Mazeltov, My Son. Mazeltov.

This is not a time to cry.

This is not a time to bemoan the death of journalistic innocence.

This is the time to celebrate the coming of age of the University of Kentucky photographers!

These boys, nay, CADILLACS of JOURNALISM went through the Bar Mitzvah of the reporter at the Republican National Convention in St. Paul.  After getting bathed with mace (the wet t-shirt contest of the professional journalist), the boys were whisked away and imprisoned for three days on trumped-up charges of gross misdemeanor rioting.  Alongside them were real professional journalists, doing what real professional journalists do. In this case, they were trying to cover a (supposedly) public event.

No longer are these photographers fresh-faced children.  No, they have become something more.  They are steely-eyed, gravely-voiced JOURNALISTS.  They have gone through the trials and tribulations of the professional reporter and emerged none the worse for wear.

The torture of the journalist is what makes the profession what it is.  We desire to inform the public above all else; above our safety, above our comfort, and oftentimes above our own best interest.

This is why we should exult in the pain of canceled interviews and calls unreturned.  We should bathe ourselves in the pleasure of police interference and crooked politicians.  We should scream in ecstasy when battered by overzealous riot officers.  We should get a hidden satisfaction from sitting in prison cells for no specific reason.  All these things remind us why we report.  The work is hard and the trials are many, but we persevere because we are journalists.  Seek the truth and report it.

I do realize there is an inherent sexism to this post.  I apologize to any and all offended parties.