EOTO 3 - Randy Shilts and the Power of Telling the Stories That Matter

When people think about major historical moments 

like the AIDS epidemic or policies like “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” they usually

focus on the events themselves—not the journalists who shaped how the 

public came to understand them. Randy Shilts is one of those journalists

whose work didn’t just report history—it helped define it.

Randy Shilts was one of the first openly gay reporters at a major 

U.S. newspaper, the San Francisco Chronicle. At a time when LGBTQ+ 

stories were often ignored or marginalized, Shilts treated them as essential 

to understanding American life. He didn’t see these stories as niche or secondary; 

he recognized them as central to conversations about politics, public health, and civil rights.

His career path reflects both his determination and his impact. After graduating 

from the University of Oregon in 1977, Shilts entered a field that was not particularly 

welcoming to openly gay journalists. Still, he persisted. 

By the early 1980s, he was covering the “gay and lesbian beat” at the 

Chronicle—something that few mainstream newspapers even acknowledged 

as legitimate reporting. Shilts’s influence grew through his books, which combined 

investigative journalism with deep historical analysis. 

His 1982 book, The Mayor of Castro Street, documented the life of Harvey Milk 

while also capturing the rise of LGBTQ+ political power in San Francisco.

Later, And the Band Played On (1987) became one of the most important 

accounts of the early AIDS epidemic, exposing how government inaction and 

societal prejudice contributed to the crisis. In 1993, Shilts published Conduct Unbecoming, 

which examined discrimination against gay service members in the U.S. military. 

Across all three books, a clear theme emerges: Shilts was deeply focused on the intersection of identity, power, and institutions.

What made his reporting so groundbreaking was not just the topics he covered, 

but how he covered them. He centered real people, portraying LGBTQ+ 

individuals and those affected by AIDS as complex human beings rather 

than abstract issues. He also held powerful institutions accountable, calling 

out failures by government agencies and public health officials—even when it was 

controversial to do so. Today, many of the standards we expect from strong investigative

journalism—human-centered storytelling, historical context, and institutional 

accountability—mirror the approach Shilts helped pioneer. His work also contributed 

to making LGBTQ+ coverage a legitimate and necessary part of mainstream journalism.

Ultimately, Randy Shilts showed that journalism is not just about reporting

facts—it’s about deciding whose stories are worth telling. His career challenges 

us to ask an important question: whose voices are still missing from the narrative?

As future storytellers, media creators, or even just informed audiences, that 

question is one worth carrying forward.

Shock and Awe - Movie Review

Shock and Awe didn’t land like a typical war movie for me. It felt more like sitting through a case study in how journalism can fail on the biggest stage possible—and what it looks like when a few people refuse to go along anyway. Instead of building to some secret revelation, the film keeps circling a more uncomfortable truth: the evidence for the Iraq War was shaky in real time, and most of the press chose to trust power instead of questioning it.

The movie draws a pretty sharp line between access and reporting, and that line felt very familiar from media ethics conversations. The outlets with the biggest platforms are shown as the ones closest to power, and that closeness becomes a liability. If your status depends on being in the room with top officials, it gets a lot harder to call those same people out when their story doesn’t add up. Knight Ridder doesn’t have that status in the same way, and the film suggests that being slightly outside the D.C. elite bubble is exactly what frees them up to see the holes.

What I liked most is that Shock and Awe treats reporting as a process instead of a dramatic mic-drop. We see messy phone calls, half-confirmed tips, contradictions between public statements and private doubts, and constant anxiety about whether anyone will even read what they’re publishing. It’s such a different rhythm from the “one big scoop” fantasy. The film is basically saying: real accountability reporting is slow, repetitive, and often deeply unglamorous, which is exactly why it’s so easy for louder, cleaner narratives to drown it out.

John Walcott’s role as editor makes the ethical stakes feel concrete. He’s not just giving speeches about truth; he’s deciding what runs, what needs more sourcing, and how much blowback the newsroom is willing to take for going against the national mood. As someone who thinks about how media structures shape coverage, that really hit me: brave reporting doesn’t survive without editors who are willing to back it when it’s unpopular, not just when it’s vindicated later.

What sticks with me most, though, is the scale of the failure around them. The film obviously wants you to respect Knight Ridder for getting it right, but it also forces you to sit with the fact that so many bigger, louder outlets didn’t. This isn’t just about bad takes or weak sourcing; the cost was war, lives, and a level of public distrust in the media that we’re still living with.

By the time the credits roll, Shock and Awe feels less like a period piece and more like a warning label for political journalism. Its core argument is pretty simple: journalism is doing its job when it’s willing to interrupt the rush to consensus, even if that means being alone, ignored, or called unpatriotic in the moment. And once you’ve watched how high the stakes were in this case, it’s hard not to think about how many current stories would look different if more reporters treated skepticism as a responsibility instead of a branding choice.

Five Star Final

   “Five Star Final” hit me in a way I didn’t fully expect. Even though it’s an older film, its critique of the press feels uncomfortably current, especially if you care about journalism ethics and the power of media. Watching it, I kept thinking: this could easily be a story about a sensationalist tabloid website or a click-chasing news network today, just with different technology and a new logo.

    What struck me first was how clearly the film exposes the gap between “the public’s right to know” and “the public’s curiosity.” The paper doesn’t revive that old scandal because it serves the community; it does it to sell copies. There’s this chilling sense that the people in charge know they’re crossing a line, but they do it anyway because circulation numbers and ad revenue matter more than the truth’s impact on real lives. As someone who studies media, that tension between ethical responsibility and business pressure felt very real—and very depressing.

    The characters make the whole ethical argument feel human instead of abstract. The editor isn’t a cartoon villain; he’s conflicted and occasionally sympathetic, which almost makes his choices more disturbing. It’s easier to condemn a one-dimensional bad guy than someone who knows better and still caves. Watching him rationalize his decisions reminded me how slippery ethical “just this once” thinking can be in a newsroom. One decision for ratings, one extra sensational headline, and suddenly the line has moved without anyone saying when it shifted.
The family at the center of the story is what really stayed with me. They aren’t powerful, they aren’t looking for attention, and they aren’t trying to manipulate the press. They’re just trying to live quietly with something painful in their past. Seeing them dragged back into the spotlight for the sake of sales made me think about how often real people become collateral damage in stories that are framed as “public interest.” The film forces you to sit with the consequences: shame, fear, and emotional destruction that never show up in circulation reports or ratings charts.

    I also found myself paying attention to how the film uses its newsroom as a kind of machine. Phones ringing, people yelling, deadlines looming—everything moves so fast that no one has time to pause and ask, “Should we?” The question is always, “Can we, and will it sell?” That pace feels very similar to today’s 24/7 news cycle and social media pressure. When the goal is to be first and loudest, reflection and empathy are the first things sacrificed.
By the end, my reaction was a mix of frustration and clarity. Frustration, because it’s obvious how preventable the tragedy is if just one person had chosen integrity over ambition. Clarity, because the film underlines a truth that still matters: journalism has real power, and that power can either protect the vulnerable or destroy them. “Five Star Final” may be set in another era, but it functions like a warning label for modern media: if we treat people as headlines instead of human beings, the cost won’t just be measured in subscriptions or views—it will be measured in lives.

EOTO 2 - War Reporting during the Televison/Modern Era

     War reporting has never been static. It has evolved alongside technology, politics, and public expectations, shifting from grainy black-and-white images on television to real-time updates on our phones. Yet despite all these changes, one thing remains constant: without courageous journalists on the ground, we lose our clearest window into the realities of war.​The Vietnam War is often remembered as the first true “living room war.” Television brought raw, unsettling images of combat, civilian suffering, and returning body bags directly into American homes. Nightly broadcasts showed soldiers fighting and dying, while reporters like Walter Cronkite questioned official narratives and highlighted the human cost of conflict. For the first time, a mass audience could witness the violence almost as it unfolded, and that visibility helped fuel public debate and growing opposition to the war. Vietnam proved that media coverage could powerfully shape public opinion about military action.

    In response, governments and militaries learned to manage and restrict that power. During the 1991 Gulf War, coverage was tightly controlled through media “pools,” where access to the front lines was limited and heavily supervised. Instead of chaotic, bloody battlefield footage, many viewers saw sanitized images—precision-guided “smart bombs” and dramatic night-vision shots of distant explosions. By 2003, the U.S. military introduced embedded journalism in Iraq, attaching reporters to specific units. This gave audiences intimate, ground-level perspectives but also narrowed what journalists could see. Critics argued that living, traveling, and depending on soldiers for protection made it harder for reporters to remain fully independent and critical of the forces they were covering.

    The digital revolution has transformed war reporting yet again. Conflicts like the war in Ukraine have been called the first true “social media wars,” where citizens with smartphones capture bombing raids, troop movements, and destroyed neighborhoods in real time. Journalists now spend as much time verifying and geolocating videos as they do interviewing sources on the ground. At the same time, misinformation and propaganda spread rapidly on platforms where content moderation has been weakened, as researchers observed during the Israel–Hamas war. False or misleading posts can go viral long before professional reporters have the chance to confirm what is actually happening, forcing newsrooms into a constant race to correct the record.

    All of this is unfolding as war reporting becomes more dangerous than ever. In 2025, a record 129 journalists were killed worldwide, with more than three-quarters of those deaths occurring in conflict zones. Many were local reporters working without the protections or visibility that major international correspondents sometimes have. At the same time, shrinking foreign bureaus and budget cuts have created “news graveyards”—places where violence continues but few journalists remain to document it. As the Committee to Protect Journalists warns, when reporters are silenced, the world loses independent testimony, and “what is not recorded can be denied.”

    War reporting in the television and modern era is therefore a story of both empowerment and fragility. Technology has given us unprecedented access to the realities of conflict, from the living room screens of the Vietnam era to the endless scroll of social media today. But that access depends on people willing to bear witness in the most dangerous places on earth. Protecting press freedom and the safety of journalists is not just about defending a profession—it is about defending our ability to know what is being done in our name, and to whom.

The Associated Press

     The Associated Press, or AP, is now one of the most influential news organizations in the world, but it began as a pretty simple workaround to a money problem. In 1846, a handful of New York City newspapers realized it was too expensive for each of them to separately pay for reports from the Mexican–American War. Instead of competing and duplicating costs, they teamed up and created a cooperative to share the work and the expense of gathering and distributing news. That partnership became the Associated Press, and the basic idea of pooling resources to share content still defines how AP operates today.

    From the start, AP leaned hard into whatever technology could move information faster. In the nineteenth century, that meant building relay systems and using the electric telegraph to send stories over long distances, which helped turn AP into one of the first real news wire services in the United States. As the organization grew beyond New York, it developed a nationwide, and eventually worldwide, network of correspondents and bureaus. Those journalists fed stories back to member newspapers across the country and around the globe, so by the early twentieth century, AP was no longer just a local or regional project—it was a global news operation.

    AP didn’t stop innovating once it had the text side figured out. In 1935, it launched Wirephoto, a system that allowed photographs to be sent over telephone lines so that papers could publish images from far‑off events on tight deadlines. Suddenly, readers weren’t just reading about major news stories; they were seeing them, sometimes within hours of when they happened. That change helped redefine what “timely” news meant and set expectations for visual coverage that still shape journalism today.

    One of the biggest things that makes AP stand out is how it’s structured. It’s a cooperative, owned by its member news organizations rather than a single corporation or individual. Those member outlets pay fees and, in return, get access to AP stories, photos, videos, and more that they can use in their own coverage. Because AP serves clients with different audiences and political views, its reporting is designed to be broadly useful and fact‑driven, so it can fit into many different kinds of newsrooms.

    That cooperative foundation supports AP’s editorial mission: delivering accurate, fast, and neutral reporting. The organization stresses verification, clear sourcing, and careful word choice, which is a major reason so many outlets trust AP when it comes to calling elections or handling breaking news. Over the years, AP has also helped shape professional standards in journalism, from expectations about impartial reporting and corrections to broader newsroom ethics.

    Today, AP is still deeply embedded in how people get their news, even if many readers, viewers, and listeners don’t always notice the AP credit line. Local and regional outlets rely on AP to provide national and international coverage they no longer have the staff or budget to produce themselves, especially as many newsrooms have shrunk. AP content shows up in print, on TV and radio, and across websites and mobile apps, often powering the breaking‑news alerts and live updates people see on their phones.

    AP has also kept pace with each new wave of technology, moving from telegraph lines to satellite feeds and now to digital distribution and real‑time updates built into online platforms and social media. Its journalists cover elections, wars, natural disasters, and political crises, shaping how audiences understand major global events and often serving as a primary source for other outlets’ stories. On top of that, AP is active in press‑freedom advocacy and tracks threats against journalists, underscoring its commitment to independent reporting and the public’s right to know.

Me in 500 words.

Ella Rathburn

Ella Rathburn, Megan Haynes, Adde Plugge, and Mia Thomas pose for a picture at a Phi Mu event.

    I am a symphony of stories still being written—each note a memory, each pause a moment of learning. I am the late-night editor with tired eyes and a restless heart, the voice behind the microphone chasing the truth in every word. I am a Broadcast Journalism and Sports Media student at High Point University, but more than that, I am a storyteller who believes that purpose lives inside passion. My path has not been straight or simple. It’s been messy, beautiful, and alive—a dance between pressure and possibility. Balancing two majors, leadership roles, and creative dreams has tested me, but it’s also taught me how to rise when the weight of expectation feels heavy, how to let ambition burn brighter than fear.

    Every challenge I’ve faced is stitched into me like a thread in a larger design. I’ve learned that strength isn’t about being unbreakable—it’s about showing up, cracked but shining anyway. In student government, I’ve learned the quiet art of leadership: listening before speaking, serving before leading. In my acapella group, I’ve felt the power of harmony—how individual voices can blend into something greater than themselves. Whether arranging music, capturing stories through a camera lens, or guiding a team through a deadline, I move with intention. I believe creativity is not chaos; it’s courage in motion.

    Content creation has become both my outlet and my mirror. Through TikTok and Instagram, I transform everyday moments into stories that breathe—that invite others to feel seen. I film, I edit, I narrate, not to chase perfection but to celebrate the imperfections that make life real. Every caption is a piece of my voice, every clip a reflection of how I see the world: colorful, unpredictable, beautiful in its impermanence. Journalism, for me, is not about spotlighting myself—it’s about holding the light for others. To tell stories that bring people closer, to speak truth where silence used to live, is the calling that keeps me moving forward.

    There are nights when I question everything. When exhaustion whispers that I’m not enough, when success feels distant and unreachable. Yet, something inside me—some stubborn spark—refuses to fade. I remind myself that dreams don’t bloom overnight. They take patience, persistence, and faith in the process. I’ve learned to love the climb as much as the view. My life right now is a collage of ambition and heart, deadlines and friendships, laughter echoing down campus hallways, and quiet mornings full of hope. I am still becoming—still discovering what it means to be bold, to be vulnerable, to be me. But I know this: I was born to tell stories that move people, to create moments that linger, to use my voice not for noise, but for meaning.

     I am more than my title, my major, or my résumé. I am a storyteller in motion—unfolding, fearless, and endlessly determined.