She was a true journalist
Just a reflection in honor of Barbara Ehrenreich, who died yesterday.
Some cold winter evening in early 2005, I exited the DC Tenleytown Metro stop and waited for a bus, which was running 40 minutes late. Finally, I boarded and rode it to a residential neighborhood in northwest Washington, D.C.
I exited the bus, opened my umbrella, and then tried to get my bearings - looking at the street signs and studying my printed directions under a street light. The wind blew my umbrella inside out. Pouring rain pelted my directions paper, which grew soggy.
I stuffed my umbrella in my bag and then walked several blocks past well-kept brick homes with warm, golden light spilling out of their windows. Where there were no sidewalks, I hugged the gutters.
Finally, I saw the number to the home of my destination! A handsome brick home with black shutters, and golden lower windows. I rang the bell, and the lady of the house answered. Her name is lost to memory, but I remember her short brown hair and round, kind face.
I could hear music and people singing.
It was - simply - an adult gathering hosted by a couple from my church. Their children were grown and they lived in one of the country’s most beautiful neighborhoods.
At the time, I had been attending a grand Methodist church next door to American University. I was back in Washington, D.C., attending Northwestern University’s DC-quarter — reporting for a real news outlet as the final capstone to a journalism master’s degree. The work was unpaid as it was school work — I was being paid with university credits. I have opinions about the ethics of this, now.
The lady of the house, whom I knew from church, looked at me standing there, drenched, and then looked behind me to see where I’d come from.
“Sorry I’m so late,” I said. “The bus took forever.”
The party had started at 6. It was nearly 8.
“The bus?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I finished up work downtown and then I took the Metro to the bus station, and then I walked. But I couldn’t find the house at first.”
A car ride from downtown Washington, D.C. to this neighborhood would be 15 to 20 minutes. For me, it took an hour and 45 minutes.
“Don’t you have a car?” she asked.
“I do,” I said. “But, it’s $300 a month to park it downtown.“
“No taxi?” she asked.
I tried not to cry. I was frustrated and exhausted, wet and cold. My toes were numb inside my Payless shoes — plastic imitations of quality shoes, so I could fit in with the professional class.
“I could never afford a taxi,” I said.
Lack of money made everything harder than it had to be. At the time, I felt as if everyone in the world was richer than me. In reality, pretty much everyone in my daily life, was. My student peers had parents. My professors had paid jobs. I was living off of meager savings and paying tuition with student loans.
Her face softened. “This reminds me of Nickel and Dimed,” she said. “We just read that in our church book club. You should read that book.”
I entered her home and joined the realm of the warm and dry. Someone played the piano and we sang hymns. I ate the snacks, which were my dinner. I felt happy.
Later that year, I bought Barbara Ehrenreich’s famous book — a copy I still have to this day. She has been criticized for so-called poverty tourism. But I appreciated that she educated an entire class of well-to-do people about the realities of the working poor, the realities of being broke.
To this day, I can’t help but chuckle to think of me standing there on the front porch, soaking wet and shivering, as a living proof of concept for the wealthy church lady’s book club.
Rest In Peace, Barbara E.