Ceremony honors Mitch Mitchell, empathetic reporter who ‘found his life’s mission’
Mitch Mitchell’s family would often plead with him to take a rest from his work as a Fort Worth Star-Telegram reporter, to come home early one night or use a vacation day.
His answer to his wife of 15 years, Candi Mitchell, was typically straightforward, the response of a dedicated newspaperman.
“Baby, somebody’s gotta do it.”
Candi can remember the nights when Mitch would call her from his cluttered desk in the Star-Telegram newsroom, asking her to look something up for him because he was swamped with work. She remembers his fervent passion for representing the voices in the community that far too often went unheard or ignored. The way he felt, it was his responsibility — not somebody else’s — to do something.
He worked tirelessly, day in and day out, up until he was suddenly hospitalized in late September 2020 due to undetected blood clots in his lungs, as Candi recounted to a crowd of almost 100 people on Friday.
When he died on Oct. 1 at the age of 63, Candi began to hear heartfelt tributes from all those who were impacted by his work — from colleagues, to readers, to prominent Tarrant County figures used to taking his calls. And she knew right then why he put in all of the hard work.
“I’m happy I shared my husband with y’all, and I’m happy that he done the job that he did,” Candi said into a microphone. “Because I don’t think there would’ve been anybody else that could’ve done it like he did.”
She said she misses more than anything his distinctive laugh, a hearty chuckle that began deep in his belly and reverberated outward, loud enough for anyone in the Star-Telegram newsroom to hear. She misses his 1,000-watt smile that lit up a room.
Candi was joined on Friday by two of their daughters, two young grandchildren, a niece and a nephew, and Mitch’s older sister outside of the New Mount Rose Missionary Baptist Church in south Fort Worth. Mitch’s friends, colleagues, sources and fellow community members also sat in the crowd, underneath a large white tent. The event fell on Good Friday.
The purpose of the ceremony, held in the urban garden behind the church, was to dedicate a fig tree in Mitch’s honor. The tree will live in the lawn for years to come, growing and eventually bearing fruit, serving as a reminder of the love Mitch had for his work, his family and life.
Another fig tree was dedicated to all of the community members who died during the coronavirus pandemic. One woman spoke about her brother, Donald Thomas Jr., a Korean War veteran who died a few months ago.
Pastor Kyev Tatum, the organizer of the dedication, recalled in front of the crowd how one of Mitch’s final stories was about an event called “Black Love Matters” honoring Black families who had lost loved ones to violence.
Mitch uncharacteristically asked to hop into a photo with Tatum and a group of people, flashing that smile that so many knew so well.
“I was shocked,” Tatum said. “He came and stood by us. He stood with us.”
In his almost 22 years at the Star-Telegram, Mitch amplified Black voices in the community, and was a role model for young Black kids, according to Tatum. But he was above all else, Tatum said, an empathetic and skilled reporter.
Steve Coffman, the editor and president of the Star-Telegram, described how Mitch learned about journalism at the historically Black Texas Southern University. After graduating, he took a job at the Longview News-Journal, then the New Southern Times, and then the Lufkin Daily News. He arrived at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram in 1999.
The list of beats he covered was extensive — municipal affairs, health and human services, public safety, courts, legal affairs, breaking news and finally, at the end of his career, a coverage area called seeking justice. It was a fitting beat, Coffman described, for a person attracted to stories of the wronged and the forgotten.
Part of what made Mitch such a talented reporter, he said, was the way he maintained his positive and caring demeanor even when covering some of the grimmest issues facing society.
“He might’ve been talking to people in some really difficult situations. Tragedy may have struck. Lives may have been lost,” Coffman said. “But people felt comfortable talking to Mitch Mitchell, even in those trying circumstances, because of who he was and how he conducted himself. There was nothing like it.”
Though Mitch was known for his upbeat personality, Coffman emphasized Mitch was serious about his work and asking the hard questions. He still treated people with respect, like human beings, Coffman said.
Tarrant County District Attorney Sharen Wilson said she knew Mitch well from his coverage of the courts, and that everyone loved speaking with him.
“You could talk to him,” Wilson said. “He really wanted to know what was the truth. You don’t get that all the time from anybody in society.”
‘He found his life’s mission’
The tree dedication on Friday was filled with little touches of love to honor Mitch.
A man tapped on a keyboard, producing joyful organ sounds, as speakers addressed the crowd. People seated in chairs occasionally shouted out affirmations like “amen” or “go ahead.” A few young children rose to recite poems or Scripture they had memorized. Attendees swayed to “Amazing Grace.”
At the end of the ceremony, everyone gathered around the fig tree that will honor Mitch, many of them clinging onto silver and blue balloons. They eventually let them go, causing them to soar high into the sky.
Mitch’s 73-year-old sister, Rose Mendes, told those gathered around the tree that when Mitch was born, she was the first person he saw when he was brought home. Growing up in Houston, Mendes said, Mitch had dreams of becoming a nuclear physicist — a job he couldn’t pronounce. He eventually found his passion, however, in reporting and writing.
He learned everything about how to produce a newspaper, Mendes said, from the writing, to the editing, to the printing of the physical papers.
“He found his life’s mission,” Mendes said. “He found his sweet spot.”
Mitch’s daughter, DaLexus McMillan, 25, told the Star-Telegram her father’s job meant he often sacrificed time to be with his family. He would assure them, McMillan said, “I’m doing this for y’all.” She feels she learned about hard work from her father.
At the same time, she said, Mitch would drop everything if anyone needed him. She said she became sick with COVID-19 for two months shortly before he passed away and her father was the one who took her to the hospital and checked up on her.
McMillan, whose passion is science and meteorology, said often when Mitch would finish a long shift he would sit with her underneath the stars.
“I remember one night a big meteor shower had happened (and) we sat outside,” she said. “We actually drew the meteors that we seen happen, like the different colors. And we talked about the constellations and everything.”
Candi described to the Star-Telegram how she met Mitch when he was working as a gas station manager — he was carrying two jobs at the time. She immediately took to his light and humorous attitude, she said, and the two of them “would just laugh.”
Even with his demanding schedule, Mitch would let her, and the children they raised together, know that he loved them unconditionally.
“I loved him. He loved me,” Candi said. “He loved our family.”
This story was originally published April 2, 2021 at 6:00 PM.
