My first visit to a newsroom was not unlike my first day working at the U.S. Steel McDonald's Works just outside of Youngstown, where I grew up. It was noisy in both places. Everyone seemed to be in motion and everyone seemed to know where they were going. No one walked; everyone was heading somewhere \u2013 fast. The roar of the presses in the basement was deafening in the newsroom, much like the rumble of the steel mill.<\/p>\r\n
I was fortunate to enter the newspaper business when I was hired as a copy aide at The Plain Dealer in the mid-1970s. I had worked on my college newspaper \u2013 The Jambar \u2013 at Youngstown State University, but I had no professional experience in the trade. Still, my days as a college reporter and editor gave me a taste of the journalist\u2019s life, a profession populated by a smart, idealistic, caring, quirky, band of misfits who chronicled daily life and were the watchdogs of democracy. During the Vietnam War era and all the social and political upheaval that went with it, journalism gave me a front row seat to history. I wanted more.<\/p>\r\n
When I arrived at The Plain Dealer, copy aides were basically gofers; we fetched coffee, sharpened pencils, and otherwise helped move copies of stories from reporters to editors and finally to the composing room where stories were pasted up on light tables. A few older editors and reporters still yelled out \u201cBoy!\u201d when they needed something copied or someone to perform some menial task. I ran across the street from The Plain Dealer to pick up dry cleaning for reporters and editors and was summoned a couple of times to\u00a0run down the street to the nearest liquor store to purchase booze.<\/p>\r\n
It took a while but with help from several editors I was offered a tryout to become a reporter.<\/p>\r\n
It was the summer of 1975 when I entered that newsroom and I was there for nearly 30 years.<\/p>\r\n
Newsrooms were being flooded with hard-driving reporters, fueled with high expectations after having witnessed how two Metro reporters for The Washington Post latched onto a second-rate burglary and stayed with it until their reporting set in motion the resignation of a U.S. president, Richard Nixon.<\/p>\r\n
Reporters on staffs across the country realized that you could make a difference as a journalist. You could uncover graft and corruption and help put bad people in jail for doing bad things. We were out to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable, as the saying goes. That guided many reporters as they went about covering their beats. I know it guided me.<\/p>\r\n
In all my years at The Plain Dealer, there was no better\u00a0craftsman in the newsroom than Lou Mio. He was one of the most humble guys in the business, a master storyteller and, to this day, one of the funniest guys I know.<\/p>\r\n
Without him\u00a0noticing, I tried my best to copy his\u00a0demeanor and writing style. I\u00a0thought it would be\u00a0easy to write in a way that seem\u00a0effortless, as he did. That was, until I tried it. I didn't realize how good he was. He could take a\u00a0complicated\u00a0story and shave off all the nonessential elements, introduce it with a great entry and end it with a zinger. His secret: stay the hell out of the story. He allowed the subjects of his story - many of them military veterans - to have a voice.<\/p>\r\n
Mio was as close to Mark Twain as you could get.\u00a0He wrote gracefully without mucking up the story.\u00a0Too many journalists want to show their hand as the story unfolds. Lou let the story do the unfolding.<\/p>\r\n
Others - too many to mention - guided me by carefully editing my copy, pointing out inconsistencies, eliminating clutter,\u00a0checking for errors and otherwise challenging me to support the story with reliable attribution. Many were a pain in the ass, for sure, but they saved me too many times from making errors.<\/p>\r\n
I was an active member and a leader of the Newspaper Guild, Local No. 1, the very first unit in the nation. It brought me great satisfaction and some frustration. The members were largely very supportive of the union and realized the challenge we had dealing with an old-style management. We once proposed job sharing and labor relations said that was a communist idea. We were a proud bunch and not afraid of throwing up an informational picket line if we believed management\u00a0wasn't supportive of our reporters. The Guild will always stand for justice in the\u00a0newsroom. I'll forever be grateful for having won the trust of the\u00a0union which selected me to be part of\u00a0the Guild\u00a0leadership.<\/p>\r\n
My favorite moment in\u00a0negotiations\u00a0was when during a break in\u00a0talks one of our bargaining reps got sick and threw up in the\u00a0wastebasket. When management came back to the table we told them what happened and that it was the answer to\u00a0their latest proposal.<\/p>\r\n
Those of us in the editorial end of newspaper operations had little understanding or appreciation for the business end. Advertising revenue flowed into newsrooms, which allowed the editorial division to expand staffs, open outlying bureaus and send reporters across the country and overseas to chase stories.<\/p>\r\n
I used to tell newcomers, in my role as one of the union leaders that they had a job for life at the paper unless they shot an editor and even then they might still keep their job.<\/p>\r\n
What I didn\u2019t see coming was that the gravy train that supplied the money would\u00a0run out. It started about the time America was celebrating a new millennium, when I had about 25 years in the newsroom. And it has gotten worse with each passing year. These are among the toughest times for journalists. Newsrooms are shrinking and newspapers are on shaky economic ground. Each day seems to bring another story about newsroom layoffs, buy outs or both. This is not just sad for the journalists. Smaller staffs mean less news gets covered, despite what you might hear from newspaper owners and high-end editors who carry water for their bosses.<\/p>\r\n
In my early years at The Plain Dealer, our newsroom and others across the country were filled with reporters and editors, all concentrating on providing\u00a0accurate reporting. We had teams of reporters and stringers who\u00a0kept a close eye on the suburbs checking in regularly with city halls, boards of education,\u00a0municipal\u00a0courtrooms and police and fire departments. Now the coverage\u00a0appears to be\u00a0happenstance. Today, reporters now take photos to go with their stories and photographers write stories to go with their photos.<\/p>\r\n
Don\u2019t get me wrong: Reporters are working harder than ever and good journalism is happening. Reporters are unmasking years of haphazard handling of rape kits. Reporters are revealing a lackadaisical approach to lead poisoning.<\/p>\r\n
Nationally, reporters are facing challenges from a White House that has cast them as purveyors of fake news. But they persist.<\/p>\r\n
I covered all kinds of demonstrations while at The Plain Dealer, but none that affected me like the one I was sent to report on in Forsyth County, Georgia, in\u00a0January 1987. It drew more than 20,000 civil rights marchers in what became the largest civil rights rally in the south since the 1960s. It was a response to a racial disturbance a week earlier at a nearby Martin Luther King Jr. Day celebration.<\/p>\r\n
The rally also drew about 1,200 white supremacist counter protestors. About 1,700 Georgia National Guardsmen clad in riot gear stood between the groups.<\/p>\r\n
It was the first time I saw the Ku Klux Klan in full-dress and in great numbers. Klan rallies in Ohio generally included a couple a Klansmen\u00a0with a bullhorn while\u00a0hundreds of counter demonstrators yelled at them.<\/p>\r\n
This was different. The Klan was certainly outnumbered by demonstrators and law enforcement but\u00a0their presence in large numbers shook me.<\/p>\r\n
Klansman David Duke, who was later arrested, told the crowd of Confederate flag waving supporters that he had come to Cumming, Ga., as a spokesman for white people. The crowd erupted into anti-black chants, including \"No Niggers\" and \"Go home niggers.\"<\/p>\r\n
Several hundred counter demonstrators donned Klanswear and military fatigues and made their presence known. Bill Brown, 35, sat in his car outside a McDonald\u2019s across from where the march began. His wife and 8-year-old daughter were with him. He made no effort to disguise his hatred for blacks, telling me that he was there because of \"these niggers.\u201d His daughter sat attentively in the back seat. \"I\u2019d rather move out if they moved in,\" he said.<\/p>\r\n
The Rev. Charlie Greene looked on in disbelief at the scene. Greene, a Cincinnati native, was white and the pastor of the Pleasant Valley United Methodist Church nearby. \u201cI really didn't want to come. But I felt compelled to,\u201d he told me. \"It's hard to stand up in the pulpit and preach brotherhood and let this go on.\"<\/p>\r\n
The guardsmen took their positions, gripping their baseball bat-sized riot sticks. \u201cI know a lot of my parishioners would side with the counterdemonstrators. I tell them we are supposed to do as Jesus did. All week I wrestled with it and concluded that Jesus would be here. Jesus is here.\"<\/p>\r\n
At one point a car pulled up and a family of Klan members,\u00a0white robes and all, stepped into the street.\u00a0I was aghast when that included a boy, maybe nine or 10 years old,\u00a0wearing\u00a0mini robes and hood of hatred. I stood next to an African-American news videographer and watched as Klansmen and\u00a0their supporters casually stepped in front of his camera, shouting vile,\u00a0racist utterances. \"How do you handle this?\" I\u00a0asked him. He told me that he just had to concentrate on the job.<\/p>\r\n
One of the saddest stories I covered was the 1986 Berea homicide of a 13-year-old girl, who died at the hands of a 15-year-old boy who strangled her in his home and,\u00a0with some help, dumped the body in the Cleveland Metroparks Mill Stream Run Reservation. She apparently told him she wanted to end their relationship.<\/p>\r\n
Few stories had me near tears like this one. I talked many times to the girl's mother in the days that followed. Her grief was overwhelming. She\u00a0invited me to her daughter's gravesite and I watched as she carefully removed dirt and overgrown weeds from the marker. She didn\u2019t seem to care that her white cotton gloves had gotten muddy and wet in the process. Back at the house, she showed me her daughter\u2019s room, where months after the killing, she hadn\u2019t changed a thing.<\/p>\r\n
Her assailant, now in his 40s, is still prison.<\/p>\r\n
And I remember a man getting shot right in front of my eyes in the middle of the day on Cleveland's East Side.\u00a0Police were standing in front of house where a man was thought to be holding a hostage. I\u00a0thought it was going to be a long day just waiting out the\u00a0standoff. But suddenly, a barefoot man wearing only a pair of blue jeans, busted onto the porch holding a sword. He ran from the porch to the street as\u00a0dozens of cops and neighbors looked on in\u00a0disbelief.<\/p>\r\n
He ran in the direction away from the cops, his sword swinging before him. Inexplicably, he came\u00a0roaring back heading into a sea of police officers. One of the officers yelled out, \"Don't shoot,\" but another officer fired a shot, striking the man in the\u00a0lower left chest. There was\u00a0momentarily silence as no one was sure what they had\u00a0just seen.<\/p>\r\n
Amazingly, the man lived. I stood over him and noticed the small hole in his chest. The bullet struck no major\u00a0arteries. Later, police said he was high on drugs.<\/p>\r\n
In 1972, I hitchhiked with a friend to Miami Beach to attend the Democratic National Convention. I was the editor of The Jambar at Youngstown State University and our administrative assistant had secured the passes. I recently wrote about that experience for The Plain Dealer.<\/p>\r\n
We stuck out our thumbs and hoped for the best. We got rides in the back of a pickup truck, road in the cabs of diesel trucks, crowded into a two-seater sports car and felt the warmth of travelers willing to pick up a couple of rag-tag college kids looking for an adventure.<\/p>\r\n
That experience and others like it that followed became a part of who I was as a person and as a reporter. That sense of adventure continued throughout the years I wrote for The Plain Dealer. Along the way, reporters and editors took me under their wings and I learned from the best of them. I cherish those days and bless those still hammering away at their keyboards, hoping there is someone looking over their shoulders, offering a bit of advice and encouragement.<\/p>\r\n
Journalism is an adventure, a search for the truth and for reliable information. You never know where it will take you until you stick out your thumb. I am forever grateful that I accepted the ride.<\/p>","rendered":"
My first visit to a newsroom was not unlike my first day working at the U.S. Steel McDonald’s Works just outside of Youngstown, where I grew up. It was noisy in both places. Everyone seemed to be in motion and everyone seemed to know where they were going. No one walked; everyone was heading somewhere \u2013 fast. The roar of the presses in the basement was deafening in the newsroom, much like the rumble of the steel mill.<\/p>\n
I was fortunate to enter the newspaper business when I was hired as a copy aide at The Plain Dealer in the mid-1970s. I had worked on my college newspaper \u2013 The Jambar \u2013 at Youngstown State University, but I had no professional experience in the trade. Still, my days as a college reporter and editor gave me a taste of the journalist\u2019s life, a profession populated by a smart, idealistic, caring, quirky, band of misfits who chronicled daily life and were the watchdogs of democracy. During the Vietnam War era and all the social and political upheaval that went with it, journalism gave me a front row seat to history. I wanted more.<\/p>\n
When I arrived at The Plain Dealer, copy aides were basically gofers; we fetched coffee, sharpened pencils, and otherwise helped move copies of stories from reporters to editors and finally to the composing room where stories were pasted up on light tables. A few older editors and reporters still yelled out \u201cBoy!\u201d when they needed something copied or someone to perform some menial task. I ran across the street from The Plain Dealer to pick up dry cleaning for reporters and editors and was summoned a couple of times to\u00a0run down the street to the nearest liquor store to purchase booze.<\/p>\n
It took a while but with help from several editors I was offered a tryout to become a reporter.<\/p>\n
It was the summer of 1975 when I entered that newsroom and I was there for nearly 30 years.<\/p>\n
Newsrooms were being flooded with hard-driving reporters, fueled with high expectations after having witnessed how two Metro reporters for The Washington Post latched onto a second-rate burglary and stayed with it until their reporting set in motion the resignation of a U.S. president, Richard Nixon.<\/p>\n
Reporters on staffs across the country realized that you could make a difference as a journalist. You could uncover graft and corruption and help put bad people in jail for doing bad things. We were out to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable, as the saying goes. That guided many reporters as they went about covering their beats. I know it guided me.<\/p>\n
In all my years at The Plain Dealer, there was no better\u00a0craftsman in the newsroom than Lou Mio. He was one of the most humble guys in the business, a master storyteller and, to this day, one of the funniest guys I know.<\/p>\n
Without him\u00a0noticing, I tried my best to copy his\u00a0demeanor and writing style. I\u00a0thought it would be\u00a0easy to write in a way that seem\u00a0effortless, as he did. That was, until I tried it. I didn’t realize how good he was. He could take a\u00a0complicated\u00a0story and shave off all the nonessential elements, introduce it with a great entry and end it with a zinger. His secret: stay the hell out of the story. He allowed the subjects of his story – many of them military veterans – to have a voice.<\/p>\n
Mio was as close to Mark Twain as you could get.\u00a0He wrote gracefully without mucking up the story.\u00a0Too many journalists want to show their hand as the story unfolds. Lou let the story do the unfolding.<\/p>\n
Others – too many to mention – guided me by carefully editing my copy, pointing out inconsistencies, eliminating clutter,\u00a0checking for errors and otherwise challenging me to support the story with reliable attribution. Many were a pain in the ass, for sure, but they saved me too many times from making errors.<\/p>\n
I was an active member and a leader of the Newspaper Guild, Local No. 1, the very first unit in the nation. It brought me great satisfaction and some frustration. The members were largely very supportive of the union and realized the challenge we had dealing with an old-style management. We once proposed job sharing and labor relations said that was a communist idea. We were a proud bunch and not afraid of throwing up an informational picket line if we believed management\u00a0wasn’t supportive of our reporters. The Guild will always stand for justice in the\u00a0newsroom. I’ll forever be grateful for having won the trust of the\u00a0union which selected me to be part of\u00a0the Guild\u00a0leadership.<\/p>\n
My favorite moment in\u00a0negotiations\u00a0was when during a break in\u00a0talks one of our bargaining reps got sick and threw up in the\u00a0wastebasket. When management came back to the table we told them what happened and that it was the answer to\u00a0their latest proposal.<\/p>\n
Those of us in the editorial end of newspaper operations had little understanding or appreciation for the business end. Advertising revenue flowed into newsrooms, which allowed the editorial division to expand staffs, open outlying bureaus and send reporters across the country and overseas to chase stories.<\/p>\n
I used to tell newcomers, in my role as one of the union leaders that they had a job for life at the paper unless they shot an editor and even then they might still keep their job.<\/p>\n
What I didn\u2019t see coming was that the gravy train that supplied the money would\u00a0run out. It started about the time America was celebrating a new millennium, when I had about 25 years in the newsroom. And it has gotten worse with each passing year. These are among the toughest times for journalists. Newsrooms are shrinking and newspapers are on shaky economic ground. Each day seems to bring another story about newsroom layoffs, buy outs or both. This is not just sad for the journalists. Smaller staffs mean less news gets covered, despite what you might hear from newspaper owners and high-end editors who carry water for their bosses.<\/p>\n
In my early years at The Plain Dealer, our newsroom and others across the country were filled with reporters and editors, all concentrating on providing\u00a0accurate reporting. We had teams of reporters and stringers who\u00a0kept a close eye on the suburbs checking in regularly with city halls, boards of education,\u00a0municipal\u00a0courtrooms and police and fire departments. Now the coverage\u00a0appears to be\u00a0happenstance. Today, reporters now take photos to go with their stories and photographers write stories to go with their photos.<\/p>\n
Don\u2019t get me wrong: Reporters are working harder than ever and good journalism is happening. Reporters are unmasking years of haphazard handling of rape kits. Reporters are revealing a lackadaisical approach to lead poisoning.<\/p>\n
Nationally, reporters are facing challenges from a White House that has cast them as purveyors of fake news. But they persist.<\/p>\n
I covered all kinds of demonstrations while at The Plain Dealer, but none that affected me like the one I was sent to report on in Forsyth County, Georgia, in\u00a0January 1987. It drew more than 20,000 civil rights marchers in what became the largest civil rights rally in the south since the 1960s. It was a response to a racial disturbance a week earlier at a nearby Martin Luther King Jr. Day celebration.<\/p>\n
The rally also drew about 1,200 white supremacist counter protestors. About 1,700 Georgia National Guardsmen clad in riot gear stood between the groups.<\/p>\n
It was the first time I saw the Ku Klux Klan in full-dress and in great numbers. Klan rallies in Ohio generally included a couple a Klansmen\u00a0with a bullhorn while\u00a0hundreds of counter demonstrators yelled at them.<\/p>\n
This was different. The Klan was certainly outnumbered by demonstrators and law enforcement but\u00a0their presence in large numbers shook me.<\/p>\n
Klansman David Duke, who was later arrested, told the crowd of Confederate flag waving supporters that he had come to Cumming, Ga., as a spokesman for white people. The crowd erupted into anti-black chants, including “No Niggers” and “Go home niggers.”<\/p>\n
Several hundred counter demonstrators donned Klanswear and military fatigues and made their presence known. Bill Brown, 35, sat in his car outside a McDonald\u2019s across from where the march began. His wife and 8-year-old daughter were with him. He made no effort to disguise his hatred for blacks, telling me that he was there because of “these niggers.\u201d His daughter sat attentively in the back seat. “I\u2019d rather move out if they moved in,” he said.<\/p>\n
The Rev. Charlie Greene looked on in disbelief at the scene. Greene, a Cincinnati native, was white and the pastor of the Pleasant Valley United Methodist Church nearby. \u201cI really didn’t want to come. But I felt compelled to,\u201d he told me. “It’s hard to stand up in the pulpit and preach brotherhood and let this go on.”<\/p>\n
The guardsmen took their positions, gripping their baseball bat-sized riot sticks. \u201cI know a lot of my parishioners would side with the counterdemonstrators. I tell them we are supposed to do as Jesus did. All week I wrestled with it and concluded that Jesus would be here. Jesus is here.”<\/p>\n
At one point a car pulled up and a family of Klan members,\u00a0white robes and all, stepped into the street.\u00a0I was aghast when that included a boy, maybe nine or 10 years old,\u00a0wearing\u00a0mini robes and hood of hatred. I stood next to an African-American news videographer and watched as Klansmen and\u00a0their supporters casually stepped in front of his camera, shouting vile,\u00a0racist utterances. “How do you handle this?” I\u00a0asked him. He told me that he just had to concentrate on the job.<\/p>\n
One of the saddest stories I covered was the 1986 Berea homicide of a 13-year-old girl, who died at the hands of a 15-year-old boy who strangled her in his home and,\u00a0with some help, dumped the body in the Cleveland Metroparks Mill Stream Run Reservation. She apparently told him she wanted to end their relationship.<\/p>\n
Few stories had me near tears like this one. I talked many times to the girl’s mother in the days that followed. Her grief was overwhelming. She\u00a0invited me to her daughter’s gravesite and I watched as she carefully removed dirt and overgrown weeds from the marker. She didn\u2019t seem to care that her white cotton gloves had gotten muddy and wet in the process. Back at the house, she showed me her daughter\u2019s room, where months after the killing, she hadn\u2019t changed a thing.<\/p>\n
Her assailant, now in his 40s, is still prison.<\/p>\n
And I remember a man getting shot right in front of my eyes in the middle of the day on Cleveland’s East Side.\u00a0Police were standing in front of house where a man was thought to be holding a hostage. I\u00a0thought it was going to be a long day just waiting out the\u00a0standoff. But suddenly, a barefoot man wearing only a pair of blue jeans, busted onto the porch holding a sword. He ran from the porch to the street as\u00a0dozens of cops and neighbors looked on in\u00a0disbelief.<\/p>\n
He ran in the direction away from the cops, his sword swinging before him. Inexplicably, he came\u00a0roaring back heading into a sea of police officers. One of the officers yelled out, “Don’t shoot,” but another officer fired a shot, striking the man in the\u00a0lower left chest. There was\u00a0momentarily silence as no one was sure what they had\u00a0just seen.<\/p>\n
Amazingly, the man lived. I stood over him and noticed the small hole in his chest. The bullet struck no major\u00a0arteries. Later, police said he was high on drugs.<\/p>\n
In 1972, I hitchhiked with a friend to Miami Beach to attend the Democratic National Convention. I was the editor of The Jambar at Youngstown State University and our administrative assistant had secured the passes. I recently wrote about that experience for The Plain Dealer.<\/p>\n
We stuck out our thumbs and hoped for the best. We got rides in the back of a pickup truck, road in the cabs of diesel trucks, crowded into a two-seater sports car and felt the warmth of travelers willing to pick up a couple of rag-tag college kids looking for an adventure.<\/p>\n
That experience and others like it that followed became a part of who I was as a person and as a reporter. That sense of adventure continued throughout the years I wrote for The Plain Dealer. Along the way, reporters and editors took me under their wings and I learned from the best of them. I cherish those days and bless those still hammering away at their keyboards, hoping there is someone looking over their shoulders, offering a bit of advice and encouragement.<\/p>\n
Journalism is an adventure, a search for the truth and for reliable information. You never know where it will take you until you stick out your thumb. I am forever grateful that I accepted the ride.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":106,"menu_order":16,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":["jhagan"],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[],"contributor":[65],"license":[],"class_list":["post-160","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","contributor-jhagan"],"part":510,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/160","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/106"}],"version-history":[{"count":31,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/160\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2963,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/160\/revisions\/2963"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/510"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/160\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=160"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=160"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=160"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.ulib.csuohio.edu\/plain-dealing\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=160"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}