Dear Jason,

I’ve been worrying about you for years.

We’ve never met, so you might find this startling. Truth be told, until just a few minutes ago, I didn’t know what you looked like or even how to spell your last name. Google answered those questions. But you might be curious: Why was I wondering—and why have I been so worried?

Well, Jason, I’ve been listening to your reporting on NPR ever since you were a fledgling reporter at my local station, KQED. That was almost 20 years ago, so I can’t recall the specific stories you covered when we were both living in the Bay Area (I’m still here). But I do remember thinking that you were probably one of the youngest reporters on the news beat. (For some reason, I’ve always believed we’re about the same age.) I thought it was really cool that a new journalist was covering big stories along with the NPR pros. In my head, I’d cheer you on. “Great story, Jason. You’ve got this!”

Then, unexpectedly, you were gone. “Where’s Jason?” I’d wonder, as I chopped veggies for dinner while catching up on the day’s news.

When your voice eventually returned, you had a new sign off: “This is Jason Beaubien reporting from the Ivory Coast.” You told us in frightening detail about a coup attempt in this sub-Saharan country. I listened, and I started to worry.

Nearly two decades later, I haven’t stopped.

Jason, you’ll have to forgive me if I can’t remember all the places NPR has sent you to over the years, but a quick scan of your bio suggests I’ve been right to feel at least a little concerned about your safety. You’ve covered famines and wars in Africa, extreme human suffering in Sudan’s Darfur region, hurricanes and their deadly aftermath in Haiti, the brutal drug war in Mexico, and so much more. Today I heard your broadcast about the newly discovered coronavirus that’s sickening hundreds of people in China.

Jason, did you race to the epicenter of a potential global pandemic? I wouldn’t be surprised. Or, as NPR’s Global Health and Development Correspondent on the Science Desk (your title since 2012), maybe you’re reporting about this story from the safety of … I can’t even guess. Safety doesn’t really seem to be your thing.

To be honest, there was a time when I’d get a little mad at NPR. “Why do they keep sending Jason to these dangerous places?” I’d ask myself. “What about his poor parents? What if he has kids?” (In one of the online bios I read today you mention, “making pancakes for ungrateful little buggers,” which I assume means your kiddos. See? I was right to worry!)

Over time, when I’d hear you reporting from yet another country suffering from poverty, disease, civil war, or a natural disaster, I started to realize something. It’s unlikely that Steve Inskeep, Audie Cornish, or any of the decision-makers at NPR really has it in for you. Much more likely? By risking your life on the job, you’re doing what you love—and what you’re driven to do.   

Assuming that’s the case, I’ll continue to cheer for you and your thoughtful, balanced, and insightful reporting. I’ll keep on hoping you stay safe in whatever dangerous environment you wind up in next. And I’ll cross my fingers that you get home to your ungrateful little buggers sometime soon.

As for me, I’ll never be able to logically explain why I’ve spent two decades worrying about a stranger I’ll never speak to or meet. It’s simply the truth.

After having you on my mind for all these years, I think it’s time for me to say this: Thanks for all the stories, Jason Beaubien.

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