like to have to protect and defend my memory online, to re-engage multiple times throughout a day, to go back and battle with those who would taint this memory by calling my mother despicable names for their own enjoyment?
How could I say yes, knowing the stories of my life, the only things that are truly mine, could be surrendered to the mercy of hate, discrimination and verbal violence?
I still share all my articles, and every reader is free to as well. Start conversations in groups, on your own feed, and on community pages across social media.
But for now, I like that the comments will be off. Hopefully, it won’t be forever, but we want to bring you the news, the local stories that matter most to Sudbury and to Northern Ontario. I think this is how we can focus on doing just that.
Jenny Lamothe is a Local Journalism Reporter at Sudbury.com. She covers the Black, Indigenous, immigrant and Francophone communities.
