25 years at the Orlando Sentinel. What a long, strange, amazing trip | Commentary
My 25th anniversary at the Orlando Sentinel snuck up on me.
That’s partly because, if you last a quarter-century at a newspaper these days, they don’t give you a gold watch or keepsake pen. They just give you a weird look that basically says: Wow, you’re still here?
But last week, as I walked into the Orange County administration building for a meeting and checked the date on the sign-in log, it dawned on me that I’d walked into the very same building for the first time 25 years ago to the day.
Time certainly flies. It seems like only yesterday that a reader first wrote to ask: How the [bleep] did they let a [bleep]-for-brains like you write a [bleep]-ing column?
I don’t know, dear reader. But it’s been a pretty [bleep]-ing amazing journey.
I started as a county beat reporter back when local politicians were less guarded. I’d roam the halls, chatting with commissioners or the mayor, but spent more time with the aides and staffers who knew where the bodies were buried.
The intricacies of local government — zoning codes and ordinance amendments — bore most people to tears. But I was like a memo junkie when I got to pick up a 400-page agenda binder on a Friday afternoon for the next week’s meeting. I’d spend the weekend scouring the book and jotting down questions. Are they really trying to spend another $2 million at the convention center without any discussion? Why have they again punted plans to pave the dirt roads in Tildenville and Orlo Vista? Isn’t this timeshare company that’s asking for a special treatment run by the CEO who seems cozy with that one commissioner?
I learned then what we should all remember now: Don’t rely on what politicians claim a law will do. Read it for yourself. Remember the skeptical journalist’s motto: If your mother says she loves you, check it out.
The people who work for newspapers aren’t always the most socially refined. They aren’t impressed by big houses or fancy cars. And they don’t bow or curtsy to power. That’s precisely what you want in a local newsroom.
When I first walked into the Sentinel back in 1998, I saw an ocean of cubicles filled with reporters who were working the phones, arguing with editors and cursing at their computers. I knew I was home.
The newspaper industry has changed a lot over the years. In most ways, for the worse. Our parent company has been bought and sold by people who care more about profits than journalism. One billionaire even bought the esteemed, 150-year-old Tribune franchise and promptly took it into bankruptcy after telling everyone he knew journalism better than any journalist.
Through the years, various owners picked off many of our most valuable assets — our real estate and profitable internet ventures — like vultures trying to feast on family members who were still alive.
One of the most remarkable things about the Orlando Sentinel is that we’ve almost always remained profitable. Even during downturns and recessions. Even when other businesses went belly up. But it was rarely enough for the stockholders or out-of-state owners.
Social media has also taken its toll on newspapers as my children’s generation prefers to get their “news” via Insta feeds and TikTok influencers.
So a newsroom of 500 became 300. And then 200. And now less than 75. The writers, editors and photographers still here are the ones who truly believe in local journalism and have resisted the siren call of jobs with more money, less stress and fewer hours.
Today we’re owned by a hedge fund that makes many decisions I dislike. We jerk loyal customers around on price (including my and my wife’s own subscription), provide shoddy customer service from distant call centers and provide so few avenues for readers to reach real, local people that I’ve responded to more than 2,500 complaints about circulation alone. It is painful. I’ve lost sleep over it.
I could go on about what drives me crazy. But let me tell you what I still love.
I love that newspapers still cover the grassroots issues that are often otherwise ignored, everything from high school sports and local theater to school rezonings and public safety.
I also think one of the most rewarding things about this business is the relationship we have with readers. It is an honor to be trusted with someone’s personal story, a family’s quest for justice or a retired couple’s philanthropic savings when they ask for guidance about charities they can trust.
The people who read this paper are kind, generous, curious and funny. As much as anything, they care about their community.
OK, so some of them are also mean. (Though I’ve learned some of the nastiest are also the most loyal readers.)
But some critics also have good points, thoughtful points that make me think as well.
That’s one last thing I love about newspapers — the diverse opinions. We’ll run guest columns heaping praise on the governor right next to an editorial chastising him. We produce stories that capture the complexities of a debate, sometimes revealing there’s not always a good guy or a bad one. I’ll write a column one day followed the next by a letter to the editor that asks if I have a pile of horse manure for brains. What other business uses its own resources to amplify criticism of itself?
Heck, sometimes we see ideological differences within the same house — like the time I returned a call to a man who wanted to discuss a column he liked, only to have his wife answer the phone and tell me she did not like my column. In fact, she thought I was an idiot and that her husband was an idiot for liking me. So she refused to give him the phone.
What other job is going to afford me experiences like that?
I know the media landscape has changed dramatically and will continue to do so. I know corporate policymakers will continue doing things that irritate me as much as they do readers.
But I also know that they give great leeway to local management, which aggressively covers local news and never tries to censor or control what a gasbag like me wants to say.
The people who are still here care passionately about this community. About telling stories others don’t. And about serving as a watchdog … a sentinel.
