Journalism is what I do:
Click. Perched on the edge of my chair, I sit in the hallway of an Omaha Spanish-speaking church on a Friday morning, not far from the University of Nebraska Medical Center. I listen to a desperate, broken father tell me in Spanish about how he had placed his son’s hand between the thin pages of Psalm 23, every day, praying for a miracle. He looks up at me and tells me his son died on Tuesday morning. A nurse unplugged his son’s ventilator against the father’s will. And there was nothing more he could have done. I had to tell the story. I fought for it. Click.
Days after winding down from El Alto, the city above the valley that is La Paz, Bolivia, I drive with two others to an hacienda outside of Cochabamba. When we arrive, 10 children are playing outside with a large stick and a tire swing. They are orphans, and they all live together as brothers and sisters. I pull out my camera and start shooting pictures. A little girl with long black braids asks me in Spanish, “Can I see?” I show her the picture of herself. Her pumpkin smile consumes her face. Click.
Sitting on the floor, I frantically type out hundreds of 140-character updates on the proceedings of the Nebraska LB48 legislative hearing. Names, spellings, titles, quotes. Observe and describe. The bill is modeled after Arizona’s immigration law. Sen. Charlie Jansen is being drilled by his fellow senators. Our live tweeting puts people there and extends the conversation. Click.