Just as I was running to join the gaggle, someone on the police line popped off a canister at the press. It hit the ground in my path, about six feet away from me. A small fire, a noise, and then white, smoke-like powder rose into the air. Everything in my body tried to run, but I managed to come back after a few steps away. I wasn’t really able to think. In my head, a voice was asking what the hell I was supposed to do now. “I’m one of the press,” I said to myself. “I should go stand with them.” I was very short compared to the other reporters, and the only woman. No one knew me, and no one talked to me. I wasn’t local.
- Goodbye Newsweek! — Jim Colton
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