How about MYOB?

In last week's NY Times magazine, I read an article about narrow reporting, in which an amateur reporter pursued a local story that the main stream media avoided. Long story short, there was a violent death in the writer's neighborhood and the local Mrs. Kravitz/ yenta, upset that there was no coverage in NYC's major newspapers as the death was a suicide of a family man, which the media generally avoids as suicide is a private matter, had to resort to local outlets, such as the neighborhood newspaper, that might mention such news. Still not satisfied with that miniscule coverage, she then felt compelled to write about the suicide in the NY Times magazine, thereby ensuring this family's grief received a wider audience (and which I realize I am contributing to by blogging about it). The article angered me for two reasons.

One, is that the author almost gave the identity of the suicide victim away, or at least made it more likely that people who hadn't heard about it would find out about it. Years ago, I used to live in the neighborhood the author and suicide victim lived in. The local paper she mentioned was generally distributed free in my building's lobby and I usually read it. She named enough streets and landmarks that I was able to surmise the block the suicide happened on, enough so that I looked up the article to make sure it wasn't an old friend who lived on that block (it wasn't and the victim lived around the block). The name was dully reported in the local paper but, as I no longer read that paper, I was unaware of the suicide until I read the Times and I think that was what really annoyed me: the local paper has an audience of several thousands; the Sunday NY Times has a circulation of about 1.5M. That is a lot more people who now know of this family's tragedy than did before. This brings me to my second point.

There other reason the article bothered me: the death, assuming if it was ultimately ruled a suicide was a private matter and really no one's business. Over 20 years ago I had a 15 year old brother die in a car accident. Basically, he blew curfew and was car surfing (sitting on the hood of a moving car while the driver tried to shake the passengers off), fell, landed on his head and ultimately died of complications from a fractured skull. The police investigated as there was a delay from the time of the accident to when our doorbell was rung, and, because a child died. Though it was almost a quarter of a century ago, the details are quite fresh in memory, from the VCR clicking off at 1AM, after taping the Honeymooners and Star Trek off of channel 11 as we answered our door to find the driver telling us to come down as my brother had fallen and wouldn't wake up all the way through to hours later as my father cried on the couch like a baby, just before sunrise, inconsolable, saying nothing would be "all right again" as I sat quietly on the floor of the couch while he cried to at least be there for him.

Even now, all these years later, I'm still learning new details about that night. Last week, while having drinks with an older cousin, the topic drifted to my brother's death, my father's death not long after and how we've rarely talked about it over the years and it was only in the last 5 years or so we've really all made our peace with what happened. While talking my cousin mentioned how horrible it was for my brother to have died in my father's arms. What was interesting was that was not the chain of events as I remembered them or as my parents told us. For one thing, I was present when my brother stopped breathing in the driveway behind our apartment building as we waited for the ambulance; we got him going again with CPR. For another, my dad mentioned that he knew it was over when, while following the ambulance to the hospital, a second ambulance pulled over so they could assist in working on my brother. All these years, I thought my parents just sat in our car and watched in disbelief along the side of the highway as my brother was worked on: now I realize that my parents went to the ambulance and were there when my brother died. In one way, it's nice to know he wasn't alone with just the medics, in another, though it explains why my mother, outside of a haiku she wrote for her school's publication, has rarely said a word, letting her grief ravage her body (though she has had moments of happiness, such as weddings and grandchildren over the years, I can't really recall her laughing at anything in the last 20 years, aside from a sarcastic chuckle now and then) and why my father, a 35 year smoker down to less than half a pack a day quickly shot up to 3 packs a day until he died of a broken heart a few years later.

As I implied, all this is deeply personal. Even writing this all these years later still brings tears to me, but, as it is now over half a lifetime ago, distance allows me to talk about it quite freely. However, I can't imagine how much more hellish the whole experience would have been if local bloggers had been around back then to ask us what happened. My brother's death was never reported in the major media nor the local neighborhood papers which generally concentrated on user supplied articles. Outside of an essay I wrote on the matter for a college class, which I found therapeutic at the time, few outside our circle of friends, co-workers (of my parents) and family, knew of his death. Having once been to a funeral covered by the media (mother of a friend killed in a bus accident on the way to Atlantic City about a decade ago which made the news due to puclic interest), I find the thought of our family having to share our grief back then with strangers unnerving. This brings me back to the NY Times article.

In concluding her essay, the author lamented few journalists did any reporting on her neighbor's death, even though there was a surfeit of interest, judged by the gossip she heard around the neighborhood. I suggest that one, most of the people who were interested were probably the type of neighborhood gossips who would want to know this type of information anyway. A second thought is that most people know there is no story of public interest here; it is just a family tragedy not to be shared with the world at large unless or until the family is ready to share. Although, I am writing about it, my brother's death is still rarely discussed amongst my surviving brother, sister and our cousins, aside from when the memories overwhelm me now and then and I share my sadness with my wife (which usually leads me to write something in my personal journal, or, now in the 21st century, on a blog -- as I said before, I'm fine once I get it out and don't really mind sharing). It is our story. It belongs to no one but ourselves. Those who know us will know who this article is about; those who don't will have no clue. On a side note, I ended up with many of my brother's old class photos and recently posted them on our elementary school's Facebook page. It has been nice to see the comments from my brother's old classmates who also still remember and miss him.

The writer justifies her nosiness as one of a concerned neighbor. I classify it as someone who not only does not know how to mind her own business. Worse, she turned one family's tragedy around and made it all about herself and her failure to be Mrs. Kravitz and ask the police what happened on the day of the death. I think that is what really disgusted me. You may be curious about what is happening with your neighbor, it doesn't mean it is any of your business.