We didn’t just meet; she exploded into my life.
Lindalee Tracey was in Ottawa. She had won an award for best investigative report in one of our categories a few months prior to her arrival. I was the Executive Director of the Canadian Association of Journalists. I guess she wanted to visit our office to get a feel for the organization.
I didn’t recognize her at all. She didn’t look like the photo she had submitted. It had been taken a few years before. We laughed when I mentioned this.
Within minutes, we were friends. That was the way Lindalee was. She had a way of cutting through all the crap and getting to the nub of things. She was one of the wisest persons I have met in my life.
She taught me that education and wisdom are not the same.
She had run away from home at an early age. Eventually she became a stripper in Montreal to earn her living. Her first taste of journalism was as one of the characters in the National Film Board’s Not A Love Story.
It didn’t take her long to get on the other side of productions, starting with radio and graduating into film and television. Having been on the other side, though, her approach was different to many others.
Many of her colleagues didn’t like her approach. She became involved with her stories. Some felt that doing so made her lose her objectivity.
I particularly heard this when she covered a mining accident in Nova Scotia. Other journalists reported on the event. She babysat for some of the miners’ wives so they could go to the mines to check out the status of the rescue mission. A few grumbled that she was crossing the line as a journalist and using her actions to gain the confidence of the women so they would tell her their secrets.
I never believed this. I saw it as getting to the level of the person in the story before writing it. She would always walk more than a mile in the other person’s shoes before writing about their experience.
Because of her background, she was able to mix with princes and paupers alike. She picked tobacco in Tillsonburg for a few weeks before writing about the immigrant labourers. She visited the bars and taverns to talk to some of the Winnipeg street people. She didn’t just report on what she saw. She helped you see it through the eyes of the people who were living the experience.
I often wonder about the objectivity of those visiting some of the refugee camps in the world. They often leave the site to return to comfortable hotels with restaurants and fine wine. Do they really experience the despair?
She was a great journalist and a great friend. I didn’t socialize with her and only had a few contacts with her. Each time was a celebration in life. It was a mutual sharing of honest communication of where we had been and where we were. And I knew I could share with Lindalee and be loved regardless of whether she agreed with me or not. She loved life enough to allow people to be themselves. Rather than try to change them and tell people what to do, she would walk with them in the experience and help them through it.
Cancer claimed her life before she reached 50. It had been years since I had talked to her, but I had to have one last chat. I remember sending an email to her, hoping that somehow the message would be received – a message that simply said thank you for teaching me about the freedom in life of simply being yourself without feeling you have to apologize.
When you give love, there is no need to apologize.
Lindalee Tracey was in Ottawa. She had won an award for best investigative report in one of our categories a few months prior to her arrival. I was the Executive Director of the Canadian Association of Journalists. I guess she wanted to visit our office to get a feel for the organization.
I didn’t recognize her at all. She didn’t look like the photo she had submitted. It had been taken a few years before. We laughed when I mentioned this.
Within minutes, we were friends. That was the way Lindalee was. She had a way of cutting through all the crap and getting to the nub of things. She was one of the wisest persons I have met in my life.
She taught me that education and wisdom are not the same.
She had run away from home at an early age. Eventually she became a stripper in Montreal to earn her living. Her first taste of journalism was as one of the characters in the National Film Board’s Not A Love Story.
It didn’t take her long to get on the other side of productions, starting with radio and graduating into film and television. Having been on the other side, though, her approach was different to many others.
Many of her colleagues didn’t like her approach. She became involved with her stories. Some felt that doing so made her lose her objectivity.
I particularly heard this when she covered a mining accident in Nova Scotia. Other journalists reported on the event. She babysat for some of the miners’ wives so they could go to the mines to check out the status of the rescue mission. A few grumbled that she was crossing the line as a journalist and using her actions to gain the confidence of the women so they would tell her their secrets.
I never believed this. I saw it as getting to the level of the person in the story before writing it. She would always walk more than a mile in the other person’s shoes before writing about their experience.
Because of her background, she was able to mix with princes and paupers alike. She picked tobacco in Tillsonburg for a few weeks before writing about the immigrant labourers. She visited the bars and taverns to talk to some of the Winnipeg street people. She didn’t just report on what she saw. She helped you see it through the eyes of the people who were living the experience.
I often wonder about the objectivity of those visiting some of the refugee camps in the world. They often leave the site to return to comfortable hotels with restaurants and fine wine. Do they really experience the despair?
She was a great journalist and a great friend. I didn’t socialize with her and only had a few contacts with her. Each time was a celebration in life. It was a mutual sharing of honest communication of where we had been and where we were. And I knew I could share with Lindalee and be loved regardless of whether she agreed with me or not. She loved life enough to allow people to be themselves. Rather than try to change them and tell people what to do, she would walk with them in the experience and help them through it.
Cancer claimed her life before she reached 50. It had been years since I had talked to her, but I had to have one last chat. I remember sending an email to her, hoping that somehow the message would be received – a message that simply said thank you for teaching me about the freedom in life of simply being yourself without feeling you have to apologize.
When you give love, there is no need to apologize.
1 comment:
Somehow I knew what was coming because you kept using the past tense so I braced myself for the worst. Death again ... (sigh) ... to separate us from someone we love! What a tremendous loss when you lose someone who has made such a huge impact on your life! Guess this is one of those "death is the reflection of life" moments "sorrow a reflection of joy".
Love has not died. The connection of two souls was made. The lesson you needed to learn is remembered. You still have Lindalee's piece in your kaleidoscope. You still cherish the times you had together. You still have wonderful memories of a beloved friend!
I, too, lost a close friend this summer to cancer. We had danced together for 21 years and we called each other 'kindred-spirit sisters - twins born from different mothers". I was asked to dance at her funeral to the song "Testify to Love" by Wynonna Judd.
Post a Comment