No Jacket Required

A couple of hours after Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker was recalled, he visited Technical Metal Specialties Inc., a metal fabrication company on the southside of Milwaukee. 

In a small metal fabrication shop in the heart of Milwaukee’s south side, on a uncomfortable cool spring day, Governor Scott Walker spoke.

Hours after learning he had become just the third governor to be recalled in U.S. history, he seemed somewhat upbeat, confident. He also seemed to have hit the campaign trail in a full sprint. His spirited voice and his punctuated hand gestures were that of an enthused candidate.

Walker was without a jacket as he spoke in the center of the hollow shop floor to about 50 employees of the non-union shop. He used a microphone jacked into two speakers, similar to those one would find being used by various garage bands. He audience sat in folding chairs in front of an army of reporters and cameras. He weaved a little baseball, a little football and a little family into a talking-point tapestry of fiscal conservatism.

He didn’t break a sweat when asked by an audience member about facing a special election spurred on by progressive organizers who rebuked his union reform measures.

“Governor Lee Dreyfus, called Madison 38 square miles surrounded by reality. The best thing I do is get out into reality … the more I get out to factories, the farms and the small businesses, the more I hear from people around the state,” he told the blue-collar audience.

Walker, for a few precious moments, was in his element, at a factory, hearing from his constituents. A perfect antidote for the current political firestorm that rages around him.

Today, Walker was among friends and supporters.

The White Box

This is a recount of the day when I covered hundreds of recall supporters stood outside of a state building and ushered in hundreds of boxes of recall petitions against the governor and Republican lawmakers being delivered. The first box was carried into the state’s election board offices by Julie Wells, a forklift operator who was one of the main organizers in the effort to recall Gov. Scott Walker. 

I followed the white box.

Off the U-Haul truck, through a maze of supporters and police and into the office building the white box went.

I remained right behind it, bulldozing my way through the crowd, ignoring mean stares and directives to stay back.

I was a dog following his bone. Without thought, I was determined to watch it, to stalk the white box until its final destiny, when I could fully sink my teeth into the box and gnaw on the story inside of it.

You see, the box had become somewhat of an overnight celebrity in these parts. It rose from being your ordinary box, originally made to carry printer paper.

It held much more than just the signatures of those that oppose the Governor’s political agenda. It symbolized a complete rejection of the governor and the great political canyon dividing the state at the moment.

The box and I entered the building, leaving behind all of the noise. We got on the elevator and the doors closed, creating a deafening, uncomfortable silence.

No interviews, the box’s handlers said to me.

Me and the box stood alone, silent. No small talk. Not a mention about the weather. We stood and watched the numbers increase on the elevator’s digital display.

Finally, the doors opened to a wall of microphones and cameras all wanting a photo or an interview from the box.

You made it, box. You’re big time now, box, I whispered.

Window Blind

This account was of the events at 5 p.m. on Feb. 18, 2011, moments before Gov. Scott Walker held a press conference at the Capitol in Madison to explain the reason behind his proposed collective bargaining reform. It was also moments before civil rights leader Jesse Jackson spoke to 100,000 protesters outside of the Capitol building.

I entered the shadowy cavernous room where the blinds were drawn down and the lights were dimmed.

My father once told me to stand with my back against the nearest wall if I were ever caught in the middle bar brawl.

“No one can sneak up on you and get you in a choke hold,” he told me. “You can also watch out for flying glass and shit.”

At that point in time, that seemed like the appropriate piece of advice to consider, not that I was in a tavern, but I surely felt as if I may be in the midst of some sort of brawl.

I slipped passed the cameramen and their equipment. I reached my safe haven, the farthest wall, draped by huge window blinds that reached for the heavens.

I stood with my back brushing up against the blinds. I waited. And waited. Waiting amidst a growing group of reporters, photographers and men dressed in suits.

Making small talk. Mingling. Checking our phones for messages that we knew did not exist. Uncomfortable uneasiness settled into the room. Nowhere to move, nowhere to go.

We were all trained be in the know to estimate the future. But today, at this moment, none of us had any idea what the future held.

In my anxiousness, I looked for something to do, to keep me busy as I waited to watch the next play unfold. I spun around. Using my middle and index fingers, I spread two of the shade’s slats apart. Just about at eye level, like I was watching for the mailman. Or a cab.

Down below was a sea of people, also waiting. Waiting to listen to Jesse Jackson’s rally cries, his instructions, his message.

They also yearned to storm the castle, to take over the empire. All of them, tens of thousands of people, wanted a word or two with the man we, in the room, were waiting for.

Not until that moment, even after a day of fighting through the massive swarm of humanity to get the story, did I have a true concept of the enormity of the event.

He, the governor, finally entered. I spun back around to a brilliant flash of light from the cameras that gave light to room. As he began to speak, the swarm of people outside began to chant as one.

“Recall Walker. Recall Walker. Recall Walker,” rang out from below.