In the mid-20th century, Laurens van der Post sat with Bushmen around a fire in the Kalahari Desert. In conversation, he admitted he could not hear the stars. At first, they laughed, assuming he was joking. How could someone fail to hear the stars, which to them sang as clearly as birds at dawn or the rush of wind? But when they realized he was serious, their laughter fell away. Their faces turned solemn. To them, this was no eccentricity—it was a grave affliction, a disconnection from the heartbeat of existence itself.
For the Bushmen, nature was never silent. It was alive, filled with voices. To be deaf to those voices was a true poverty, a deeper loss than lacking material possessions. For van der Post, raised in modern Europe, the cosmos was distant, mechanized, stripped of its voices by industrial progress and scientific detachment.
That story lingers because it forces us to ask: what have we traded away? The Bushmen’s sorrow was not ridicule, but compassion. They pitied van der Post’s inability to hear the music of creation. It made them realize how impoverished a person could be, not from hunger or thirst, but from losing the connection to truth itself.
Our Profession’s Deafness to the Stars
I often feel this way when I look at my fellow court reporters and our profession at large. The stars sing clearly to me—the truth rings out with undeniable clarity. I see the ways our leaders have steered us astray, how they have cloaked failure in spin, and how accountability has been traded for ego, for careerism, for alliances that serve individuals, rather than the profession.
And yet, when I try to voice these truths, the reaction is not recognition, but dismissal. Laughter, even ridicule. My colleagues treat the warnings as exaggerations or personal grievances. Like van der Post among the Bushmen, I admit what I see—that the record is endangered, that our pipeline of students is compromised, that our associations enable exploitation—and others look at me as if I were imagining it.
But the sorrow is real. Just as the Bushmen pitied van der Post for not hearing the stars, I pity a profession that cannot, or will not, hear the voices calling out around us: the schools who report losing students, the courts shifting toward digital systems, the legislators stripping away protections, the public growing unaware of what stenography even means.
What We Lose When We Stop Listening
When we lose our ability to hear the stars—the truths that guide us—we lose more than professional standing. We lose the heartbeat of what makes us who we are. We stop being guardians of the record and become passive employees, waiting for others to define our worth.
The Bushmen never doubted the stars sang. Their culture preserved that connection. But in our profession, too many accept the silence. They accept that “progress” means outsourcing accuracy to machines, that leadership means backroom deals and polished press releases, that truth is optional if it’s inconvenient.
This is the illness that afflicts us—not a lack of skill, but a deafness to the truth. And unlike the Bushmen, who grieved when one man could not hear, in our profession the majority seem unable—or unwilling—to listen.
When Associations Go Deaf
The Bushmen pitied van der Post for being unable to hear the stars. I pity our profession for associations that refuse to hear the truth even when it is placed right in front of them.
The notary loophole was the first breach — a failure so profound it handed away one of our profession’s greatest protections. That was not an accident; it was a collapse of duty.
And yet it didn’t stop there. The same associations invited a wolf into the henhouse by giving a platform to individuals who would later exploit that trust. What followed was not inspiration but exploitation: students drawn away, confidence in schools undermined, and professional spaces used for purposes that served private interests rather than the collective good.
And this isn’t limited to one state or one association. Across the country, we’ve seen partnerships and events that blur the line between professional advocacy and private gain, raising real questions about transparency, compliance, and whose interests are truly being served.
At its core, this isn’t about personalities or programs. It’s about whether associations safeguard their members or expose them to harm. When trust is compromised, the entire profession suffers. But perhaps the greater betrayal is silence. Associations that refuse to admit what happened, that take no accountability when schools themselves report the harm, are not protecting students or reporters. They are protecting themselves.
The Bushmen knew that to lose the song of the stars was to lose one’s connection to truth itself. Our associations risk that same affliction. The tragedy is not only in what was done, but in the refusal to acknowledge it. Until accountability is demanded and delivered, the stars will keep singing — but our leaders will remain deaf.
Hearing Again
The question is, can we learn to hear again? Can we strip away the noise of politics and ego and tune ourselves back to the truth? It is not complicated. The stars sing through every trial transcript where accuracy changes lives, through every judge who depends on our readbacks, through every student who fights their way to licensure.
If we listen, we will recognize that leadership without accountability is hollow, that associations without transparency are dangerous, that progress without preservation is not progress at all.
The Bushmen knew that to lose the song of the stars was to lose one’s connection to truth itself. Our associations risk that same affliction. The real tragedy is not only in what was done — the notary loophole, the poaching of students, the silence that followed — but in the refusal to acknowledge it. It is time for our associations to hear the stars, and to be held accountable.
The true poverty in our profession will not be the loss of money, or status, or even jobs. The true poverty will come if we lose our ability to hear the truth — if we let ourselves become deaf to the song that has always guided us: the sacred duty of protecting the record.
And yet, there is hope. The StenoImperium blog now reaches over 5,300 subscribers, with the list growing every day. Messages of appreciation flow in, reminding me that there are truth-seekers everywhere. One reporter, Renée Bencich, wrote: “I don’t know who you are, but I want to tell you I appreciate every single one of your very thorough emails… You are doing the entire profession a service by not sugarcoating anything.”
Others echo the same: “Excellent article. Every reporter should have a copy of this” (Karla Rocha). “I love your column” (Tara Sandford). “I am enjoying your articles immensely. This was one of your best” (Randi Strumlauf), referring to the Notary Loophole article.
I write for all of you — the reporters who still hear the stars, who refuse to accept silence, who know that truth is our profession’s lifeblood. And as long as we listen together, there is still a chance to protect it.
StenoImperium
Court Reporting. Unfiltered. Unafraid.
Disclaimer
This article reflects my perspective and analysis as a court reporter and eyewitness. It is not legal advice, nor is it intended to substitute for the advice of an attorney.
This article includes analysis and commentary based on observed events, public records, and legal statutes.
The content of this post is intended for informational and discussion purposes only. All opinions expressed herein are those of the author and are based on publicly available information, industry standards, and good-faith concerns about nonprofit governance and professional ethics. No part of this article is intended to defame, accuse, or misrepresent any individual or organization. Readers are encouraged to verify facts independently and to engage constructively in dialogue about leadership, transparency, and accountability in the court reporting profession.
- The content on this blog represents the personal opinions, observations, and commentary of the author. It is intended for editorial and journalistic purposes and is protected under the First Amendment of the United States Constitution.
- Nothing here constitutes legal advice. Readers are encouraged to review the facts and form independent conclusions.
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