At Least They're Committed

I was standing by the office window on the second floor, looking down at the hordes of people gathered in the street. I was alone, my arms crossed as I hugged myself. If I could have curled into fetal position I would have right then. I knew it was noisy on the street; I could see the people’s lips moving, taut and angry, but I couldn’t hear a thing. They shoved crudely written signs into the air as cars drove by. They didn’t know I was watching.

“They’re still out there!!” my boss poked his head in excitedly.

I chuckled and loosened my grip on myself, “Yup! Did you see this fat woman?”

Ralph, the assistant managing editor, crossed the room and peeked out. An obese woman with slick, blond hair and thick glasses paraded in front of the newspaper offices, in her pudgy hands was a placard that said, “Tripping Raul (well, my real name went there), You Try To Put Food on the Table on a Teacher’s Salary!”

“Jesus! Figures!” Ralph said, turning and walking from the room.

“It appears there might be other reasons the food isn’t making it to the table,” I said mostly to myself. “That woman should try putting food on the table on a journalist’s salary.” I opened the window then — there was no screen — and  leaned out. Two colleagues came up behind me and poked their heads out as well, perhaps as a show of solidarity; perhaps concerned I might jump. The hollering was pretty loud, but at least now they were yelling at me and not at the innocent people driving past. I smiled and waved down in acknowledgement.

It seemed the teachers in Farmington, N.M., didn’t agree with my column.

I’d been to a school board meeting the night before. The board had attempted to explain to the teachers why they would not receive a cost of living pay increase that year. The budget was tight, if they bumped up the salary scale they would have to cut programs for some of the neediest children.

“So cut the programs,” the teachers responded. Considering that they made between $5,000 and $10,000 more a year than I did and they had a three-month vacation, this didn’t set real well with me. I said so in a column and I got picketed. They interviewed me on local TV and everything.

With my infant son in his arms, my husband was shoved and harassed as he attempted to come into the office to escort me home. “Don’t go in there!” he was warned. “Don’t you support this paper!” They grew more hostile, yelling in his face despite the fact he was holding DS. To his dismay, my husband’s favorite junior high teacher was part of the posse. . . that teacher died suddenly of a heart attack a couple days later. He was only 54. Pity.

It’s a big deal for a reporter or columnist to get picketed. The newspapers love it; means folks are paying attention. Doesn’t matter if you agree or disagree as long as you’re reading. . . think next I’ll write about Laura Thorpe’s attempt to slice out her silicone breast implants with a disposable razor.