The Death of a Prodigy and the Limitations of Talent
I keep thinking of Aaron Swartz, the 26-year-old computer genius who apparently hanged himself last month. At the time, he was under federal charges of being a cyber thief â€" downloading scholarly journals available by subscription fee only, and making them available online at no charge. For this, he faced 13 felony counts and up to 35 years in prison. There was no allegation that he sought to profit, but rather that, rightly or wrongly, he was acting on the principle that such information should be free to the public.
Aaron Swartz, a gifted programmer who killed himself in January, ahead of a trial on charges of stealing millions of scientific journals from a computer archive.
Whenever I read some new development in the case, I get a feeling I haven’t had in 40 years.
When I was 23, I worked as a reporter for The Rochester Times-Union in upstate New York. This was 1975, and wages were very modest. We had a newsroom union, the Newspaper Guild, but it had no muscle and really, the only way for us to apply even a little bit of pressure on management was moral suasion. We would walk out at lunch and gather in front of the building, where we would hold a news conference describing how we were being mistreated to the two or three Rochester television stations that showed up.
Or we would have a byline strike. Reporters would exercise their right to withhold their bylines, the theory being that readers would notice and be so outraged that the company would be shamed into giving us a raise.
Right.
Anyway, our leadership called a byline strike, but for some reason, when the first edition came out, one of the reporter’s names remained on his story. A Guild officer came to me, explaining that this reporter had requested to have it removed, was ignored and would like to have it taken off for the later editions.
Why did the union rep come to me I wasn’t an officer or a steward. Nor did the wage issue or byline strike matter much to me. At that moment in my life I owned nothing, needed nothing, owed no one and was thrilled that any newspaper anywhere would pay to print something I wrote.
But I was young and idealistic and known for speaking my mind in the newsroom. I had a sense of solidarity for a larger cause and the desire to help others. In the (now embarrassing) terminology of that era, I was anti-establishment.
The union leader who’d approached me was middle aged, had children to put through college, a mortgage and car payments. He needed the raise but couldn’t afford to do anything that would risk his job.
Those were the days of hot type. I went down to the press room and found a union printer to chip the byline off the metal plate.
In the final editions, including the Blue Streak special, the byline had disappeared.
I told no one for years, though it made me feel proud and even a little brave.
About a week later, the managing editor, John Dougherty, called me into his office. J.D., as we all called him, was a terrific old school newspaperman. He had a great eye for talent. Many of the people he hired right out of college went on to become top editors and reporters in the business. In my case, he took a chance, giving me a job though I’d never had a journalism course. And then he was patient while I learned the trade on his dime.
“Did you have that byline chipped†he asked me.
It was one of those moments of truth in a young man’s life. I looked him in the eye and said, “No.â€
“Well if you did, I’d fire you on the spot,†he said.
In retrospect, I think J.D. knew.
Either way, he’d scared me good.
I was changed. Until then, I’d felt my talent was a shield, that I could break the rules without consequence, because there was something special and even righteous about me.
In the years to come, this experience did not stop me from standing up for what I believed, but from then on, before acting, I factored in the possible consequences. Two jobs later, at The Miami Herald, a terrific editor was, to my mind, unfairly forced out of his job. I got up a petition that was signed by most of the newsroom, with my name first, and then personally handed it to the executive editor.
This time I knew I was likely dead-ended at the paper. Not long after, when I asked to transfer from features to the metro section, I was told that all they could give me was general assignment on the night shift and if I did well at that, they’d consider a better beat.
About then I applied to The Times.
I believe what I experienced is a rite of passage. I’ve seen all three of my grown sons go through it in their own ways, coming to the same startling realization when their protective shields were pierced.
Aaron Swartz played on a stage a million times larger and more important than any I’ve appeared on. Several times before this, he’d outsmarted government officials and publishers, making millions of documents available free to the public.
Later this week, the Justice Department is expected to brief members of Congress on the prosecutors’ handling of the case.
To many, particularly his generation, he is regarded as a Robin Hood, although not to me. I am the establishment now. I’ve seen far too many talented journalists, authors, musicians, artists, editors, agents and publishers lose their livelihoods in the name of free information.
Most people are lucky â€" they learn the lesson of the shield without grave consequence.
Mr. Swartz paid a terrible price for his idealism, whether wrongheaded or not. My heart goes out to him, and because I am a father with sons his age, it goes out to his parents. The pain of losing such a brilliant, precious child acting on his principles is unfathomable.
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