Life as a political reporter. It's glamorous. It's flashy. It's exciting. It's incredibly abusive. Some of the time.
I read somewhere that reporters get a front seat to history unfolding. It stuck in my mind because that's a pretty good summary. But I realize that we're not exactly invited guests. No one really wants us there. We barge our way in anyway. First Amendment, y'all. Besides, if you can't be there, we're happy to put you there through words, video and photos.
The pay isn't great. I'll never have a condo in Mexico much less Gulf Shores. But it's fun. It's a totally fun, amazing job. I get to write, and someone pays me to do this. I get to interview incredible personalities. And they pay me for something I'd do for free. If I could afford it.
Then there's my mailbag. Some days, that's the downside.
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| No, I cannot introduce you to Michelle Malkin |
You would have no idea from the stack of mail on my desk that the U.S. Post Office is struggling to survive. The mail just keeps on coming, mainly from prison inmates. In my younger days, I got creepy letters. Sometimes I got really creepy letters meant for Michelle Malkin. For the record: I am not Michelle Malkin, I don't know her and I certainly cannot put you in contact with her. Sorry.
It's not just inmates who write me. I get really nice letters. I get really nice cards. I get really nice emails. I keep a file of them and flip through them from time to time. It makes me smile and energizes me.
Sometimes I get not so nice letters, cards and emails. Every time I get one - good or bad - I want to pump my fist into the air at the thought that someone is reading our copy; someone is buying our product. And they care enough to express an opinion. Thank you!
Sometimes I get letters telling me I'm the worst piece of scum on the face of the earth. My co-worker got a communication the other day suggesting he is a socialist. Really, we're both nice, God-loving, family-oriented people. But fist pump because someone read what we wrote!
Back when a former governor was in office, I got a letter suggesting I was having slumber parties at the Governor's Mansion. I think the implication was that I seemed too cozy with the governor or that I was a liberal (or that I needed a place to sleep). No politician truly loves news reporters. It's like cats and dogs. We tolerate each other but we're not likely to put on our jammies and watch a "Golden Girls" marathon together. Although how much fun would that be? Oh, let's not talk about the state budget, Dorothy's saying something funny. Pass the popcorn. Ooh, and can I see the second floor?
For the record, I cannot convince the governor to get your son out of prison, give you a job or erase your tax dispute. I just can't.
If I had a magic wand, I would wave it and resolve all of the world's problems, starting with giving every dog and cat a good home, of course. Then I'd tackle the people problems. I'd smooth out family disputes, cure addicts of their drug problems and make every child feel loved. No one would ever go hungry or sleep under an interstate. But I don't have a magic wand.
Today I got a letter blasting the subject of my story. I'm never sure how to respond to letters like that although respond I must. My mother brought me up well. Sometimes I write: "Thank you for your opinion" and leave it at that. I'm not going to argue with you. You're entitled to your opinion, after all. It's my co-worker who is the socialist. Not me. Just kidding. So I settled for a smiley face, which was probably the wrong response because I didn't really agree with what the person wrote.
I wonder how Michelle Malkin deals with this situation? Maybe I should have an inmate write and ask her.
