Is a Media Credential Worthy?
If last September you didn’t see a street billboard advertising the movie The Irishman, then you didn’t leave your house.
As the release day approached, the city became saturated with images of Scorsese’s film. Many of us were excited about the idea of De Niro and Pacino once again together in a movie. My enthusiasm, however, diminished when I found out its running time was 209 minutes.
Movie critics, artists, and even my butcher Julio insisted that the movie should be watched in one sitting. Well, I watched The Irishman in chunks. Have I strayed from the right path? I haven’t decided yet.
In like manner, I haven’t made up my mind whether a media credential is worthy. It does have benefits. If journalists and the media they work for have a good reputation, they access anywhere anytime. That makes the work undoubtedly efficient. But, do credential holders amuse themselves when setting up an interview?
I think this is what happens when an accredited journalist calls someone to interview.
Respectable media credential holder: — Hi, I’m XX. I work at XXX. I would like to invite you for an intervi…
Very famous politician/celebrity/religious head: — Sure! When would it be better for you?
I can’t imagine the accredited journalist being ecstatic to talk -perhaps once again- with that personage.
But without a press pass, my only certainty is that I won’t probably interview that hard-to-get-person. So that’s when the fun begins. It’s a time-consuming, undignifying, and yet curiously enjoyable operation. The starting point is an action plan and a powerful network of contacts: none of which I have at the outset of the process.
Coffee and Tacos
A few years ago, I wanted to interview a Wall Street broker. When I arrived at The New York Stock Exchange I found out it was almost impossible to go into the building. ‘After 9/11, to come in you should either be a broker or know one’, an old man said.
I fell into neither category. I needed an action plan.
I walked backward and watched the building. It was immense. The steps, the windows, the columns: everything was blue-whale-scale. Then, I saw two figures. I approached the edifice again. They were the security guards. Seen from a distance they didn’t seem challenging. As a matter of fact, they were an obstacle to achieving my goal.
It was the last week of October. Mornings were chilly, afternoons were windy. (I wasn’t brave enough to go out during the night but I doubt it got warmer.) I looked at the security guards once more. Although they were wearing thick coats, I thought some hot coffee would be a nice touch. It was a nice touch indeed. Yet, it didn’t work. ‘Sorry, there’s no way we can let you in. But thanks for the coffee.’
The next day I went back to the Financial District. I still didn’t have a plan. I just knew that if I wanted to talk to a broker, I had to be there.
At noon, I entered a Mexican restaurant. Nothing, except for the guy wiping down the tables, was genuinely Mexican. He wasn’t supposed to take my order but he did. ‘You can wait for your breakfast tacos next to the fish tank’, he said as he pointed at an apparently empty aquarium.
I walked towards the container. I confirmed there were neither fish nor water. Instead, there were over 100 business cards. I came up with the most ridiculous explanations of why those cards were there, including sorcery, deaths, and unwelcome customers. The Mexican guy arrived at the fish-free aquarium with my breakfast tacos just in time to interrupt my conjectures. He wasn’t supposed to serve my meal but he did.
-Provecho! Remember to order chili con carne next time: the breakfast tacos taste terrible.
As he walked away from the table, he invited me to leave my business card for the free lunch raffle.
-Free lunch raffle?
-Yes. Our customers leave their business cards and every Tuesday we hold a raffle.
Hmm… the customers? I took a look at the people around.
-Do you have any stockbrokers among your customers?
-This is Wall Street: most of our customers are stockbrokers!
I thought I had unexpectedly come up with an action plan.
I told the Mexican guy my story. I told him I wanted to interview a Wall Street stockbroker. I also told him I couldn’t enter to the New York Stock Exchange building unless I was a stockbroker myself. I told him about the cold mornings, the guards, and the coffee. I didn’t need to explain how helpful those business cards were so that I could finally find my interviewee.
*
I could now say I stole the fish tank, went back home, and stayed the rest of the day calling stock brokers. Or, I could say that the Mexican guy helped me to classify the cards and went with me to visit the brokers’ offices. I could even say I met a broker as she was putting her business card in the aquarium. Whatever scenario you chose, the thing is that those business cards were useless. I prefer keeping the details to myself. Not only I’d kill a good story, but I’d also embarrass myself unnecessarily.
I came back to the New York Stock Exchange. Things had hardly changed since the last time I had visited it. The building was still huge and impenetrable. The two security guards, wrapped up warm in bulky jackets, firmly stood at the door.
I looked at the place wondering how would I find someone to interview.
I was focused on solving the enigma until an annoying man stood next to me talking on his cellphone. He wouldn’t stop talking, not even to take a breath. I tried to ignore him. I tried it once. I tried it twice. When I decided to ask him to lower his voice (or simply to stop talking), I realized the man was not that close to me. Also, I saw there was a fence between him and me.
It took me a minute or so to understand why he was on the other side of the fence. He was wearing elegant trousers and a less stylish blazer. It turned out the blazer was a trading jacket and the annoying man was a New York Stock Exchange trader.
My action plan had been in front of me for the last half-hour and I didn’t notice it.
-Excuse me! — He didn’t listen to me the first time. — Excuse me! — I yelled.
The trader turned around with his index finger on his chest. I read his lips: Me?
I nodded.
He walked towards me.
-Who are you?
-I’m a freelance journalist. I’ve been looking for a trader to interview. I’ve been trying to enter the building but the security guards wouldn’t let me in.
He hanged up the phone and asked me to meet him at the entrance. So I did.
When the security guards saw me arrive, one of them said:
-It’s you again.
-Yes, it’s me again!
-The rules are still the same: you can’t enter!
It was then when the man with the funny jacket arrived.
-Please, let her in. I know her.
We all realized that was nonsense. But the fib worked.
Not only I could talk to a trader, but I also entered the New York Stock Exchange. I would have been satisfied with interviewing the trader on the street, with the fence between us, but since the idea came to him…
I admit giving the interview inside the building was fruitful. There, the trader introduced me to some of his colleagues, whom I’d interviewed as well.
If all you have is coffee and tacos, you never can dream big enough.