Bad news bears.

We’ve all encountered bad news bears. I’m not talking about bad people who do bad things, and I’m not referring to the movies about the Little League misfits. I’m definitely not talking about Yogi and Boo-Boo stealing “pic-a-nic” baskets in Jellystone Park. The bad news bears that have splattered my radar are people who love to be the bearers of bad news — and not necessarily their own bad news, but the bad news of other people. I guess another word that fits the bill is “gossip,” as a noun, a verb or simply add a "y" for an adjective.

When I was a young girl, I remember that whenever a specific elderly aunt of my father called, hours were spent afterward dissecting all the bad news she delivered. So-and-so was getting divorced, great uncle Thomas’s brother-in-law’s sister’s nephew had leukemia, or her friend’s cat had kittens and all but one died because a nasty little neighbor kid stuck them in a mayonnaise jar. For a child, these phone calls didn’t provide food for thought, they provided fuel for nightmares — vivid nightmares. Once, I asked my mother why this woman only called when she had bad news to deliver. My mother simply told me that this woman enjoyed being the bearer of bad news; that she was old and all alone and it made her feel important. Years later, I remember thinking that this woman didn’t take up the bad news vocation when she reached her twilight years. My guess was that she had always feasted on bad news. I also suspected that she made quite a bit of her material up or read something in the paper and then personalized it to be her own; in her mind and in my nightmares. I dreaded this woman’s calls, but I was thankful that she only called every four to six weeks. To this day, I have a problem with certain mayonnaise jars. Thank goodness that I like mustard!

When I was in my 20s, I dated a guy whose mother was a bad news bear. Her specialty involved sickness, accidents and operations. She would give you the play by play of every gory detail that had happened to someone you didn’t know, and then provide all the possible scenarios of what could happen to these people in the future. I was amazed at her intensity. She loved the drama and relished the details — even though most of the people she spoke about were relatives she hadn’t seen in years or friends of her friend’s friends whom she had never met. It didn’t matter how far removed these people were from her everyday life, once they were sick, dying, or tragically hurt in an accident, they were hers. She was a real live walking and talking human version of Marcus Welby, M.D. with a little Twilight Zone thrown in for good measure.

More than likely these two women have something to do with my propensity to keep bad news to myself. And even though I thought I would never wish the ghoulish great aunt of my youth on friend or foe, there are a few people I know who might benefit from this type of exposure — if only to see themselves 30 years from now. Trust me; it only took one nightmare to cause me to switch from Miracle Whip to Best Foods Mayo.

I’m not being callous. I care about my friends and their loved ones. If they’re in trouble, if they need a shoulder to lean on or an empathetic ear, I’m here for them. But I don’t care to hear about the personal tragedy of other people, unless it comes straight from the original or closely related (and validated) source. When bandied about as casual hearsay, it seems like gossip, or entertainment. I find it perverse and intrusive. Perhaps this is one reason I’ve never tuned in to soap operas. Sure, I enjoy Desperate Housewives, and Grey’s Anatomy...and Boston Legal, but programs such as General Hospital or One Life to Live make me uncomfortable. I’m not finding fault with those people who enjoy these types of programs, I’m just saying that I feel like an intruder — similar to the woman who comes to the realtor’s open house only to snoop through closets and drawers. Yes, I’m an intensely private person about specific things...and yet I write freely about other issues. My husband calls me complicated and at times unpredictable. I call myself sensitive, considerate and respectful of the privacy and rights of others.

I might as well get to my point. It’s not really gossip by the masses that’s got my knickers in a twist; it’s sensationalism — sensationalism by the media and our society’s seemingly endless appetite to imbibe. When I was a journalism student a thousand years ago, we were taught not to sensationalize. The National Enquirer was held up as a good example of bad journalism, if even journalism. My class might be one of the last groups of journalism students taught these principles — at least in such an emphatic and passionate manner. Objective, responsible and reliable journalism is what the renowned print and broadcast professionals drummed into our young and eager minds. We were taught never to stick a microphone in the face of a grieving person or to intrude upon their misery and invade their privacy while asking them how they felt and if they would comment. This type of behavior wasn’t condoned at that time. Neither was speculation. Today, a journalist would probably be fired if he or she refused to sensationalize, speculate and yes, capitalize on the misery and tragedy of others. Sensationalism sells…and a healthy bottom line is what matters the most. Sensationalism is big business and speculation is its profitable partner. The news reports we get these days remind me of the old grapevine game. Not smoke and mirrors, not a dog and pony show, but a rumor mill — with talking heads and so-called experts lining their pockets with lucre while presenting possible, but speculative, scenarios. Just like Logic 101 — if this, then what? My great aunt would be hard-pressed to get a scoop these days. Too bad she wasn’t born decades later to witness the advent of 24-hour cable news networks. She would have had a field-day and given Geraldo a run for his money — and his mustache.

All of these thoughts are stewing in my sideways brain because I recently had a bad news bear call me with some bad news, of course. I know the woman that the bad news relates to and having heard it from a source other than her made me feel uncomfortable — even dirty. When I next saw the person who actually suffered the bad news, I had to pretend that I didn’t know anything...until she told me for herself. Then I had to act surprised, properly shocked and chagrined. I also had to wonder which story was the most accurate...hers, or the vastly different version related to me by the the eager and gossipy bear. Then, right after this encounter, I had cause to reflect on the career path I took after college. I wondered if I did the right thing 20 years ago in not pursuing broadcast journalism as my career. I don’t usually try to answer hypothetical questions or open doors already closed and locked, but a recent event in the news caught my attention as surely as that elderly aunt did so long ago.

While getting my hair cut at the salon the other day, I overheard four different groups of people trying to sort through speculative reports from the media on the newest “old” sensationalized story of the day — the tragic murder of JonBenet Ramsey. One person would say, “I heard...,” then another would say, “But that’s not for sure yet...,” and so on and so forth. I finally picked up my pocket Texas Hold ‘em game and tried to tune out the speculation and déjà vu feeding frenzy surrounding this issue. The song , “I heard it through the grapevine...,” kept running through my head. I caught a glimpse on the TV monitor of someone who knew, or might have known, the prime suspect. She was closing her door, trying to escape the media. I watched as reporters stood in front of the same Boulder home made famous, or rather infamous, 10 years ago. Then I knew. I knew that I could never be a journalist in this day and age. I would be swiping at windmills and driving everyone, myself included, crazy. I couldn’t be one of those people...sticking microphones where they don’t belong. I know my great aunt had it in her, but then again, she never even shed a tear about those poor little kittens. Me? I make my husband hide his Miracle Whip jar in the back of the fridge behind the milk, the orange juice, and my Best Foods Mayo jar.

It isn’t that I’m a pushover or a baby. I'm tough, but I’m tough and sensitive. I value character and integrity above all else. It’s how I’m wired, so I have no choice in the matter. Had I pursued journalism and if I were expected to trample upon the lives of others to get the scoop of the day or the decade, I don’t think I would like myself very much, especially if I turned into a bad news bear like dear old auntie.

As for my personal bad news bear, I asked her to give me a break. I told her that I couldn't hear her anymore and that the only grapevine I’m interested in is the one in Napa Valley that produces the grapes for my favorite Cabernet sauvignon. Now I’m off to find my glass. For some reason I’m thirsty for a nice glass of wine. Cheers everyone...not jeers!

Postscript: I wrote this two weeks ago, before it became apparent that the sensationalism regarding the Ramsey case was just that — sensationalism. No proof, no tell-tale mayonnaise jar. Just talk, idle talk and speculation.

© 2006 Teresa G. Franta