DON'T MIND ME, I'M JUST DONG MY JOB

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Washington Post-Don't Mind Me. I'm Just Doing My Job

 

 

 

 

Don't Mind Me. I'm Just Doing My Job

 

By Paul Farhi

 

Sunday, January 30, 2005; Page B02

 

Reporters who cover the White House are accustomed to being spun by

administration officials. The modern presidential toolbox includes

carefully rationed press conferences, say-nothing spokesmen, dead-of-

night releases of unfavorable news, and phony " town hall " meetings

composed solely of sycophantic supporters. More recently, government

agencies have issued fake-news videos and secretly contracted with

two pundits to promote the administration's policies on education and

marriage.

 

But now the art of press handling has evolved into actual

manhandling. The Bush team has expanded the use of " minders, "

employees or volunteers who escort journalists from interview to

interview within a venue or at a newsworthy event.

 

It's not an entirely new phenomenon -- the Clinton administration

baby-sat reporters from time to time -- but the president's inaugural

committee took it to new levels of silliness during the various

presidential balls. Several reporters covering the balls were

surprised to find themselves being monitored by young " escorts, " who

followed them from hors d'oeuvres table to dance floor and even to

the bathroom.

 

I was among those who was assigned a little friend. Or to be precise,

I was monitored for about half of the inaugural party I was covering

for The Post. For the first couple of hours of the Independence Ball,

I roamed the vast width and length of the Washington Convention

Center hall dangerously unescorted.

 

I had arrived early to get a head start on mingling among the roughly

6,000 people eating and dancing to celebrate the president's

reelection. Unaware of the new escort policy (it wasn't in place

during the official parties following the 2001 inauguration), I

blithely assumed that in the world's freest nation, I was free to

walk around at will and ask the happy partygoers such national

security-jeopardizing questions as, " Are you having a good time? "

 

Big mistake. After cruising by the media pen -- a sectioned-off area

apparently designed for corralling journalists -- a sharp-eyed

volunteer spotted my media badge. " You're not supposed to go out

there without an escort, " she said.

 

I replied that I had been doing just fine without one, and walked

over to a quiet corner of the hall to phone in some anecdotes to The

Post's Style desk.

 

As I was dictating from my notes, something flashed across my face

and neatly snatched my cell phone from of my hand. I looked up to

confront a middle-aged woman, her face afire with rage. " You ignored

the rules, and I'm throwing you out! " she barked, snapping my phone

shut. " You told that girl you didn't need an escort. That's a lie!

You're out of here! "

 

With the First Amendment on the line, my natural wit did not fail

me. " Huh? " I answered.

 

Recovering quickly, I explained that I had been unaware of the escort

policy. She was unbending and ordered a couple of security guards to

hustle me out. I appealed to them, saying that I was more than happy

to follow whatever ground rules had been laid down. They shrugged,

and deposited me back in the media pen.

 

There I was assigned a pair of attractive young women, who, for the

next hour or so, took turns following close at my heels. I thought

about trying to ditch them in the increasingly crowded hall, just for

the sport of it, but realized it was pointless. They never interfered

with my work. I found I was able to go wherever I wanted, and to talk

to whomever I desired. The minders just hovered nearby, saying

nothing. They were polite but disciplined, refusing even to disclose

their full names or details about themselves. (My Style colleague,

Peter Carlson, inquired of his minder, " How did you get to be an

escort? Do you work for an escort service? " )

 

Their civility didn't ease my suspicions. At one point, one of my

escorts -- Amy -- told me we needed to return to the media pen. Aha,

I thought, I must have seen something or talked to someone I

shouldn't have. In fact, Amy apologized and explained that she just

needed to find a relief minder because her feet were sore from all

the walking around.

 

By about 10:15 p.m., long after President Bush and Vice President

Cheney had made their perfunctory appearances, a supervisor waved off

the escorts and told them to go home.

 

Free at last! Feeling like a citizen of some newly liberated country,

I immediately walked across the room to confront my cell phone

snatcher. I told her what I thought of her media management skills --

at which point she ordered me thrown out again. I talked my way out

of that, too.

 

I know: It's hard to work up a lot of sympathy for reporters trying

to cover a party. I don't feel particularly sorry for me, either. But

this isn't really about me. It's about . . . you.

 

Consider that the escorts weren't there to provide security; all of

us had already been through two checkpoints and one metal detector.

They weren't there to keep me away from, Heaven forbid, a Democrat or

a protester; those folks were kept safely behind rings of fences and

concrete barriers. Nor were the escorts there to admonish me for

asking a rude question of the partying faithful, or to protect the

paying customers from the prying media.

 

Their real purpose only occurred to me after I had gone home for the

night, when I remembered a brief conversation with a woman I was

interviewing. During the middle of our otherwise innocuous encounter,

she suddenly noticed the presence of my minder. She stopped for a

moment, glanced past me, then resumed talking.

 

No, the minders weren't there to monitor me. They were there to let

the guests, my sources on inaugural night, know that any complaint,

any unguarded statement, any off-the-reservation political

observation, might be noted. But maybe someday they'll be monitoring

something more important than an inaugural ball, and the source could

be you.

 

So I have a suggestion: If I must have an escort, let me choose my

own. My wife would be delighted to help her country.

 

Author's e-mail: farhip

 

Paul Farhi is a reporter for The Post's Style section.