Hilde on the record, p.10
Hilde on the Record, page 10
Hilde, nine, first on the scene, reporting on the homicide.
“Hello, I’m Hilde Lysiak, publisher of the—”
“This is an ongoing investigation,” he interrupted. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“I have several sources telling me a man murdered his wife with a hammer inside this home. Can you please confirm this?”
The officer looked me in the eye while slowly nodding his head yes, then said, “This is an ongoing investigation.”
Just then, my phone rang. It was my dad. “Oh my gosh—Hilds! I’m sorry, I went out for a drink, or actually a few drinks, and left my phone at home. Just heard your message. Do you know what’s happening?”
“Uh . . . yeah, Dad. I’ve been here for almost an hour. I’m the only one besides the police and the coroner.”
“The only one? Where’s the other media?”
“The police are telling people not to talk. I guess they’ve even told the other news that they don’t want them covering it. Why are they listening?”
“That’s insane! Well, kiddo. This puts you in a fantastic position. What have you got so far?”
Over the next five minutes, I told my dad what I had and how I was confused if it was enough confirmation to run a story. He explained that it wasn’t often that a reporter got official confirmation from the police. He said I most definitely had enough information to put up a story. I would just need to be careful about my wording and call the incident a “possible murder” or “suspected murder.” The best part was I was going to have exclusive breaking coverage of the biggest story to happen in Selinsgrove in decades.
My next call was to Izzy. I needed video. She arrived by bike five minutes later, opened her backpack up, and began recording.
I knew I was onto something big, but I had no idea the video Izzy and I were about to film would be viewed millions of times. I’d like to say that if I had known, I would have fixed my hair, but I probably wouldn’t have. If you even look really closely, you can see faint chocolate smears on my face left over from the morning that now seemed a lifetime ago.
In the video, I’m standing across the street from the house where the murder took place. Police cars and yellow police tape are in the background. I do a quick, twenty-nine-second video (in which I talk for only nine seconds) where I give the basics: “Hi. Hilde Kate Lysiak here, reporting for the Orange Street News. I’m on the 600 block of Ninth Street where a man suspectedly murdered his wife with a hammer. I’m working hard on this ongoing investigation.”
When Izzy was finished, she took my bike and raced home to get the video up online. From the scene, I began writing up my story. Within an hour of Izzy showing up, the video, along with this story, went public:
Exclusive: Murder on Ninth Street
By Hilde Kate Lysiak
Police are investigating a possible murder at 9th Street in Selinsgrove.
A man is suspected of murdering his wife with a hammer at 9th Street in Selinsgrove, sources told the Orange Street News.
“This is an ongoing investigation,” an officer told the Orange Street News.
Residents reported seeing a person taken out on a stretcher but were told by police not to talk to media.
“They told us we can’t talk about anything,” one neighbor told the Orange Street News.
The woman is a former Selinsgrove borough employee. Many neighbors remembered her fondly.
“This is terrible. Just terrible,” one neighbor told the OSN. “I can’t believe this happened. She was such a wonderful woman. Very kind.”
The suspected murderer was a retired schoolteacher at Selinsgrove and the victim also worked as branch manager at a local bank on Market Street, according to neighbors.
“They seemed like a good, loving couple,” one neighbor told the Orange Street News. “I’m just in shock.”
The Chief of police, District Attorney, PA State police, and Coroner are on the scene.
The Orange Street News is withholding the name of the victim to make sure friends and family are told first.
MUST CREDIT THE ORANGE STREET NEWS! THIS IS A BREAKING STORY. CHECK BACK FOR UPDATES
But my own news story was just beginning.
27
Haters Gonna Hate
“Are you kidding me?!” my mom yelled. “That is just unbelievable!”
The combination of my super sleuth eavesdropping skills and my mom’s near inability to hide her emotions led me to the living room. It was early morning, the day after the murder. I had stayed on the scene and managed to get the couple’s names but had decided, on the advice of my dad, to withhold them in case not all family members had been notified of the woman’s death.
Eventually, the other media began to show up, but by then I was hours ahead of them. By the time I made it home (before dark, per my parents’ rule), my dad assured me no other media had anything more than I did. In fact, many were forced to credit me and my story because they were unable to get the information I had from any source besides the Orange Street News.
I was proud of my work. I did everything right. I stayed at the scene. I spoke to everyone on the block and got confirmation from law enforcement. Still, I had a hard time sleeping knowing that the adults could be on the scene later than I could. What if they got a great scoop while I was asleep? Was that what my mom was upset about?
I was planning on sitting at the top of the steps a while longer but then I heard my dad say: “He’s the f—ing former mayor of the town! How can he justify publicly talking about a nine-year-old that way?!”
At that, I flew down the stairs. “What are you talking about? What’s going on?” I asked.
My parents looked a little like the cat that ate the canary—a weird expression my Mammy used to use that basically means they were caught talking about something they didn’t want anyone else to hear. I saw the heat rise in my mom’s face as she looked at my dad. There was a long pause when I felt like they were working something out in a silent language. Finally, my dad spoke.
“Sit down, kiddo,” he said.
I didn’t want to sit down. Suddenly, I felt very awake. But I did what I was told and took the chair opposite where my parents were sitting on the couch.
“I’m not sure that we should be telling you this,” my dad said, for probably the hundredth time in my life. This meant something crazy was coming. “A lot of people are talking about your coverage of the murder. It was the biggest story in the history of this small town and for several hours, Hilds, you were the only place the people of the town could get information.”
“But?” I said, knowing there was more on the way.
“But a lot of people are really mad and saying some very mean things,” my mom said.
“Whatever. There’s always going to be people that don’t like my paper. They don’t have to read it,” I said.
By now, I was used to this. People complained that my headlines were too flashy or that I used too many exclamation points. They didn’t like some of my word choices. I would even get e-mails from time to time where someone would send an edited version of one of my stories back to me. Unless it seemed they were truly trying to be helpful, I had just learned to ignore them.
“Well, this is different, Hilds. This is a small town, and people are angry. A lot of people. And they are saying some very screwed-up things about you,” my dad said.
Five minutes later, I found myself sandwiched between my parents, reading the comments on the Orange Street News Facebook page. This was something my dad managed. My parents thought that at nine, I should not be on social media. And as long as Izzy could post my stories for me, I had little desire to be on there either. My heart began to pound as I read:
• This article, paper, whatever it is, is a complete joke. Horrible.
• I usually enjoy your stories, Hilde, but this . . . perhaps you are too young to understand the difference between respect/decency and sensationalism.
• Sensationalist trash . . . [This was written by the former mayor of Selinsgrove, who also happened to live across the street from us.]
• I am disgusted that this cute little girl thinks she is a real journalist. Whatever happened to tea parties?
• Nine-year-old girls should be playing with dolls not trying to be reporters.
• You are nine f—ing years old. Seriously, what the f— is wrong with you.
I didn’t understand. From the moment I arrived on the scene, there was something very confusing going on. Between my being the first and only media outlet to report on the murder for several hours and people being upset that I reported it at all, something just didn’t add up. What was most confusing was that none of these people who were upset had an issue with my journalism. My article was very straightforward and contained only facts. I brought the people the information, the truth. How was I being disrespectful? What was sensationalist about saying what was true?
But what made me angry was that I was being judged for things I had no control over: my age and gender. I had almost gotten used to people thinking it was weird or wrong for me to be reporting because of my age, but now why the heck were they telling me I belonged at home playing with dolls? It seemed like people thought I had no right to say what was true simply because I was a girl. What if I were a nine-year-old boy? Would that have been OK? What if I was a twenty-five-year-old woman? Would I then be allowed to speak the truth? Now that I’m fourteen, I realize there is a big problem with women and girls—of any age—being treated as “less than” because of their gender. But when I was nine, this was a completely foreign idea to me. It felt hugely unfair, and it made me angry. Very, very angry.
After reading the comments, I had a really long discussion with my parents about how I wanted to handle it. At first, it was kind of surprising, because my mom, who seemed even more bothered than my dad, thought I should ignore the haters. My dad, who seemed less worked up, thought that I should fight back in some way.
I was torn. I saw my mom’s point. It has always been so important to me to let my work stand on its own. And I was super proud of my story. Part of me wanted to just disregard the negative comments and keep reporting. If people didn’t like it, they didn’t have to read it. But whenever I considered doing that, something inside me didn’t feel right. I thought about how I would feel if someone had said those things to Izzy or Kristen. Would I want them to just walk away? Keeping quiet seemed to give these people what they wanted. They wanted to silence me. Because I was young. Because I was a girl.
I decided my dad was right on this one—it was time to speak up. But this didn’t feel like it belonged in my paper. The OSN was for news. Sure, I had my “Message from Hilde,” but that somehow didn’t feel like enough. Thanks to the Internet, it seemed like my video coverage was reaching even more people than my paper. I decided I wanted Izzy to film me talking directly to the haters.
I wrote down what I was feeling and told Izzy to hit record. This is what I said:
Hilde Kate Lysiak here, reporting from the Orange Street News. Yesterday, there was a murder in Selinsgrove. It happened just a few blocks from my house. I got the tip from a good source that I was able to confirm. Then I went straight to the scene and asked neighbors for more information. I worked very hard. Because of my work, I was able to inform the people that there was a terrible murder hours before my competition even got to the scene. In fact, some of these adult-run newspapers were reporting the wrong news, or no news at all. All the while, the Orange Street News was out covering the murder. I know this makes some of you uncomfortable, and I know some of you just want me to sit down and be quiet because I’m nine, but if you want me to stop covering news, then you get off your computer and do something about the news. There. Is that cute enough for you? I’m Hilde Kate Lysiak. Thanks for watching. Izzy, shut this off. I’m done.
When we got home, my mom, now having gotten on board with my choice to speak out, had a suggestion. She pulled up a few episodes of the “Mean Tweets” segment of Jimmy Kimmel Live!—something I had never seen before. On his late-night talk show, Kimmel features celebrities reading mean comments people write about them on Twitter. They are hilarious. It is also a great way to make the haters look foolish.
Immediately, I set about selecting the worst comments people had made about me. When I had them picked out, Izzy filmed me reading them in our library. When I rewatched the two videos together, I was super happy with the results. I think they illustrated exactly what I wanted: the haters weren’t bothering me, and I would not be silenced.
Afterward, when Izzy went upstairs to upload the videos, I decided to check my e-mail. I was hoping for some new tips, but instead my inbox was full of nothing but angry messages. Even some of my sources were mad. It felt like a giant ball of hatred rolling down a hill, getting larger and larger, coming directly for me and my parents. The town that I loved had turned against me. It wasn’t just the mayor; it was other town officials too. And worse than that, many people seemed to believe the lies about me.
That was when I realized what was actually at stake—a newspaper might be paper and ink, but its main ingredient is credibility. It is built on trust, and with so many people in a small town saying untrue things about me, I realized that if I didn’t correct the record I was going to lose the respect I had worked so hard to earn—and the Orange Street News.
Izzy posted the video and we waited.
28
In The News
MODERN DAY NANCY DREW FIRST TO COVER HOMICIDE
9-YEAR-OLD CRIME REPORTER BREAKS MURDER STORIES WITH NO FEAR
GIRL REPORTER, 9, BREAKS MURDER STORY
JOURNALIST, 9, RESPONDS TO HER CRITICS AND BECOMES A MEDIA STAR
CHILD REPORTER INADVERTENTLY DISTRACTS FROM MURDER CASE
The requests began pouring into my e-mail almost immediately. After my dad posted my response videos, nearly every major news organization, be it television or print, was reaching out to interview me. Before the day was over, my videos had gone viral, and headlines were splashed all over the Internet.
To be fair, my dad was connected to many reporters and editors from his time as a journalist in New York City. So when he shared the videos on his own social media accounts, people from the New York Times, New York Daily News, New York Post, CBS, NBC, etc. saw them. Having them reach out to me made the entire reporting situation come full circle. My dad’s reporting was what inspired my own. Now, after I had spent years admiring him and his coworkers, it was my work that they wanted to cover. It felt amazing to be recognized by these journalists.
But it was also overwhelming. I am not the type of person who loves being the center of attention. Being a reporter, I could get out and talk with people (which I loved) without the story ever being about me. Now, everyone wanted to know what I was doing and what I thought. It made me slightly uncomfortable. Also, I hated how so much of the conversation centered on my age or my being a girl. Why was it so shocking that a nine-year-old girl could do something like be a reporter? Of course, the older I got, the more I realized that we do not live in a world where great things are expected of young girls. I certainly hope that my story has helped change even a little of that.
At first, I was uncertain if I wanted to be interviewed by anyone. On the one hand, I felt I had accomplished everything I set out to do by making my videos. On the other hand, television shows were offering to send personal drivers to scoop me and my family up and whisk us away to fancy hotels in New York City. I had been missing the hustle and bustle of New York so much. I thought about all the amazing food, all the great coffee shops and bakeries, and seeing my old friends in Brooklyn. I also thought it would be an excellent opportunity to get a behind-the-scenes look at how television media was run. Who knows, maybe I would want to do that someday, I thought.
The next week was a whirlwind of appearances. My mom and I were on Good Morning America, The Real Story with Gretchen Carlson on Fox News, and Reliable Sources on CNN. Everyone wanted to know how I felt about the sexist comments I received. When I look back on these interviews, it strikes me how simple my view of it was. “It annoyed me,” was the answer I most used, still having little understanding that this was not an experience specific only to me. In my mind, these people who said I had no right to report because I was a girl were just jerks who were wrong. I now know that, unfortunately, this belief system is a slithery snake of an idea sliding through many of the societies around the world.
One of the opportunities that came from all my publicity was the chance to interview Malala Yousafzai. The sexism in her story was not just a slithery snake—it was an anaconda with lightning speed. Malala, who grew up in Pakistan, was shot because she insisted on going to school. Can you imagine not being able to get an education simply because you are a girl? Would you be willing to risk your life to secure that right? What I did in standing up to my critics was certainly not as brave as taking a bullet, like Malala did, but I believe with all my heart that exploding the silence is the first step toward changing this grotesque way of thinking. People who think girls shouldn’t be able to do the same things as boys usually also hold a belief that girls are quiet and meek. My critics thought they would type out their terrible comments and I would be silent. I say smash that silence!
The media appearances ended up being overwhelmingly fun. After leaving my Good Morning America appearance, I was shocked to find photographers waiting for me outside. As flashes went off in every direction, with people shouting out, “There she is! There she is!” I looked over to see Izzy, who was usually unimpressed with me, beaming with pride. It felt good to be something other than her annoying little sister, if only for a few moments.
