CORRECTION APPENDED
For some of my old bosses, it will come as no surprise that while the world has moved on to Katie Couric, I’m still hanging on to Bob Schieffer.
It’s not that I’m resistant to change (no matter what my old bosses tell you). It’s not even that I think Couric will fail. (Quite the contrary. If the marketers would leave her and her dress size alone, I think she and the CBS staff will do some fine journalism.)
No, I’m hanging on to Bob Schieffer for the same reason I tried to hang on to a Sunday magazine and foreign bureaus and local movie critics and a well-staffed copy desk — because high-quality work is worth fighting for.
And Bob Schieffer represents the highest quality journalism.
I believe him, I trust him, and, more importantly, I trust the journalism that he and his staff delivered to me.
As I watched the videos of his farewell interviews with Katie Couric, I realized what it is about Bob Schieffer that distinguishes him and his journalism:
Humility. The man is genuinely humble.
Humility, for a
journalist, manifests itself in hundreds of ways — as does its
counterpart,
arrogance.I’m not talking about the “Aw, shucks” brand of humility that some of us use to deflect the discomfort of a compliment. I’m talking about humility that leads me to honestly assess my understanding of this extremely complex world, and to conclude — without hesitation or shame — that I have a great deal to learn.
I’m talking about humility that manifests itself in the words: “I don’t know.”
Those are words that most of us in journalism were taught to avoid like — well, like deadlines. Don’t know something? Just write around it.
Not Bob Schieffer.
Even when asked by Couric to “be immodest for a moment” and reflect on the “skills” that helped him succeed as an anchor, Schieffer went his own humble way.
“Well, I’m very curious,” he said, before hurrying completely off the subject of himself. “I always said that Walter Cronkite was the most curious man I’d ever met … and I think that’s what made him a great reporter.”
Curiosity: The hunger to learn what I don’t know.
And being open to the answers — no matter what they are.
That’s humility.
For three years after I left The Philadelphia Inquirer in 2001, I was spokesperson for a health insurance company, Independence Blue Cross. During my time there, I had dealings with some excellent reporters from newspapers, radio and TV who worked hard to understand the complexities of America’s very troubled health care system. They asked genuine, often tough, questions; they were open to answers that challenged their theories; they called back to follow up or to seek clarity.
I also dealt with print and broadcast reporters for whom I was a perfunctory phone call, a necessary ingredient in their quick-bake recipe for fairness.
Picture this scene; it happened to me more than once:
I tell the reporter I will get back to him as quickly as possible, and no later than tomorrow morning. He apologizes, but says that’s too late — his deadline is in 45 minutes. I ask the reporter how long he has been working on the story. He says two days.
It is clear what is happening here.
In this reporter’s 18-paragraph story, paragraph five (or maybe six) has been reserved for my company’s comment. What I say matters little. “Refused to comment” or “Couldn’t be reached for comment” often suffice. After all, the storyline already has been written.
Humility accepts
that there is much I do not know — and that my audience is well aware
of it.Now it’s my turn to be fair. What seemed to me, at the time, to be instances of runaway bias were not necessarily so. Lots of forces have conspired to create scenes like this. Too many stories to do without enough time or reporters to do them. Too many story lines constructed in morning news meetings before a reporter does the first interview. Too many complex beats being covered by general assignment reporters who bring no expertise to the subject.
And too little humility.
If humility means genuinely believing that no matter how much I’ve learned, I still can learn more, then no story line should ever be finalized until every significant player in the story has had a legitimate chance to affect its outcome.
Put it another way: Am I willing to let the very last phone call I make on a story completely change its direction?
- No matter how close I am to deadline?
- No matter how much I will disrupt my newscast’s rundown?
- No matter how much inconvenience and extra work my decision will cause my colleagues?
Humility, for a journalist, manifests itself in hundreds of ways — as does its counterpart, arrogance.
Humility responds to a caller’s complaint that a story was incorrect with questions and a willingness to investigate further, not with defensiveness.
Humility fights the inclination to reach conclusions prematurely, to act upon my assumptions, to value my own expertise above that of others.
Humility acknowledges the great gulf that exists between the very best work I can do and my ultimate goal, the truth.
Humility accepts that there is much I do not know — and that my audience is well aware of it.
It has occurred to me in recent years that journalists may have contributed to the public’s cynicism about our work by overstating its complexity.
Schieffer told Couric: “…We need to go out and find out what happened, and then tell people about it in language they can understand. And when we’ve done that, it can be a noble thing.”To be sure, doing journalism well is difficult. I have tremendous admiration for journalists who craft great questions, who write with clarity and grace, whose analytical skills help me understand issues I otherwise would not comprehend.
And given the determination of newsmakers to color, obscure or conceal information from the public, doing journalism well is arguably more difficult than ever.
But the essence of a journalist’s work is pretty straightforward.
In his conversation with Katie Couric, Bob Schieffer recalled how Bob Woodward of The Washington Post once responded to a question about whether he anticipated how the Watergate story would turn out.
“Bob said, ‘I had no idea how it was going to end.’ He said, ‘We were just trying to find out what happened.’ ” Then Schieffer told Couric:
And when we’ve done that, it can be a noble thing.
A noble thing, indeed: “Find out what happened and tell them about it in language they can understand.” Later in the conversation, Schieffer told Couric his job was to be a “guide to the news … not to tell people what to think but to help people understand.”
Sacred or not, the relationship that exists between Schieffer and his audience is a trust. It’s a trust on which excellent journalism depends — for without it, no matter how close we get to the truth, our work does not matter.
Without it, no one is listening.
And how does one build — or rebuild — that trust?
Listen to the words of one who knows, a veteran reporter who, at 68 years of age, was asked to rebuild the image of a disgraced network news organization. Listen to Bob Schieffer:
We have to do it one story and one day at a time.
And the one thing we had to do was to make sure the news we put on the air was accurate and reflected truly what was happening.
And we did that, I think.
I think so, too, Bob Schieffer. Thank you for reminding us how it’s done.
CORRECTION: The centerpiece graphic originally accompanying this article misspelled the word, humility.
