海角大神

From the editors: After 45 years of reporting and editing, Francine Kiefer is hanging up her press pass. Francine spent most of her career with 海角大神, serving as the paper鈥檚 Germany bureau chief when the Berlin Wall fell, as its White House correspondent covering the administrations of former Presidents Bill Clinton and George W. Bush, and as its congressional reporter. For the past six years, Francine has served as the West Coast bureau chief, winning multiple awards for regional coverage.

Here, she offers insights for a rising generation of reporters 鈥� and a peek behind the scenes at how this reporter does her job.

On the cusp of my 20th birthday, far from home and inexperienced in the professional world, I landed my first journalism job as a college intern at The Anchorage Daily News in Alaska.

It was love at first write.

I suspect that the majestic mountains didn鈥檛 hurt. But by the end of the summer, I was hooked on reporting itself. I couldn鈥檛 believe that an employer would pay me to learn 鈥� to ask whatever questions I wanted, and share what I found with others.

Of course, there鈥檚 a lot more to reporting than that. It鈥檚 a craft, learned over decades from colleagues, editors, and on-the-job experience. Despite the ever-changing news business 鈥� marked by the decline in newspapers and newsroom jobs, the evolution toward digital and social media, and the loss of revenues and funding 鈥� reporting skills remain a constant. Here鈥檚 some of what I鈥檝e learned:

Think strategically

Not all sources want to talk. Nor are they available. When I write an email query, I carefully consider the all-important subject line: Does this deserve ALL CAPS for visibility? Is this a cold call or a familiar source? And, when I鈥檓 having trouble reaching an essential source, there鈥檚 nothing like showing up in person.

When covering Congress, I tried to think ahead about where to intercept certain lawmakers at vote time. What staircases, hallways, and elevators did they frequent? At the weekly Senate press conference, I found my sweet spot 鈥� off to the side, and always wearing a bright color to stand out. It was a surefire way to get called on.

During the George W. Bush administration, a Boston Globe reporter once asked how I got White House Chief of Staff Andy Card to return my calls. I guess it鈥檚 now safe to reveal the backstory:

My Monitor colleague and I had done a profile of Mr. Card at the start of the new administration. During a sit-down interview in his office, we had asked about his daily routine. He shared that he arrived at the White House at 6 a.m. He liked the quiet. I made a mental note, and from time to time, I called the White House switchboard at 6:15 a.m. and asked to be put through to Mr. Card. He answered his phone, and we had substantive conversations. I kept it short, direct, and respectful. And he kept answering my calls.

Reporters are people, too

Reporters are people, too. I was a young business reporter, sent to New York City to interview media mogul Rupert Murdoch about his expanding empire. His office at the New York Post was like a wide bowling alley 鈥� his desk at one end, a seating area at the other. The layout seemed designed to intimidate, as did his brusque manner and the presence of his attorney.

Mr. Murdoch responded to my first questions in terse one- or two-word answers, punctuated by uncomfortable silences. I wince at the memory of him cutting off my questions, telling me he wasn鈥檛 done speaking. I paused longer between questions. It didn鈥檛 seem to make any difference.

I managed to keep my composure, but the minute I stepped onto the sunny sidewalk, the dam broke. Our photographer, Neal Menschel, comforted me, saying it was the toughest interview he had ever seen.

Reporters strive to remain professional, balanced, probing, and polite. And that interview toughened me up. But we, too, feel uncertain at times. We cry at grief and tragedy. We fear dangerous situations. We need mental health breaks. We are not robots.

Those we write about are also people. Two days after 9/11, I was standing just outside the Oval Office, part of a rotating pool of White House reporters who follow the president each day. Because questions are the most important part of my job, I was considering what I could ask President Bush that would shed light on his thinking at this crucible moment.

I knew that the next day, he would address the nation from the Washington National Cathedral for a day of prayer. I also knew that he was a man of deep faith. I was genuinely curious about how this president, under so much pressure, was tending to his own spiritual needs. I wondered what he was praying for himself. So I asked.

From my pool report:

鈥�... the President turned away for a moment, his head slightly lowered. When he turned back to reporters, his eyes were brimming with tears.

鈥榃ell, I don鈥檛 think of myself right now,鈥� Mr. Bush said, his deep blue eyes glazed with moisture. 鈥業 think about the families, the children.鈥�

Red in the face and blinking away tears, he continued on. 鈥業鈥檓 a loving guy. And I am also someone, however, who鈥檚 got a job to do and I intend to do it.鈥欌��

The scene went viral. Even the man with arguably the most powerful job in the world had feelings.

And so it is with everyone we report on. Disaster survivors. Unsung heroes. Wage workers. Voters. Most people are not used to dealing with the media. Have we treated them with the fairness and dignity that everyone deserves?

The Monitor way

When Mary Baker Eddy established this newspaper in 1908, she wrote that its object is 鈥渢o injure no man, but to bless all mankind.鈥� That鈥檚 a unique mission in journalism, and it鈥檚 still on our masthead today.

This means examining the world鈥檚 ills through a different lens 鈥� through reporting that is fair and insightful, and points to hope and progress. To that end, I have a sticky note on my computer screen: 鈥淟ook for the love.鈥�

That was uppermost in thought on a morning in January 2023 鈥� the day after a mass shooting at a dance studio in Monterey Park, California. This happened just a few miles from my house, and as I drove to the scene, I was looking for love.

Monterey Park is sometimes called America鈥檚 鈥渇irst suburban Chinatown.鈥� If you don鈥檛 speak Chinese, you can feel lost. As I neared the commercial heart of town, I passed a church that offered services in both Chinese and English. Probably a good place to find love, I thought.

Inside, I found an older church member comforting a younger member who was too distraught to sing in the choir for the English service. I introduced myself, listened, and observed, and then left to conduct other reporting.

When I returned for the Chinese service, the younger member had been supported enough that he was now leading the singing. It reflected what often happens after a tragedy: A community pulls together to help one another 鈥� a universal instinct that gives me hope for America, even in these turbulent, polarized times.

The following year, while reporting on the surge of Chinese migrants crossing illegally over the U.S. southern border, I contacted one of the church members I鈥檇 met during that earlier mass-shooting story. His translating not only helped me speak with migrants who had flocked to Monterey Park, but he also proved to be an excellent guide to the town and its culture, which he knew intimately.

This year, that migrant story won first prize from the Los Angeles Press Club. The love I saw my interpreter express at the church service came back to bless me and my reporting. And my hope is that my work blessed him and his community as well.