Ride Wit' Me
Walking into a lecture hall late, you earn a professor’s scowl, or at least a seat in Siberia. But sometimes good things come to those who are late.
We’re in Newton on New Year’s Day when the call comes in: a surprise press conference. In a characteristic show of overzealous journalism, we drop all our plans for the day. Larry Summers has blown his hand, a department (Af-Am) is in uproar and now Jesse Jackson has descended on fair Cambridge. The conference is at 12:30. It’s 12:30 and we reporters are 12 miles away. We have negative time.
On our way out the door, he characteristically insists on devouring the last corned beef sandwich; she thoughtfully grabs a mostly-used reporter’s notebook and pen from her bag.
With the key to his—no, make that his newly-licensed younger sister’s—car, off we go, urgently brainstorming questions. He struggles to hold to hold back a SNL Jesse Jackson imitation: “Respect me, protect me, do not neglect me.” She struggles to get down the questions she’s sure they won’t have a chance to ask. He starts humming “I’m sorry Ms. Jackson.” Off to see Mr. Jackson—is this for real?
After one final rhyme we arrive in Central Square and ditch the car. A semi-legal parking job, but since when were Cambridge cops picky? (A handful of parking tickets should have told him: always.) And wouldn’t The Crimson pick up the tab? (No.)
Financial worries elude us as we race to find St. Paul’s AME, where the good Rev. Jackson is preaching the gospel of social justice.
“Harvard should be a beacon of light, not a shadow of darkness,” Jesse says to the crowded room, as we enter from the back.
Jesse is flanked on his right by distinguished black faculty. To his left, familiar faces. It seems local politicians she knows well from the City beat have jumped into the fray. And lined up in front of Jackson’s table, the national media.
Cameras whir and microphones, um, record. She scratches out half-sentences when she can. A professor tells the crowd he feels intellectually stymied at Harvard. We wish we’d caught his name, but it’s too late to worry.
Two minutes after their rushed entrance, the press conference is over. Jesse is doing thank-yous while his entourage packs up and makes its way toward the door.
Working together, we put into effect our hastily improvised one-two punch. He introduces himself, she apologizes for our tardiness and asks the imposing, smiling minister if we could have a few questions. It’s not that he’s fat, but he’s a big guy and we’re a bit intimidated. He reflexively turns to his assistant as his eyes seem to beg permission to speak to yet more press.
“Tell you what I’m going to do,” Jesse says kindly, holding the word “do” for an extra moment. He reads us a cell phone number and tells us to call him while he makes his way to the airport.
We nod in agreement. While we’re both secretly wondering where the hell we’ll find a phone, Jackson seems to be having second thoughts.
“Why don’t you just ride with us to the airport?” he asks.
We can’t believe our luck and wonder if a Boston Globe sucker is hot on this trail. We imagine the room filling with astonished glances.
Now it’s the assistant whose eyes dart in confusion, not sure what to make of his boss’s impulsive streak. In unison, we agree. We’re whisked out and down the steps with the Jackson entourage. As we’re guided to a slick new silver Benz left idling by the church’s curb, we discover that Jesse shares our optimistic view of traffic police generosity.
There are just enough seats for all. She sits bitch, he’s squished into the window. The unidentified professor reappears to drive the car. Jesse rides shotgun.
An awkward silence fills the car. The professor turns back and makes words of introductions. “Before you ask questions, Jesse has some questions for you,” the prof says.
Three sets of eyes focus expectantly on us. A few introductory questions are asked and answered before both reporters eagerly segue into the issue which is the purpose for the ride—trouble in the Af-Am department.
The Rev. Jackson begins to rhapsodize, words flowing from his mouth at an ever-increasing tempo.
Harvard should be a beacon of light, Jackson says for the second time. Brother West? A fine scholar and an author whose books have inspired other books.
A question about affirmative action elicits a fervent response about Michigan and Alabama and how the nation’s courts are still deciding the case. Suddenly he’s on to Attorney General John Ashcroft. “Not a real patriot,” akin to those who put the confederate flag on South Carolina’s state house, says Jesse.
It’s not clear how the topic of conversation has shifted. Wielding our lone pen, she tries to scribble down everything. When did the road to Logan get so dark and bumpy?
Tha Terminal
Now our time really has run out. The terminal is in sight. The Mercedes pulls up to the curb outside Terminal B—next to a slew of “No Parking” signs. Once again, he shows faith in the benevolence of traffic cops. The Rev. Jackson turns to us—we who haven’t had time yet to worry about getting home (our total “on-person” assets: $1.53 and a gum wrapper)—and lets us know how we’ll earn our keep.
Fears of some twisted, journalistically unethical quid pro quo fill our minds. We’re relieved to hear our mission: to watch the Benz. A simple enough task.
Jesse and crew head for the terminal. A state trooper heads for the car. For some reason Logan is a little touchy about security and something about the car’s blatantly illegal abandonment has caught the trooper’s eye.
The young Bernstein gets out of the car, while Woodward buries her head in her notebook.
“You’re never going to believe this” he tells the trooper.
“Try me,” the graying trooper replies.
We explain that we’re just two reporters and that this is Jesse Jackson’s car. We point the trooper into Terminal B to consult with Jackson himself.
Crisis is averted and the once-belligerent trooper’s mood mellows, perhaps as the prospect of a racial profiling suit enters his mind. A moment later, the trooper returns to the Mercedes—with the straight dope from Jesse that we are to take the car once around the block.
After a moment’s hesitation, he heads for the driver’s seat. She gulps. He slips the car into gear. The Benz purrs.
After a few seconds, he’s enthralled. “It drives like butter,” he exclaims. She scolds him not to get a taste for any more luxuries. The once-forbidden German-made is looking more and more like the car of his future. Maybe he’ll have to lease.
We snap back to reality as a bus honks and we pass a glaring MP at the newly militarized airport. The plan is to take the next turn-around and swing back to where we started—where hopefully, the car’s owner will be waiting by the curb.
But there’s no turn-around. We’ve entered the hell that is Logan’s road system. As the Benz exits the terminal parking lot, we scan ahead for a chance to turn.
She breaks the nervous silence with a joke about jumping the border. Mexico, perhaps?
Not in Jesse Jackson’s car. After seven-and-a-half minutes, we’ve finally wound our way back to the terminal. Having hit safe territory, he slides the Mercedes up to the curb, pulling out the key triumphantly.
But the triumphant scene turns grotesque as a crosswalk parking job provides the fodder for another pounce by Logan security. Over our protests, a red-faced security guard calls for a tow-truck. All is lost.
Only the return of the car’s owner—prestigious law professor Charles Ogletree, as it turns out—ends the short, unhappy bout with Benz-sitting. Ogletree gives us a lift back to Cambridge, where we find the Gellis family Volvo waiting.
The meter’s run out—but there’s no parking ticket. We figure maybe the time spent with the people’s preacher had given us some kind of good parking-cop karma.
Either that or the fact that parking meters don’t run on New Year’s Day.
Lauren R. Dorgan ’04 is a history concentrator in Quincy House. David H. Gellis ’04 is a government concentrator in Dunster House. Together, they enjoy candlelit press conferences, long walks along the path to University Hall and bitter fights over endpapers in the Crimson newsroom.