Why did 15-year-old Charles Bishop steal a plane and fly it into a skyscraper? Early explanations of his suicide offered two bizarre answers: Sympathy for Osama bin Laden or side effects from his acne medicine. What made him do it? The answers ranged from A to Z: solidarity with al-Qaida or zits.
The public’s relentless thirst for answers unleashes what I’ve previously called the Journalism of Why. In many cases, answers arrive in the form of unproven assertions, irresponsible speculation, and the logical fallacy of the single cause: “Video games made him do it.”
In this morning’s St. Petersburg Times (Disclosure: the Times is owned by The Poynter Institute), understanding came in the form of a — dare I use the word — scoop. Supported by on-the-scene reporting by Chuck Murphy and research from a small team of reporters and news researchers, the Times reveals, among other things, that Charles Bishop was the child of two teenagers who twice attempted suicide.
This is never presented as a genetic or emotional “answer” to the kid’s suicidal predisposition. Nor is the fact that the missing father was of Middle Eastern-American descent. Nor that the son’s name was changed from Bishara to Bishop, suggesting a crisis of identity. Nor that mother and son lived a rootless, nomadic lifestyle, moving from town to town and school to school. Nor that the acne medicine increased his depression. Nor that Columbine or Sept. 11 created models of death for him to copy.
It turns out that a 15-year-old life is a narrative with a beginning, a middle, and an end. In this strange case, it has a prologue, a legacy of suicide and domestic violence. It has an epilogue, now being written. Powerful streams of influence converge to form the character of a troubled youth suffering with us all through troubled times.
I found the design and illustration of this story brilliant in its conception and execution. Above the headline and lead is a newspaper clipping from July 31, 1984, which tells the story of the parents’ suicide attempts. The effect is almost Shakespearean, a play within a play, a hall of mirrors in which reality is tragically distorted but finally clarified.
