WHO (our very own Felix Knutsson)
WHAT (the aftermath of Who, What, Where, When—Junior Edition)
WHERE (various locations)
WHEN (one week ago)
You’ve probably come to notice a certain style in this journalist’s reportage over the course of our first semester together. Words like hard-hitting and exposé possibly come to mind. I’ve tackled asbestos and homelessness, but when I tackled homelessness, I had no idea that one of our own was among their ranks.
So today I am happy to write what some might dismissively call a “feel-good” story. I write it with the permission of our game show champion, Felix Knutsson. (Full disclosure: This reporter is good friends with—even the sort-of girlfriend of—the subject. But this reporter did not let him have any kind of influence over the article as that would go against her journalistic code of ethics.)
First, a recap. We all know what happened at the end of the final game. Practically everyone in Canada found out that Felix and his mom were homeless. (Felix doesn’t like me to use that word; he prefers “between places,” but this reporter has to call it like she sees it.) And we also found out that he wouldn’t get the prize money till he was eighteen, which, when you think about it, makes sense, and frankly this reporter feels strongly that Felix should have done his due diligence and read the contract; that oversight is on him.
But still, I felt crushed on his behalf, and so did Dylan Brinkerhoff, who has given me permission to use his name because (a) he is Felix’s best friend, and (b) he wanted to see his name in print.
And it turns out that a lot of other people in the audience felt bad, too. So guess what? Dylan and this reporter made sure all those people met each other after the show. And they talked, and they decided to have a meeting the very next day. But here is the ridiculous part: even though we were responsible for bringing all of those people together, we were not allowed to attend the meeting, because it was “for grown-ups only.” When this reporter pushed for access in the name of freedom of the press, her very own parents rudely refused. Like they somehow thought this reporter wasn’t mature enough to handle what was going on, which, as anyone who knows this reporter would agree, is utterly absurd.
But here is what came out of those meetings:
Felix and his mom were offered an apartment. It is above a store on Broadway called Ahmadi Grocery. If you and your family don’t shop there already, well, what are you waiting for? They have great produce, and they are great people. They own the store and the small apartment upstairs. Their son has been living in the apartment, but he got a job in Prince George and moves out in January. Felix and his mom will move in then, and while no one would give this reporter an exact dollar figure, I am told the rent is reasonable.
I would write a much longer piece, but the editor gave me only a limited amount of space, even though I repeatedly pointed out that this story is journalism gold. I suppose it is a good life lesson to be reminded that one will encounter certain bosses who suffer from a lack of vision and imagination. Fortunately, I doubt the editors at Le Monde, the Guardian or the Washington Post have this affliction, and they are my top three picks for work once I am through university.
On that note, and only twenty words away from my maximum word count, I wish you all a very happy holiday.
(For the French edition of this article, please go to page 6. This reporter convinced our editor yet again that a story of this scope and importance should be published in English and in French—obviously.)