Hilde on the record, p.8
Hilde on the Record, page 8
My mom and I have talked many times about how she handled my food issues. Looking back, I know she was right about how the food was affecting me. But we both agree that her taking control of my eating in the way she did only made things worse for me. It also added a new list of descriptors:
• Sugar sensitive
• Blood sugar issues
• Picky eater
• Emotionally reactive
It may seem as if I was a total mess during this time, but that is not exactly true. I have found from years of reporting and being around people at their very worst moments that even in the darkest times, people can still feel moments of joy. And I did. I had moments of great happiness. I still played with Kristen, I still enjoyed school for the most part, and more than anything, I really began to fall in love with my newspaper.
The third issue of the OSN came out the week before my Grandpa died. It did not contain as many stories as the month before, but I was proud that, considering the circumstances, I was able to put it out at all. The Tori story was the cover of the paper. Inside I included another short fiction story, this time something less scary (my life was feeling dark enough). There was a story about a seed exchange the town library was holding, and a new feature called “Word on the Street,” in which I asked several people to give a short opinion on a local issue. Izzy came along with me to take the pictures.
The hardest part of that issue was my “Message from Hilde.” I didn’t know what I should write. In my very first issue, I introduced myself to the readers. The second issue came out on New Year’s Day, so that was an obvious thing to discuss. As I sat in front of my blank screen, I was at a total loss for what to do.
Just then, my dad walked in. “What’s up, Hilds? How’s it coming along?” he asked.
“Not good,” I said. “I’m stuck. I don’t know what to write for my message.”
“Don’t overthink it, kiddo,” he said. “Write what you know.”
What I knew (“Message from Hilde,” issue 3, February 2015):
Dear Readers,
On Tuesday, January 6th, I lost my gramma.
She had a heart attack and died. It made me sad. It made me mad.
My favorite memory of her was at her birthday. We had a surprise birthday party for her at my house a few weeks ago. She was opening her presents. I got her a deck of cards because we loved to play rummy together.
I think she is in a happy place watching me.
I really miss her and think about her all the time.
22
Carrying On
Even though it was winter, I found that I wanted to be outside more and more. I began walking to the Kind Cafe almost every morning. The girls who worked there had taken a liking to me. They told me they thought it was awesome that I could come in all by myself at eight years old. I’ve never understood what the big deal was. I think almost every other eight-year-old would have been able to do what I did if their parents let them. The problem was, in Selinsgrove, it seemed most of the parents didn’t let their kids have even half of the freedom our parents gave us. There were positives and negatives to this.
One of the best things about it was that I got a lot of attention. Soon, when I came into the Kind Cafe in the morning, I was being approached by strangers asking if I was the “little girl with the newspaper.” These people seemed really impressed with what I was doing. Because of this, they started giving me tips. This is when I really began feeling like a true reporter. I think because there was no other newspaper dedicated only to the town of Selinsgrove, the townspeople were happy to be able to have a place to voice their concerns. Some of the tips they gave me, especially in the beginning, were not necessarily the most exciting—lost pets, community events, stories of their loved ones who had accomplished things like running in a race—but they were great practice for me. They often involved interviewing more than one person, sometimes even a town official. I learned how to have really great manners when speaking to the local police and politicians. Soon, I added the town office to my list of places to stop by. Nancy, the secretary there, was so kind and helpful. I’d ask her if there was any news, and over time she began to give me some.
Getting attention could also be one of the worst things about my newspaper. I would find out that there were many other people like the ones I encountered passing out my paper that first day on Orange Street—people who thought I was doing something wrong by reporting, or people who thought my parents were irresponsible for letting me do it. But I was not the only kid in my family to face this. Izzy was about to realize how crazy people can be when they think a kid shouldn’t be out and about by herself.
It was April and in Pennsylvania that means it’s usually still chilly and rainy. Izzy was begging my mom to take her shopping at the mall. My mom didn’t really feel like going in—as I recall, she may have even had baby spit-up on her shirt as they walked out the door—but said she’d wait in the car for twenty minutes so Izzy could go look around in the makeup department. Twenty minutes came and went, but there was no Izzy.
My mom was annoyed. Izzy has never really been great at being on time, so my mom figured she would have to call and remind her. But the call went unanswered. When it was going on a half hour, my mom started to worry. Izzy was never that late when my parents were waiting. My mom was about to get out of the car when she saw Izzy was calling.
“Mom!” Izzy yelled through tears. “This woman had a hold of me and wouldn’t let me go!”
As my mom began sprinting toward the entrance to the department store, fearing the worst, Izzy explained she was now with a security guard. My mom’s heart began to calm a little as she asked Izzy what happened. As it turned out, Izzy was looking around the makeup counter as planned when a woman who worked there began asking her where her parents were. When Izzy said she was by herself, the woman asked how old she was. The woman then informed Izzy that “eleven-year-olds are not allowed to be in the store alone” and proceeded to grab Izzy’s arm and force her into one of the makeup chairs. Izzy, definitely not someone to mess with, began yelling and making a fuss. That is when the security guard came.
The security guard met my mom at the door with a distraught and very angry-looking Izzy next to her. My mom told me later that the security guard seemed to think the makeup counter worker overreacted but thought my mom would just shrug it off and take Izzy home.
How wrong she was. My mom, in her shirt covered in baby spit-up, was a force of nature. Within minutes, while Izzy waited in the car, she was meeting with the head of department store security. The explanation that was given (and this would become a running theme over my years of reporting alone) was that the counter woman was “concerned for Izzy’s safety.” There seems to be some disconnect between what these people think and how they behave. The truth is the only thing that put Izzy in danger that day was the woman trying to “protect” her.
I’ve had strangers follow me trying to get me to get into their cars because they didn’t think I should be walking the two blocks to school alone, I’ve had people call the police because I was out reporting by myself (as if that were a crime), and countless other people have begun message threads on social media about my “negligent” parents. Luckily my parents never let this bother them.
Not only did my mom get a formal apology from the department store owner that day, but management also clarified with its employees that there is absolutely no such policy that prevents eleven-year-olds (or any child, for that matter) from shopping alone in the store.
What was even better than the apology was that I had a great cover story for the May 2015 issue of the Orange Street News.
23
School’s Out
(for Good)
While my family was still recovering from the shock of losing Grammie and Grandpa, reporting became an outlet of happiness for us all. I was out every single day, sometimes interviewing people, sometimes poking around for stories, sometimes passing out my paper. I checked my e-mail several times a day, as I would get a few tips a week that way.
My number of subscribers had grown tremendously. By the time the school year was over, I had at least fifty people who had paid to get a copy of the OSN once a month for an entire year. Because I had more work, Izzy was also much busier. Not only was she taking photos for the paper, but I also began to incorporate video interviews. This was made possible by the fact that Izzy helped me set up a web page for the Orange Street News.
My dad continued working on his new book. Slowly, he began getting his bounce back in his step even though he still didn’t seem like himself. My mom was busy with running the house and having a baby and a three-year-old. She didn’t cry as much as when my grandparents first died, but she also didn’t seem to be back to her happy self.
The Lysiak family, three months after the death of Hilde’s Grammie and Grandpa, take a much-needed break in Charleston, South Carolina.
So when my dad got a call from the New York Daily News wanting to send him on a big breaking news story in Charleston, South Carolina, it seemed like the perfect distraction for us all. Even though my dad had officially quit the paper, he was still able to work freelance for them. Many reporters and news photographers work on a freelance basis, which means they work for many different news outlets on a job-by-job basis. Since my dad was still considered one of their best reporters, the New York Daily News would still call him and ask him to work when a really big story broke. If he wasn’t too busy with writing his book at the time, and, more important, if the rest of the family was all right with it, he went. It was in his blood.
Even though it was spring, it was rainy and chilly in Selinsgrove when we drove off toward Charleston. We left in the dark—my dad’s favorite time to drive. As the miles passed and the light began to grow, there was a noticeable shift in the mood of the car. It seemed like the farther we got from Pennsylvania, the lighter we all felt. Even though we couldn’t permanently separate from it, it was a relief to leave so much grief behind.
My dad was sent to cover the Walter Scott shooting. Much like the story that had sent us to Florida for a month my kindergarten year, race was at the center of this story. This time, however, the shooter was a police officer. Video footage showed Walter Scott, who had been stopped for having a broken brake light on his car, running from the police officer as the officer shot him eight times in the back. Scott was unarmed. Michael Slager, the police officer, pled guilty to second-degree murder and obstruction of justice and was sentenced to twenty years in prison.
Aside from the racial implications of the story, it also showed the importance of citizen journalism—not an unrelated issue. This would come to have so much relevance in my life. But, at this point, it was the first time I understood that this type of journalism—reporting or photography that is done by people who are not professional journalists but who put out information using websites, blogs, and social media—has the power to change lives.
In the case of Walter Scott, the police officer lied. He said that Scott was armed and that he had to shoot him in order to protect his own life. What Slager did not realize was that there was someone watching the incident—someone with a cell phone, a cell phone with a video camera. This citizen filmed the event and was able to make public what happened, contributing arguably the most serious piece of evidence against Slager.
As my dad shared all the details of the story with us, I felt lit up inside. I was, of course, outraged at what had happened. But beyond that, I felt a powerful excitement. I did not need to work for a fancy grown-up newspaper. I had a cell phone and the Internet at home. It was the first time I felt—I knew—I could make real change as a reporter in the world.
Because there was so much to cover about the Walter Scott shooting, our trip to Charleston lasted more than a week. When my dad first got the call to go, we had little notice and my mom was not able to call the school beforehand to arrange for my absence. When she did call them, we were already far out of Pennsylvania, unable to turn back (not that we would have).
An hour or so later, my mom got a call from the principal, who said he was upset about me missing school “again.” I had missed a week when Grammie died, and then another week a month later when Grandpa died. I had also missed a few days in the beginning of the year to stay home and work on my paper. Since my dad was mostly working on writing books, he figured I could miss school here and there for reporting, just like I used to when I would go with him. It turned out the Selinsgrove elementary school was not as flexible as my little Lutheran school in Brooklyn had been.
My mom tried to very nicely explain to the principal that I had lost two grandparents in one month and that what was best for me was a break. She also mailed in documentation of the educational value of the trip. However, the school rules were that you had to give ten days’ notice for a trip to be excused for educational purposes. Despite the fact that my mom explained that breaking news does not give notice, my absences were considered “illegal.”
When we returned home, there was a letter waiting for us from the school. It said that if I missed any more days, my parents would be fined and could be reported to some government agency (none of us remember which agency exactly) for educational neglect. The letter was clearly a standard form they sent out to anyone who missed more than a certain number of days. There was little room for circumstances to be considered.
My mom was in the school office before we had unpacked our bags. The principal, while very nice, kept saying things like, “If I make an exception for your child, I’d have to make an exception for all of them.” My mom was like, “For all the other children who are missing school to go help report on the biggest news story in the country?”
At the end of the day, my mom explained it to me like this: “Hilds, it’s like we’ve been sitting on a fence with one leg on each side. On one side is the school and all their rules. On the other is the freedom we like to give you to have educational experiences you can’t find in a classroom. It’s like someone is taking down the fence and we need to pick a side. We’re picking freedom.”
And so I became a homeschooler again.
24
Home Again
Because there was little more than a month between the Charleston trip and the end of the school year, my parents decided not to do any formal homeschooling with me. Since all I really wanted to do was go out reporting, they figured I was getting enough “real life” education. And it was true. Working on the OSN involved public speaking, reading, writing, critical thinking, civics, and even some business math.
The weather had finally warmed in Selinsgrove. Everywhere was green and full of flowers. We all began to get used to Grammie and Grandpa being gone. That sounds terrible to say, but it’s true. Of course, we missed them very much and still had moments of great sadness, but we also saw that life could move on, that happiness could still exist. I finally adjusted to baby Juliet, now six months old. And I stopped wetting the bed. As much as the first half of being eight was really crappy, the second half began to feel really good.
When it came time for kids to return to school, I remained home. A typical day for me began with coming down for breakfast with my family. Afterward, my mom would work with me for an hour or so on math, history, or science. My English education was fulfilled through my work on the OSN and afternoon reading. When “school” was over, I’d rush upstairs to get dressed and grab my tote bag with my notebook and pens. I also had a cell phone at this point since I was out and about by myself a lot. It came in handy, too, if Izzy wasn’t around and I needed to get a picture of something or someone I was writing about. If I didn’t have an interview scheduled, I’d head to the Kind Cafe, get a nice hot drink, and chat with the regulars. Most days I left with at least one story idea.
And the stories were getting more and more serious. At this point, I had covered important events, like a church fire, a home break-in, a tornado, and a bear on the loose in town. By the time my sixth issue came out, I had almost one hundred subscribers and at least ten people who regularly e-mailed me news tips.
I enjoyed the hustle and bustle of my life so much. It seemed like every day there was something I could set out to accomplish. I began to make lists for myself in the morning. It felt so amazing at night to look at all the items I was able to cross off.
Every now and then I felt I needed some downtime. When I wanted a little break, usually after an issue of the OSN came out, my parents would drive me to my Mimi and Pop-Pop’s house an hour away. Sometimes I would stay the night; sometimes I’d stay a week. My Mimi worked at a law office full time, so it would be just me and Pop-Pop during the day.
Pop-Pop was my mom’s grandfather, so he was my great-grandfather. He was honestly the sweetest, most joyful man I have ever known. At this point, he was in his nineties and pretty forgetful. He loved to look through old photos of his wife, my Mammy, who had died several years earlier, and tell me all about when his plane was shot down in World War II. He often didn’t remember that he had already told me certain stories, so he would repeat them. I loved this. I got to know the stories so well I felt like I had lived them myself. It also reinforced the importance of writing things down. Memories fade. If we do not record them, history is lost.
