Community Journalism Curriculum
Mar. 22nd, 2011 10:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
purejuiceYesterday and today worked on curriculum for community journalism program KWRK is mounting. I couldn't understand why every one they named as potential customers for the class were all hippie dippie pinko progressives, and all the issues were peace rallies, the homeless, and the espaldas mojadas. I kept saying it's not news. Can't we have a value neutral community journalism gene pool? Finally I realized they keep pushing a progressive agenda not just because they're communists, but because literally the mainstream media here do not cover demonstrations of 20,000 people. Asked why, the assignment editors of the local TV stations say, to a man, It's not my demographic. A Columbia Journalism Review article rating local media found ABQ's in last place.
So dang. Anyway, today I gave them the names ranks and serial numbers of people who would make superb community journalists given a flip cam and a little training:
I need to give them my colcha embroidery listserv contact as they're much interested in penetrating the closed and shy and haughty Hispano community which has been here since like 1514. The colcha embroidery woman gave me a business card which has her name on it, and the phrase, 16th generation New Mexican underneath it. They're huge racists and hemophiliacs and conversos and penitentes, fabulous in every way.
Today I'm doing digital searchable notes on the journalism textbook recommended by my ancient friend who is now a j school professor. God it's boring.
I also made sublime baked custard out of homegrown eggs that Mrs. Roper's daughter gave me. Mrs. Roper is having her knees replaced and her daughter, who lives at Macondo's ground zero in the untouched south valley by the Rio Grande in an adobe built by her husband's grandpa that none of us are allowed to visit (I suspect some medicinal herbs might be growing in the back yard), leaving Mr. Roper, who is an old Okie with dementia they still let drive his truck around and drink beer, to fend for himself. So we all pitched in and cooked for Mr. Roper and his daughter and son-in-law, who are keeping Mr. Roper company.
The baked custard is God's own eats and really is the only thing you should do with homegrown eggs. Their yolks are orange and like three inches high. Yum.
So dang. Anyway, today I gave them the names ranks and serial numbers of people who would make superb community journalists given a flip cam and a little training:
- state wide public health nurses, who are everywhere and know everything as they, unlike doctors, make house calls and may be the coolest people on the planet
- school board members state wide, ditto
- the League of Women Voters, who are pretty much spin free, watch the legislature like vultures, and are always looking for the Next Big Thing
- every name and contact info of the Indian health care bureaucracy, who like the public health nurses know everything and are everywhere
- and the board of the local Theravada Buddhist wat, which is the social welfare center for all things Southeast Asian, including folk medicine, divination, shamanist contacts, and the secret reason Asian immigrants get ahead: tong tinsetc..
I need to give them my colcha embroidery listserv contact as they're much interested in penetrating the closed and shy and haughty Hispano community which has been here since like 1514. The colcha embroidery woman gave me a business card which has her name on it, and the phrase, 16th generation New Mexican underneath it. They're huge racists and hemophiliacs and conversos and penitentes, fabulous in every way.
Today I'm doing digital searchable notes on the journalism textbook recommended by my ancient friend who is now a j school professor. God it's boring.
I also made sublime baked custard out of homegrown eggs that Mrs. Roper's daughter gave me. Mrs. Roper is having her knees replaced and her daughter, who lives at Macondo's ground zero in the untouched south valley by the Rio Grande in an adobe built by her husband's grandpa that none of us are allowed to visit (I suspect some medicinal herbs might be growing in the back yard), leaving Mr. Roper, who is an old Okie with dementia they still let drive his truck around and drink beer, to fend for himself. So we all pitched in and cooked for Mr. Roper and his daughter and son-in-law, who are keeping Mr. Roper company.
The baked custard is God's own eats and really is the only thing you should do with homegrown eggs. Their yolks are orange and like three inches high. Yum.
