I have a thing for women named Helen. My grandmother, who was my first Helen, would have turned 111 last month. She drank whiskey and smoked menthol cigarettes. She knit sweaters without patterns and baked bread without recipes. Once she called one of my brothers “asinine” because he flunked his driver’s test by speeding. That was more than 20 years ago, and he’s still pouting over it. She had that kind of power, I think. My grandma was so cool that she knew I was gay long before I did, and, in her own sort of coded way, said so.
The library in the town where I grew up had huge columns in the front and looked sort of like Monticello. Inside there were quiet, orderly aisles lit by daylight that poured in through huge windows. You could go places in that building, but it was always under the watchful eyes of Helen Mardorff. What I recall of her is that she wore her narrow, chained eyeglasses low on her nose, and the quick and quiet way she pulled the long yellow pencil from behind her ear as if it were a wand and then printed the due date on an index card, which was then tucked into a pocket taped inside each book’s front cover. I also remember the whispery sound the books, protected in their plastic sheathes, made as she pushed them across the counter once she’d done her business. I don’t know if she’s alive or not, but in my mind Helen Mardorff lives on as the sheriff of Storyville.
Helen Thomas has been working at the White House since Kennedy was president. She’s now 89 years old and requires assistance to get in and out of the press room. In a more perfect world, Brian Williams, Diane Sawyer and Katie Couric would be taken off the air and reassigned to a new, more productive role: assisting Helen Thomas.
I could waste quite a few words in support of my idea, but the following exchange between Helen Thomas and Obama’s press secretary, Robert Gibbs, says it all better than I ever could:
Helen: Has the president given up on the public option? I ask it day after day because it has great meaning in this country, and you never answer it.
Robert: Well, I apparently don’t answer it to your satisfaction.
Helen: That’s right.
Robert: I’ll give you the same answer that I gave you unsatisfactorily for many of those other days. It’s what the president believes in.
Helen: Is he going to fight for it or not?
Robert: We’re going to work to get choice and competition into healthcare reform.
Helen: You’re not going to get it.
Robert: Then why do you keep asking me?
Helen: Because I want your conscience to bother you.
Regardless of how you feel about healthcare reform, or lack thereof, certainly you will understand how this simple exchange gave me a glimmer of hope that we can live in a country where the reporters don’t only ask real questions – an accomplishment all on its own – but also expect real answers.
The library in the town where I grew up had huge columns in the front and looked sort of like Monticello. Inside there were quiet, orderly aisles lit by daylight that poured in through huge windows. You could go places in that building, but it was always under the watchful eyes of Helen Mardorff. What I recall of her is that she wore her narrow, chained eyeglasses low on her nose, and the quick and quiet way she pulled the long yellow pencil from behind her ear as if it were a wand and then printed the due date on an index card, which was then tucked into a pocket taped inside each book’s front cover. I also remember the whispery sound the books, protected in their plastic sheathes, made as she pushed them across the counter once she’d done her business. I don’t know if she’s alive or not, but in my mind Helen Mardorff lives on as the sheriff of Storyville.
Helen Thomas has been working at the White House since Kennedy was president. She’s now 89 years old and requires assistance to get in and out of the press room. In a more perfect world, Brian Williams, Diane Sawyer and Katie Couric would be taken off the air and reassigned to a new, more productive role: assisting Helen Thomas.
I could waste quite a few words in support of my idea, but the following exchange between Helen Thomas and Obama’s press secretary, Robert Gibbs, says it all better than I ever could:
Helen: Has the president given up on the public option? I ask it day after day because it has great meaning in this country, and you never answer it.
Robert: Well, I apparently don’t answer it to your satisfaction.
Helen: That’s right.
Robert: I’ll give you the same answer that I gave you unsatisfactorily for many of those other days. It’s what the president believes in.
Helen: Is he going to fight for it or not?
Robert: We’re going to work to get choice and competition into healthcare reform.
Helen: You’re not going to get it.
Robert: Then why do you keep asking me?
Helen: Because I want your conscience to bother you.
Regardless of how you feel about healthcare reform, or lack thereof, certainly you will understand how this simple exchange gave me a glimmer of hope that we can live in a country where the reporters don’t only ask real questions – an accomplishment all on its own – but also expect real answers.
