If you’re not familiar with the workings of a newsroom, there’s a small army of support staff that perform the research and take the written words and edit them, fact-check them, video them, code the page, answer reader questions and feedback, and grab the data. In other words, people with a lot of titles other than “journalist” get information into your hands. I have never held a title called “writer” or “reporter”, and because of that, it took me a long time to accept that I was, in fact, a journalist.

Looking back at the work I did, with titles like “editor” and “correspondent” and the ever-ambiguous “lead”, I can very clearly see a common thread that would indicate that everyone in that newsroom is a journalist. That indicator is power.

Having dominion over what a large group of people understand to be factual is power. Whether or not you write the words, being in a newsroom (or having a large social following, or similar) you have responsibility to the community you serve, whether that’s a geographic community or by interest or life stage.

Being part of the machine that gets information to people at scale influences what the general public believes, and that means you hold power. Let’s talk about what that means for me, as I provide information to you.

I recently wrote for Philadelphia Magazine about grassroots groups creating systems to end food waste. Between volunteering and food writing, I have a unique position to see the way food moves around this city, where it comes from, who gets it, and the impact of that. Specifically, I’ve been troubled by how a city with 100 new restaurants annually, with catered block parties and galas any night of the week and dozens of farms within driving distance, could possibly have a single hungry person.

I thought hard about the audience for this story. Understanding the content it would live next to on the website, and people I see sharing Philly Mag stories, I knew that leaning into “how to help” would be most important to an audience who, likely, goes to expensive restaurants, doesn’t want to feel bad about it, but does care about the waste made in that industry. So, knowing who could help me frame the individual impact was important, and I knew exactly who to ask from being within the community.

I’ve been embedded with one particular mutual aid group who passes out produce and meals to people throughout the city, not with the intention of using them as a source, but because I find their work interesting; there’s some natural magic in people who get their hands dirty rather than just talking about problems and I’m drawn to those people.

Did they know I’m a journalist? It would have been very easy to not announce myself and, in fact, when I review restaurants I don’t announce myself unless I need photos or cooperation (I don’t want to be treated differently than a regular consumer would because it makes for an untruthful review). But this group knew I was a journalist from my first visit because not giving them the opportunity to protect their inner workings from a member of the media would be punching down and creating harm in my own backyard.

When the time came that I had a story involving their work, I knew ahead of my ask that they had a blanket policy to not speak to the media. The policy to stay clear of journalists is common in mutual aid and grassroots organizing, stemming from years of disrespect and misunderstanding. They don’t believe they’ll be listened to, or are afraid they will be framed in ways that make their already hard work more difficult.

The more I report independently from a big publishing body, the more I sit with this knowledge and consider what it means to be someone in a community who reports information.

Does my role as a journalist usurp my duty as a community member and digital citizen, where my goal would be to elevate my neighbors? How could my words harm these groups in ways that might result in people not being fed? Why do we feel that being a journalist in a community and being a person in the community are separate? What does that say about the goals of journalism?

For my reporting on the Philly Mag story, I wanted to answer complex questions about why food gets to some people, and not others. With so much excitement about new restaurants and Michelin guides, we still have an enormous food equality problem here and it was my goal to get into that issue. I don’t want to be responsible for ending any solutions that feed the community. I want to ask, “why do these groups need to work so hard and bend the rules to feed people in the first place?”

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While I’m proud of the story I’ve put out, the hours of research, the days of interviews, the editing with a fantastic editor who understood how important this topic is, there’s so much more I’d like to say about these smaller groups who act from the space of mutual aid, not charity.

I’d like to paint a picture of a group of people of different ages and backgrounds meeting at one space on the same day every week. Through closed chats they share information about where to find necessities like hygiene products, tents, tables, water and other items for successful and safe food distribution.

Where does the food come from? Produce, snacks, meals and other perishables are acquired daily from other mutual aid groups who had leftover items after their distribution, kitchens and food banks with excess, stores and restaurants with excess who might call them with minutes to spare. On any given day a table could be packed with boxes of peppers, lettuce and apples from local markets or big supermarkets like ACME, full loaves of bread from bakeries and cookie shops, and hot meals from The People’s Kitchen or Double Trellis Food Initiative. The night before distribution, the chat lights up with assignments: who will go where to pick up what. Since there is no hierarchy in mutual aid, whoever is available will go on that run.

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How does food distribution work? Once tables are set up, you hand items to people who wait with curiosity and bags open. You try to balance both giving something to everyone and making sure there’s enough for the growing line. Behind the tables are volunteers: someone maintains the hygiene items (Plan B and detergent are popular and there’s always toothpaste and toothbrushes available), someone maintains the harm reduction supplies (kits for needle exchange or wound care), someone keeps an eye on the clothing if there are donations that day (socks are popular and often donated through a major retailer), and a handful of people together keep dominion over the available food, usually separated by individual items and produce, and hot meals.

Produce is my favorite station because often people will look over all the boxes of fruit and vegetables and ask what they are, and what they can make. With such a diverse line of customers, there are always recipes and ideas to share, and I go home thinking about what I can make, too. Some people will choose very carefully by what they can carry and eat without preparation. Other people will take one of everything and build out a home menu. On rare days when there are items left over, group members have taken items home – after all, mutual aid means there’s no hierarchy and food should be free for everyone, and that includes volunteers.

What kind of people come to the distribution table? All kinds of people. A person in need doesn’t necessarily look like a Warner Brothers cartoon, with satchel on stick, so it’s impossible to say who is truly hungry. Teens come to the table to try Double Trellis hot lunches. Children playing at the park come for fruit and water. Multigenerational families are always there, with strollers and walking aids. Customers span race, culture and ethnicity, across all age groups and varying levels of health.

After the food is gone, the tables are cleaned off, anything extra is sent to food pantries, and the day is discussed: how many people lined up? What are the most requested items? This down time is often filled with deep community involvement. I’ve watched as this group gave safety information about lost family members to worried relatives. I’ve seen them break up fights. I’ve watched as they entertained children and organized clothing for people who were robbed. I’ve seen them discuss news events and pass out books. They know the names of most customers who come to distribution, they know their stories and needs.

The work expands beyond providing a tactical resource to providing an emotional resource, which is much needed in an age of exceptionalism. Seeing someone at their lowest point and reminding them that we are equal is a radical act of love. Community care is handed out, with the food as the entry point rather than a gift of charity.

There’s so much more to be said about how they do that, and also how they devote a lot of time to figuring out how to pay for everything from water bottles to latex gloves, how they communicate by giving everyone a say but depending on a core body to act on those decisions. It’s sometimes very messy. Other times my corporate brain is impressed by how a team with no true governing body can be so productive. This work is never done, it’s a very difficult endless cycle to lift all boats.

Thinking about roles in the community, journalists are storytellers who are here to share these tales as far and wide as we can, to tell the world what is happening. We are also a part of that community and are only as good as the people around us.