Earlier one of our friends posted a long and thoughtful comment on a previous post, and among many other points he noted the importance of “investigative reporting” to “help restore trust” in our society.
Well, yes and no. The investigative stuff is important, or at least it used to be. Woodward and Bernstein have been heroes of mine since the start of my career in the mid-70s. But I hope you’ll notice that it doesn’t mean as much today. Woodstein reported the truth about Watergate, and Nixon resigned rather that be impeached. Media expose outrage after outrage after outrage about Trump (which doesn’t take much investigation, since he boasts to the world of his sins — he is even impeached, twice, and gets conficted of crimes.
And what’s the public’s reaction? They cheer at his rallies, and elect him again.
And you know, an overemphasis on investigative journalism in my generation — the post-Watergate generation — has something to do with that. Every cub reporter (or at least, most of the ambitious ones) entering newsrooms since 1974 has come in busting to rip the cover off public officials, and they’ve done a lot of it, constantly. (I told one reporter who wanted to drop everything to chase after a lead because he wanted to “hit a home run” that he needed to stop swinging for the fences, and concentrate on getting on base. I wanted him to cover his beat. Even in those days of full newsrooms, I was never fully satisfied with my people’s coverage of the everyday stuff.)
And you know what resulted from all that fervent investigation? The public at large came to believe that that was all government was about — corruption. Say “They’re all a bunch of crooks” to the average guy, and he’ll nod his head.
Journalists knew better. We were out there covering public officials up close. Sure, there were slimeballs out there, but we knew most of them were decent, honest people doing their best to serve the public. But that’s not the way we covered the public sphere. Decent, honest folks don’t give you home runs.
That’s why I appreciated a feature we had at The State when I first arrived in the late 80s, back when had not only plenty of people but loads of space. We had a weekly page in the special Sunday section that included in-depth stories about the past week, the opinion pages, and related stuff (back then, all papers had these sections, and gave them names like “Perspective,” “Impact,” “Insight,” “Review” and such.) In that section, my team (governmental affairs) had a full page to fill about goverment and politics.
And we had a centerpiece feature on it that in the newsroom we called “bureaucrat of the week.” That’s because we considered it a pain in the posterior. We passed the duty around among the staff, everybody having to write one, and each reporter groaning when his turn came up again. (They’d rather be out there swinging at the fence for something on the front page.)
But I thought it was great. It was a weekly profile of one of the thousands of little-known people out there working hard at state agencies, explaining what these people did and why they did it instead of earning more money out in the private sector.
It was an example of a type of public journalism (or civic journalism, or community journalism; it was called different things and defined different ways, but I tend to think of it in communitarian terms), a movement that arose in the 90s because some editors were smart enough to realize that people were getting a skewed view of the world. It was about covering all that went on in a community, not just what went wrong, giving the public a full, holistic picture of reality.
Well, it was a noble goal, and I believed in it, but I seldom really practiced it day-to-day. Even in those flush days, resources — people, space and time — were finite, and you had to cover the plane that crashed, couldn’t afford to cover all of the thousands that land safely.
I say all that to explain why I appreciated this Facebook post by Sam Johnson, a young local attorney who was a close aide to Steve Benjamin during his years as mayor of Columbia. He wrote this about a neighbor of ours who died this week:
True public servants lie in the shadows. You often never know their name. Or, that they were even there. They weren’t there for that reason…for you to know them or the recognition. In today’s world, these types of public servants are rare breeds. They serve because they believe in something bigger than themselves.Chris Carrizales was a true public servant. He was a brother. He was a friend. He didn’t care about the accolades. He wasn’t posting every cool interaction he had for the clout. And, while he was often in the shadows serving our country and serving Columbia, he very much deserves his flowers.And, when you are serving together, others might just see the highs…but true brothers see your lows. Chris was there for the lows…with you. My wife, just yesterday, reminded me of several.Chris worked in the last two mayoral administrations here in Columbia. In short, he was family. He never met a stranger. He cared. He did the work. Often it was an all day, more than a mere 9-to-5 requirement. Like I said, he believed in service. And, he did it all with style, grace, and class. My brother was special and he will truly be missed.
There was a similar accolade posted on the city website.
I didn’t know Chris Carrizales, but I miss him now. And I appreciate Sam for taking the time to bring him, and his years of devoted service, to our attention.
Related Posts
Brad, I appreciate you referencing my original post—it’s always good to see these discussions evolve. Since then, you’ve covered quite a range, from sunbathing squirrels to reflections on service by Sam Johnson, and I wanted to take a moment to respond to each in turn.
First, the weather. Right now, it’s 18°F here in Western New York, though it has dipped as low as -2°F. Meanwhile, in Columbia, you wrote about a squirrel stretched out, sunbathing at 37°F—what’s “cold” to you is practically spring weather compared to what I’m dealing with. It’s all relative, after all. That squirrel is making the most of the warmth it can find, much like I’m doing here in the cold. But while I can embrace winter for what it is, it only makes me miss my wife, Ana Liza, and my family in the Philippines even more. There, it’s 3:00 AM as I write this, and they’re all asleep—oblivious to the kind of chill that isn’t part of their existence. Ana Liza finds 78°F “cold,” and I have to remind her that this white stuff? It’s not sand. It’s snow. And it’s freezing.
That brings me to your thoughts on protests, which I can’t agree with. You lament their inefficacy, but I see them as vital. The slow pace of change in America makes them feel frustrating, sure, but this country has never been built for quick turnarounds. It doesn’t prioritize long-term thinking or return on investment in systemic change. That doesn’t mean protests don’t work—it just means they don’t work on the timetable we’d like. The Federalist Papers spoke of factions, and protests, at their core, are about shaping them, forcing those in power to contend with them, and refusing to let silence win. Even the most determined change begins as a voice against the wind.
And then, finally, there’s Sam Johnson. I appreciate you bringing up his post, and in doing so, acknowledging me. Sam mentioned a master police officer, someone I likely met but didn’t recall by name. But reading about him, I recognize the face, and that service—that dedication—deserves to be honored. Just as we acknowledge those who protest, we also acknowledge those who serve, especially those who do so for decades. That kind of longevity, whether in activism or policing, isn’t easy.
Since music always finds its way into these conversations, I’ll end with a thought. Misty Mountains Park—my park—takes its name from Misty Mountain Hop, which itself draws from The Hobbit and Tolkien’s world of wandering wizards and steadfast hobbits. And as I sit here, watching the snow first fall, then blow into thick, swirling drifts, I can’t help but think of Paul Simon’s “freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.”
Even in the cold, there’s movement. Even in the silence, there’s a voice. And whether it’s a squirrel basking in relative warmth, a protester standing their ground, or an officer serving year after year, those moments—big and small—matter.
If I may, Amen.
Yes, you may. We need to say “Amen!” more often. So today I’m trying to write about things worth saying amen about…
Me too (Twilight Zone – submitted for your approval; of course): While watching the local news tonight, I heard the story of Mia, a young girl whose family is facing the painful reality of losing her. She’s slipping away because of an illness, and despite their desperate cries for help, they feel powerless to stop it. Mia’s story, like so many others, is a reminder of how wild and fragile life can be. It’s beautiful, but also so unpredictable, so out of control.
It takes me back to the children I’ve worked with—those whose lives were shattered by things beyond their comprehension. I think of the two kids whose mother was killed in front of them, and all I could do was take them in, try to shield them from the raw violence they had witnessed. Then there was the rabbit—the small, helpless creature I was trying to protect. I took it to the shelter with the hope they could save it for the children, but when they told me they couldn’t, that they’d have to euthanize it, I felt something shift. ‘What a difficult job you have,’ I said. The shelter workers looked at me as if to say, You’ve got to be kidding me. In that moment, I realized how much I’d hardened, how the weight of my work and the constant stream of grief had made me numb.
That wildness of life—the unpredictability, the loss, the feeling of never being able to do enough—is something that haunts me. I think of Mia, of the children I’ve taken in, and I can’t help but feel that we’re all caught in this storm. But no matter how big the world’s pain is, I still show up. Because that’s the only thing I know how to do: try, even if I can’t fix it all.
At the end of the day, that’s just another chapter in living the dream of Wilder than Wild—where the pain we carry and the love we give are just part of the wild, unexplainable ride. And though it may feel like we’re losing more than we can protect, the fact that we keep showing up is the only thing that matters in this life, wilder than we ever could’ve imagined.
Oh Captain! My Captain! And of course it seems the good they die young. Thanks Brad.
O Captain! My Captain!…
I wonder whether Whitman was thinking about Nelson when he wrote that. Maybe not, Whitman being American. But I think of it because when you talk about a captain lying dead on the deck in the moment of great victory (“From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won…”), Nelson is apt to come to mind.
Scholars agree it is about the death of Lincoln.
Yup. But in constructing his metaphor of Lincoln as a captain, dead on the deck at the moment of victory, I think he was drawing on Nelson’s death for the specific images…
It seems it would have been an easily recognizable and evocative description in the 19th century, at least to educated folk who knew something of the world beyond their own county. Especially if they’d been to Trafalgar Square…
To Brad, On Interpretation
I see now what you meant,
how a Captain’s fall echoes beyond his own time,
how Whitman’s grief could stretch across seas
to touch the wake of another leader lost.
It’s a hard thing, isn’t it—
to step inside a stranger’s mind,
to wear the weight of their words
without shifting their meaning beneath our own?
Poetry is a bridge, but also a veil.
We write, hoping to be understood,
yet knowing each reader will see
through a glass tinted by their own light.
Still, we try.
To connect, to challenge,
to stretch metaphors like hands across history,
even if they never quite clasp.
And if my words might bend a mind—
even a little—then it’s worth the ink.
As a former naval aviator now deeply invested in social justice, I’ve gained a unique perspective on the contrast between soft services and hard services. In the military, the focus is on hard services—spending on defense systems, weapons, and military infrastructure. These are tangible assets like bombs, drones, and fighter jets, which, while essential for national security, do not create long-lasting peace or improve the quality of life for people.
I first encountered the concept of soft services versus hard services shortly after leaving the Navy, when I heard it articulated by Jerry Rubin of the Chicago 7. During a college invocation, Rubin made it clear that we needed to prioritize building roads and providing TVs, rather than continuing to produce bombs and guns. This idea stuck with me, and for nearly 40 years, I’ve believed it’s time for us to shift our focus toward building infrastructure and providing the essentials that improve human lives, rather than focusing on the tools of war.
USAID, the U.S. Agency for International Development, is a prime example of an organization that focuses on soft services. Rather than investing in military might, USAID’s mission is to improve lives through healthcare, education, and humanitarian aid. These initiatives, while often less tangible than military investments, are the true foundation of peace and prosperity in any society. They help create the conditions for sustainable growth, health, and economic stability.
Joseph Nye’s concept of “soft power”, coined in the late 20th century, reflects this idea: using cultural, diplomatic, and humanitarian influence to build relationships and solve global challenges, instead of relying on military force. Likewise, President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s 1961 warning about the military-industrial complex called attention to the dangers of overinvesting in military spending and urged a rebalancing of priorities to include investments that benefit the well-being of citizens—both at home and abroad.
Having served in the military on a two-star admiral’s staff, managing approximately $300 million in 1982, I witnessed firsthand how much of our national resources were devoted to military expenditure, focusing on hard services—defense and weaponry. I worked for Capital CNATRA, the Chief of Naval Air Training—pronounced like the singer Frank Sinatra. I always joke that I worked for Sinatra; It’s a lighthearted way to acknowledge that sometimes, even in serious work, a little humor can keep things in perspective.
While military investments were necessary for national security, they did not contribute to long-term global peace. The real work of ensuring lasting peace comes from investing in soft services—human welfare, education, healthcare, and economic development. It’s these areas where nations can foster lasting change and stability.
For the U.S., the challenge is clear: we must shift our priorities away from military dominance toward investments in human development. Instead of continuing to funnel resources into weapons and warfare, we should focus on building infrastructure, improving healthcare, advancing education, and ensuring access to the basics that allow societies to thrive.
But this change won’t happen overnight. It will require a re-education of society, starting at a very young age. It will take those who truly care—educators, leaders, and individuals committed to making a difference—who understand that this shift is necessary. And though it is difficult, perhaps more so now than ever, it’s a transition we must make if we are to build a future of lasting peace and prosperity for all.