[Critique Group 1] Marcia's August submission another chapter

[Marcia Wick]

Blackballed

Word Count:  2172

 

 

Every month, Mr. Kowalski composed an editorial for the fourth Thursday
edition.  Tapping a pencil on his desktop calendar, he informed me, "The
December editorial deadline falls on the Wednesday before Christmas this
year. I'll be out of town with family that week. We'll close the office for
the holiday"

 

"I can write it for you." I jumped at the opportunity even though I didn't
recall learning to craft editorials in journalism school. How hard could it
be? In September, Mr. K's opinion piece had addressed the ballooning village
budget. His October diatribe attacked the impact of property tax increases
on senior citizens. The tone of Mr. K's November editorial was magnanimous,
crediting civic organizations in the community for supporting families in
need during the holidays.

 

"There are actually five Wednesdays in December, so I could write the
editorial after I return," Mr. K. continued.

 

"Hey, no. Enjoy the holiday and don't worry about it. Let me write the
December opinion piece while you're gone," I insisted.

 

"We won't have a courier that week either," Mr. K. realized. "Could you
drive the copy to the printer in Grand Rapids that day, too?"

 

"Sure, sure." In my excitement, I wasn't considering that the Wednesday
before Christmas fell on one of the shortest days of the year. I'd have to
meet an earlier deadline in order to drive back and forth to Grand Rapids
before dusk turned my purple carriage into a yellow pumpkin, but I wouldn't
mind working on a day others were off. Most people - children, families, and
lovers - anticipate the holidays with reverie, but being single, far from
home, without friends or family near - I figured I'd rather work to help get
through the lonely time. 

 

"I've got nothing better to do," I said. 

 

"OK, you handle the ball," Mr. K replied in sports vernacular. 

 

That week, I pondered possible topics to address. Editorials express
opinion, I thought. Well, I have a few of those. Here's the thing. As
idyllic as the small town of Lake Holland appeared, from my perspective, the
townspeople were living behind the times. Only white men served in positions
of influence or power. The town council, school board, and merchants
association were directed by men. Women served as clerks, secretaries, and
coffee makers. Females were excluded from membership in the volunteer fire
company, yet they were expected to raise funds for fire equipment through
the ladies auxiliary. The male dominated white culture I encountered in Lake
Holland was jarring for me, coming from a progressive college campus and a
military community generously sprinkled with color. The only dark-skin
families I saw in Lake Holland worked the fields and lived in shanty houses
along a dirt road that ended at an abandoned cemetery. 

 

Alone at the office, lost in my view of the world, I banged out my opinion. 

 

"Unfortunately, the charm of a quintessential village like Lake Holland is
sullied by pervasive discrimination, chauvinism, and outdated practices at
odds with the 1970s," I wrote. "Lake Holland, while on the cusp of emerging
as one of Michigan's top 'go-to' destinations, is stuck in the past. It's
like people are stranded in the 1950s, trapped in an episode of the Twilight
Zone."

 

On a roll, I continued typing, "This is 1976, after all, America's
Bicentennial. Voting rights have been extended to blacks, the Equal Rights
Amendment is headed for ratification, and young women are choosing to delay
motherhood in favor of joining the work force. Lake Holland should catch up
with modern times if the town expects to entice newcomers and retain young
families." 

 

Scanning my draft, I didn't fear my ideas were particularly radical. I
actually hoped my editorial might enlighten a few souls and jump start the
town's progress. I assumed my outsider's insight and a broader point of view
would be welcome by a community competing for business and tourist dollars. 

 

Satisfied with the editorial, I slipped it into the courier's envelope and
congratulated myself for putting that week's edition to bed for Mr. K. Now
for the drive to Grand Rapids. It being barely noon, I'd have a comfortable
four hours to make the round trip before sunset, but the afternoon clouds
were low and heavy. We'd had a nice window of late fall-like weather, but
precisely according to the calendar, winter was blowing in.

 

Fortunately, the roads remained mostly dry on my drive to the city, but
excitement over my first trip to Grand Rapids was literally over-shadowed by
the threatening weather. Relieved, I found my destination without trouble.
Inside the lobby the promised drop box was clearly marked for after hour and
holiday service. Errand complete, I returned to my vehicle. In that short
time, the parking meter had acquired a two-inch snow cap. I dug the
windshield brush from under the driver's seat and cursed myself for not
keeping a pair of gloves in my car.

 

Navigating the return route, my squeaky wiper blades barely kept pace with
the falling snow. I was mesmerized by wet confetti flying into the
windshield. I prayed that oncoming vehicles were driving with headlights on.
My own headlamps only illuminated swirling flakes, further obscuring the
ruts left by the car in front of me. 

 

The return trip took twice as long in the wintry weather. The lane narrowed
and the edges of the roadway disappeared. Thick slush built up in my wheel
wells and my retreaded tires began slipping. Although there was still
daylight, the white world in front of me might just as well have been black.
When I crested the last hill I'd encounter before entering the village, I
sighed with relief. The next second, I shuddered when the headlights of an
oncoming vehicle past me on the right instead of the left. Was I driving on
the wrong side of the road? I could no longer see any road. Holding my
breath, I stifled a scream, My purple turtle crawled the final mile to my
apartment. At least a foot of snow had blown up against my screen door. I
tugged on the frozen handle and lurched up the stairs. Home base. I'd made
it in one piece. Crumpling onto the couch, I sobbed with relief and regret.
My heart hurt. If I'd been in a head-on collision that day, it would have
been days before anyone even missed me. My family would have gathered to
celebrate Christmas Eve, unaware that my life had ended. I wanted to sleep
through the loneliest week of my life.

 

Depressed and snowed in, I worked to salvage my determination. I lived in my
PJs for the next four days. My little black and white Panasonic broadcast
the Dick Van Dyke Show. The audience's laughter lightened my mood. My sewing
machine hummed as I constructed curtains for the bedroom, and the sweet
scent of home baked chocolate chunk cookies covered the stink of cigarettes
which I indulged in as well. On the kitchen table, my Charlie Brown tree
dropped needles onto a small assortment of presents from my parents.
Although no one constrained me from unwrapping gifts early, I adhered to the
family ritual and waited until Christmas morning. My parents would expect to
hear proper surprise and gratitude when they phoned at the appointed hour.

 

By Monday, I'd shaken off the fright from my close collision, and I strode
into work, confident that I'd carried the ball well on behalf of Mr. K. I
smiled at my boss but his face, like a theater mask, was frozen in a tragic
frown.

 

"What's wrong?" I dumped my overstuffed purse and lunch bag onto my desk.

 

Mr. K gruffly snapped back the pages of the paper he'd been perusing to
reveal my holiday editorial. He stabbed at the headline with his beefy index
finger.

 

"Lake Holland Stuck in Past," it read. The bold byline credited me, Claudia
Krump, for the stinging opinions expressed in the piece. 

 

At once, I realized how damning my words would appear to a long-time local
like Mr. K. The hurt in his eyes was palpable. He didn't speak. Too late the
light dawned. I had shamed him and his town. I had put Lake Holland's
shortcomings on display. Why did I insist on muddying the small town's
reputation with my mindless tirade? Wasn't I learning to like the people? To
top it off, I had callously delivered this gift to the town just in time for
the holiday. Talk about being out of step. Yet, in typical fashion, I
attempted to defend myself.

 

"Mr. K, let me explain." 

 

"This is what I get for enticing a young newcomer to town?" My editor
interrupted, shrugged on his jacket, snagged his cigarettes, and stomped out
of the office leaving me to stare at the indelible newsprint.

 

His sharp words hit their mark. I sank into my swivel chair and buried my
face in my hands. Hurting Mr. Kowalski somehow felt worse than wronging my
parents over the years. For the first time, it mattered what someone like
Mr. K thought of me. I recognized the harm caused by my poor judgment. Could
I ever make it up to him? Would Mr. K still even want to be my boss?

 

The winter chill outside was nothing compared to the cold freeze I faced at
work over the next month. The week my fateful editorial was published, I was
uninvited to the annual merchant appreciation luncheon. 

When I entered the Town Hall to check the overnight police roster, the
officer on duty turned his back to me. At the donut shop, the clerk dropped
my change on the counter rather than into my outstretched hand. Back at the
newsroom, I discovered a telephone message on my desk rescinding my
invitation to the Women's Civic Club banquet that weekend. 

 

I was being blackballed. The locals were ganging up on me. In desperation, I
called Officer Braun for advice. Even Robbie gave me grief.

 

"What were you thinking? This isn't your home town. You're not from here.
Who are you to judge the way we live? Why don't you go back to Colorado and
leave us alone."

 

Conflicted, I attempted to defend my righteous viewpoint. "It's the 1970s,
after all, more than a decade since the civil rights march on Washington
D.C. Of course, I didn't mean to smear your town. I'm surprised that anyone
even reads the paper around here. "I cried.

 

In fact, every person I'd befriended and many more I never would had read
the editorial and swore to be my enemy. I anguished. Who was I to judge
them? The villagers weren't complaining. So what? They were behind in the
times. That had its advantages, didn't it? Rural life was slower. Families
were intact. Lifelong bonds were strong.

 

"What should I do now?" I lamented to Robbie. 

 

"You can't fix this," he said. "You didn't consider our feelings when you
mouthed off about our ways, so now you can eat crow," Robbie ended the call.

 

I berated myself. After all, didn't I envy the ways of a small town, where
people had roots, where multi-generational families were close, where you
could call on your neighbors for help. Why hadn't I thought to write an
editorial about those qualities instead?

 

The weeks passed slowly. The town leaders stretched me on a rack. Mr. K
doled out assignments without comment. His silence was worse than criticism.
After the town council meeting, the mayor declined to answer when I asked
for a quote on the budget plan. The school board chair didn't return my
phone calls about the teachers' contract. Even my co-workers at the office
looked away instead of saying "good morning." Could I ever recover my
reputation? Any night, I feared I'd be tarred, feathered, and run out of
town by an angry mob.

 

Nearing a breaking point, I grappled with a decision. Should I stay in Lake
Holland or jump ship? Maybe I should accept the photographer's invitation
and return to Colorado to hope for a job offer from the newspaper there.
Although the compulsion to quit was tempting, I'd already moved halfway
across the country. I was becoming invested in the small community. I had
accepted a challenge and was testing myself. If I deserted now, I'd be
admitting defeat. 

 

For weeks, my head churned with the impossible decision. One night late in
January, despite downing half a bottle of wine, I struggled to sleep. I
turned and tossed, twisted in my sheets like a corkscrew. Ultimately, my
stubborn streak kicked in. I freed myself from the covers at first light. I
needed to clear my head.  Layered up for the snow, I gathered my cross
country ski gear and drove to the Lake Holland trailhead.

Years later, I struggled with the "what if?" What if I had left Lake Holland
then, with my tail between my legs, before the real news hit? I didn't know
then that the decision I made that day would change my life forever. 

 

# # #

 

-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <https://bluegrasspals.com/pipermail/group1/attachments/20210817/67878b66/attachment-0001.html>