Just For TV Teachers

Getting older is fine. Feeling older stinks.

Seems like yesterday I was standing in my English classroom, which was also now the new “Media” classroom, preparing to teach TV for the first time.

I had two sections, one with 32 students, the other 33, and my only background was in print journalism in college and high school. Twenty years and two months later, we have a studio, a dozen cameras, 14 edit bays, a separate classroom, and every piece of equipment we need to do our little show. In fact, we are currently working on “HTV Magazine” number 174, which seems impossible.

My hair was dark brown in the fall of 1989, I wore glasses, and I was still coaching baseball. Now, the ever-thinning hair is grey, I have contact lenses, and I have not filled out a line-up card in 15 years.

I still get up excited to work on HTV and The Friday Show, but now I automatically awaken way too early, around 5 a.m. I’m dead by 8 or 9 at night. Those Saturday HTV work days are no longer as fun as they used to be. The kids seem to have a little less time to stay late or come in early. Maybe I don’t insist like I used to. Mellowing happens.

The novelty and excitement of producing a TV show has faded a bit because, thanks to Youtube and other online portals, anyone can upload video to share with the world, and it seems the dumber it is, or the more shocking it is, the more young people will watch. In general, across the nation, fewer kids want to do serious journalism. They would rather create the next big, pointless clip to “go viral.”

The equipment is changing again, and I have been through a lot of that since 1989. We have 12 GL2 camcorders, and are thankful for them. We will be one of the last programs on earth to go HD or to use tapeless cameras, I imagine, due to budget concerns, or maybe due to my concern that schools need to worry a little less about the bells and whistles and focus on finding, training, encouraging and championing reporters who will tackle tough stories, kids who will dare someone to take away their freedom to report the truth and question authority. I am probably itching for more First Amendment battles than most advisers, because I hear about very few of those in scholastic broadcasting these days. Many of us are not pushing the envelope like we should. Some of us aren’t even opening the envelope in the first place.

There have been moments to celebrate in my program in 2009. A memorable “convergence” bus tour where we saw a lot of the eastern and southern U.S. and shared it all with those who followed us online. A great ten days I’ll never forget. I probably have one more of those in me before I head into the sunset.

HTV won the “STN Excellence Award” last March, and we were all very thrilled, then we experienced the letdown of being a Pacemaker finalist, but not a winner. We have won ten times in the past, but not in 2009. It was another reminder that broadcast contests should not be your reason to exist. If it is, you will get your heart broken frequently by decisions made by judges whom you will likely never meet.

I have been bolstered more than I expected this fall by my Broadcast I class, which shows tremendous potential. They have enthusiasm, talent, and so far, the dedication to work after school until the job is done. The HTV staff has been improving each month, and their understanding that they have not done their best show yet gives me plenty of hope for them in the weeks and months ahead.

So as 2009 draws to a close, I look back with with a lot of great memories, and the realization that as I venture further into the twilight of my teaching career, we still have plenty of great stories in our future here at Hillcrest, stories by teens, for teens.

See you on the other side of the new year.

Comments Off

Mitch and Casey were hoping to shoot a story about a runaway everyone
called “Ponyboy,” but not because he was an S. E. Hinton fan. Ponyboy
never read much more than the nearest street sign. The name was actually
pinned on him by his late father, who trained horses on a farm just north
of the city until Ponyboy was 14. After dad passed away, the family fell
apart, and ‘Richard Joe Cants’ disappeared from home, from school, and from
anything close to a normal teen life.

Since they only had four more days to shoot a story for a national
broadcasting contest, the young reporter and photographer were anxious to
catch up with their runaway, who sent word he’d meet them at the “acid
tunnel,” a notorious hang-out underneath the interstate, ironically
located about six blocks from Highway Patrol Trood D headquarters on east
Kearney Street. Nothing much went on in the acid tunnel that a state
trooper would approve of, so Casey was starting to make noise about just
“forgetting the whole thing.”

“He’ll show up. Chill. Nobody’s here. Look.”

Comforting words from Mitch, who had a flashlight bigger than the Canon GL
2 camera they brought with them for the interview. As it beamed a shaft
of light into the opening of the acid tunnel, about the only thing they
saw was graffiti painted on the concrete walls. Some of the words and phrases would
definitely not make it into their story.

Amber Lynn, one of the girls in Mitch’s P.E. class who “knew people” from
the wrong side of the tracks, had told him about Ponyboy a few weeks back
during a day neither of them dressed out for P.E. Mitch kept that
information to himself, knowing it would make a great story. Now it was
time to cash in. Amber had set it all up. The interview would be at 6
p.m. She couldn’t come, so the boys only had her description of Ponyboy
as they watched and waited.

“If this guy has other people with him, I’m out of here,” said Casey.
About that time, a twig breaks in the distance. Someone steps on an
aluminum can. Now feet crunching on gravel. Suddenly, a shadow near the
tunnel opening.

“Are you guys from HTV?” The voice came from a long, skinny body that
matched Amber’s description. The twilight had dimmed, and it was hard to
see facial features.

“We’re Amber’s friends. I’m Mitch.”

“We gotta do this somewhere else. Some people are coming here soon, and
they aren’t my friends, or yours. We need to get now.”

Casey didn’t have to be told twice. He was already walking up the small
hill they had previously climbed down to get to the opening in front of
the tunnel. Mitch asked Ponyboy if he wanted to ride with them.

“I will if you’ll make a stop on the way.” The runaway wasn’t asking, really.

Mitch looked at Casey, who was almost to the car.

“Where you need to go?”

“Take me to the emergency room.”

That’s when the lights from an 18-wheeler passing overhead on the highway
illuminated a stream of blood along the left side of Ponyboy’s head and
neck. Mitch couldn’t tell if he’d been hit, or shot. He yelled at Casey
as Ponyboy passed out and fell to the ground.

The interview would have to wait.

Comments Off