Narratives in news media
Telling Details
Are all details good details? Which of the following details are good? What makes them good?
Draped in a navy and gold-embroidered shirt, Dr. Susmita Bose …
He was dressed in the sort of getup that a man wears when life hasn't presented him with many opportunities to wear a suit: a worn crewneck sweater and thick polyester khakis that hung low over cheap-looking brown leather dress shoes.
Taylor Wood sits in a flower-patterned bean bag chair, next to her four-month-old German Shepherd puppy, Maverick.
As sirens wailed, the security guards below did not stir from their cigarettes and tea. Children continued to play in the courtyard. A family in the next building watched a TV comedy.
One of the beat cops used a hose to wash blood from the grass into the gutter.
The sheriff began shepherding the parents toward the football field to get their kids, 10 students at a time.
“We have the kids in two separate groups,” he said. “The kids who witnessed things, they’ll be the last to leave.”
As he spoke, a woman began crying, and he walked over and put an arm around her shoulders.
The parents headed toward the field, and before long began emerging with their children. Hugging them. Holding them. Seizing their hands. Kissing their heads. Not letting go.
As one girl came out with her parents, she spotted another family waiting for news and rushed to them: “She’s good,” she reassured them. “I saw her, she’s good.”
More parents were led to the field, while others waited. Some knowing, some not. A strange quiet came over things. You could hear voices, idling firetrucks, a low hum running underneath all that activity surrounding Freeman High School, wrapped in a border of red police tape.
And who knew what horrors inside?
The parents continued making their way to the field, continued the texting and the talking and the weeping and the worrying. And then, even as some of the first families were leaving the field, reunited, an intense wail of grief erupted from the area where parents were waiting.
It went on and on, freezing everyone with the awful knowledge: A mother had learned the worst thing, the worst of all things, and the misery was unbearable. It radiated forth, sinking unforgettably into hearts and minds of everyone in earshot.
A school bell rang, a reminder of a more ordinary day. A young girl – a second- or third-grader – walked by holding her father’s hand.
“Do you think school will be canceled for a few days?” she said.
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
And parents continued to take home their children, to find them and embrace them and take them home.
One by one – except for one.
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