This Is How It Begins

by Joan Dempsey

  Izaac noticed Meck’s pitying expression. He thrust his overcoat at Meck as if Meck were a bellboy, then turned and settled himself in the guest chair, rolling up close to the counter. He put on the readied headphones, leaving one ear partially free, swung the microphone’s boom into just the right position and, when Meck began to give him the rundown, raised his eyes to the clock and glowered.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, Warren, you’re on the air in ninety seconds. I might be old, but I’m also an old pro. I’ll follow your lead.”

  Meck turned away, embarrassed, but also angry at the way Rosenberg had orchestrated this rushed beginning. He hung Izaac’s coat behind the door and left the room, closing the door with controlled restraint. Izaac frowned and swiveled side to side in his chair. He’d intended all along to put Meck off balance, but now that he’d succeeded, he took no pleasure in it. Meck had been nothing but gracious in the conversations leading up to this program, and Izaac felt slightly chagrined at his sophomoric attempt to undermine his host’s confidence. He resolved to be a gracious guest, and sat up a bit taller.

  Inside the main studio, Meck had taken over from Chuck Little, and was laying out his notes in front of the sound board while the news aired. The board, computer monitors, and keyboards were all the color of putty, with worn spots and grungy stains from overuse, and the rest of the room was a dingy gray, with soundproof panels affixed to the walls and ceiling. The station was rudimentary, but Meck liked it that way—he was responsible for everything, the “chief cook and bottle washer,” as his mother would have said. When he’d first arrived, he’d been bothered by the dismal environment, but not anymore. Once he had his headphones snug around his ears, everything faded away but the program itself.

  Meck launched into his opening remarks. By the time he’d delivered his trademark Tell It Like It Is and given Rosenberg a long introduction, Meck was solidly back on his game, completely in his element. He adjusted the sound levels on his own mic and asked Izaac to repeat the gist of what he had said at the rally.

  “We’re off to a good start, Mr. Attorney General,” he said when Izaac was through. “I couldn’t agree with you more!”

  Meck felt pleased that he’d succeeded in placing himself on exactly the common ground he’d hoped to establish, a perfect foundation upon which he knew his typical callers could build. He gave a broad outline of what the families of his Christian listeners were concerned about regarding their children’s education, and asked listeners to call in and share their stories.

  “Let’s turn now to the phones—”

  “Just one more thing, if I may,” said Izaac. “Here’s what concerns me.”

  Meck hesitated for what seemed to him an interminable amount of time for on-air silence but was no more than two seconds. His instinct urged him to steer away from Rosenberg in favor of the callers, but his intellect demanded magnanimity.

  “Please. Tell it like it is.”

  “I’ll tell it like I think it is. If only one teacher—my grandson, let’s say—had been fired for what is commonly called but poorly defined by law as conduct unbecoming, my concern, and the concern of any arbiter, judge, or jury, would be to determine the probity of the accusations leveled against him. His termination would be based, presumably, on specific, identifiable behaviors. Are you with me so far?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “Good. Now. How many teachers were fired throughout the commonwealth over the course of the last month? Eleven. And all within a few days of each other, all of them gay or lesbian. So now we’re not just talking about the behavior of my grandson, we’re talking about the behavior of a whole group of people, each of them in completely different circumstances. This leads me to question not the conduct of each individual within that group, but the motivation of those who’ve done the firing. It strains belief to think that almost a dozen teachers across the state have suddenly developed conduct that’s unbecoming enough to warrant dismissal. It’s one thing to accuse a person based on specific behavior, on observable actions. It’s quite another once you start accusing someone based not on their behavior but on their personhood. Why then you’re talking about bigotry. Then you’re talking about accusing an entire class of people based on the idea that they’re a certain kind of person. And this, Warren, is discrimination, pure and simple.”

  He sat back, away from the mic, and gestured to Meck with a small flourish, as if he were allowing him to pass first through a doorway. Meck smiled. Izaac hated to admit it even to himself, but he didn’t entirely dislike the fact that Tommy’s situation had led him here; getting out of the house for something like this was restorative. He hadn’t realized when he’d withdrawn from public life how much he would miss being regularly asked for his opinion.

  “For me,” said Meck, “it doesn’t strain belief to think that those who’ve done the firing have finally taken courage from each other and dared to blow the whistle on what has become a systemic problem within our public schools. This is not about discrimination against those teachers. It’s about systemic discrimination against religious kids all over the state. These kids have been repeatedly coerced to accept a lifestyle that’s anathema to everything they sincerely believe, and repeatedly rebuffed when they try to express their opposition to that lifestyle. If our kids aren’t even allowed to quote from the Bible about the sin of homosexuality, how long do you think it will be before other religious speech is banned? It’s a threat to our freedom of speech, pure and simple.”

  He’d framed their new rationale pretty well, he thought. Still, it irked him that the dismissals had cornered them into arguing against the discrimination angle.

  “Listen, let’s get our callers to weigh in on this. We’ve got first-time caller Sheila on the line, from Springfield. Sheila, you’re on the air. Go ahead and tell it like it is.”

  “Oh, I’m so excited to be on, thank you! I just have to say I never miss a show. Thank God for you, Warren Meck, honestly, I mean that.”

  “Thank you, Sheila, I appreciate that. Do you have a question for the former attorney general or for me?”

  “Well, if it’s okay … I don’t have a question, really, I just wanted to say something about those teachers?”

  “Of course, please go ahead.”

  “I just want to say that I’m, well, I’m actually rejoicing about those teachers. I honestly think it’s high time they got fired. I’m sorry, but that’s what I think, and I’m not the only one. I don’t see one thing wrong with lumping them together. I mean, they are a certain kind of person, aren’t they? That’s the whole point. What I can’t believe is the way they’ve been allowed to come after our kids! You should see the propaganda my daughter brings home. All this about tolerating difference, who has two mommies and which two princes are getting married to each other and whatnot. It’s disgusting. And who’s tolerating my child? I don’t see my child in any of that material.”

  “Let me ask you, Sheila,” said Meck. “Do you believe in redemption? We’re all sinners, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So tell me, why not give the homosexual teachers a chance to atone rather than casting them out? Why not help them instead of firing them?”

  “They certainly need help, I do know that, but at the expense of my daughter? No thank you. They can repent on their own time. I’ve heard the idea about rounding them all up and letting them live together somewhere, on an island or something, and really, why not? They seem to want to be together anyway. But I don’t know the solution, I just know I don’t want them anywhere near my daughter. They’ve done enough damage. Like just a couple weeks ago my daughter told me her math teacher, Mister … well, I won’t say his name, was talking about his husband. His husband, can you imagine? And she said it as if it was totally normal. She’s only eight! You see how they got into her head? They have no business, no business at all! So, I have to say I’ve thanked God every day since he got fired.”

  Izaac pressed a fist against his mouth. Meck gav
e him a sympathetic smile. Izaac crossed his arms briefly over his chest, mimicking the rally salute, and then threw up his hands in a questioning gesture. He shook his head and leaned into the mic.

  “Rounded up and put on an island,” he said flatly. “That’s my grandson you’re talking about, Sheila, and you must understand that I feel as protective of him as you do of your daughter.”

  “I mean no disrespect, but my daughter’s not brainwashing anyone, is she? She’s not recruiting children into a degenerate lifestyle.”

  “Neither is my grandson; I can assure you. When I was at the attorney general’s office, we were responsible for answering complaints from parents just like yourself, parents who felt their children were being discriminated against in school, so I’ve heard a lot of stories from a lot of parents about a lot of different types of bias. The most common harassment complaint we heard was about racial bias, but the second most common was from parents whose children were harassed about their perceived sexual orientation. You want to see vile? You should see what was done to some of those kids. Horrific, unimaginable things I can’t repeat on the radio. It was my job to know if there was discrimination in Massachusetts schools. I took that job very seriously. I still have a lot of friends in my old office, and they tell me that in the last several years they’ve had only three complaints about religious discrimination in school. Three. It’s not uncommon for the Civil Rights Division to get seven or eight hundred complaints in a year, so I think you can see that three complaints—all resolved amicably, by the way—certainly don’t suggest there was a systemic problem significant enough to warrant the dismissal of eleven teachers across the state. I’ve been around the block a few times, and this situation smells like bigotry on a grand scale, and not, I’m afraid, against the Christian children, but against teachers like my grandson.”

  Izaac gave Meck a curt nod and pushed away from the mic. Meck did a station-ID break and launched a series of commercials. He took off his headphones and crossed around into the guest studio. Izaac pulled down his own headphones so they collared his neck.

  “Things can get a little heated,” said Meck.

  “You have no idea, young man; trust me. I’m doing just fine.”

  “We could use an intellect like yours, Izaac. You should come over to what I’m sure you think of as the dark side. Work with me.”

  Izaac laughed, and Meck gave him the warm, expansive smile that had endeared him to Lolek; Izaac was similarly swayed, disposed to like him, too.

  “Really, Warren, tell me, what’s a thinking man like yourself doing involved in this kind of witch hunt? It baffles me, truly.”

  Meck hadn’t hesitated when Pastor Royce had asked him to lead the campaign. He’d been motivated in part by his son John’s tiny ribcage, bruised nearly black from getting kicked by a group of older boys who routinely called him “Churchie” and “Jesus Freak.” The school had downplayed the bias, calling the fights typical tussles between boys.

  When Meck told Izaac about it, Izaac winced, picturing Tommy’s battered face.

  “I’m sorry about your boy, Warren. I know how you must feel.”

  “At least my wife and I have the ability to homeschool, but a lot of families can’t afford it. I’m just trying to make things better for them.”

  Back in the main studio, Meck lined up a couple calls before the commercial break was over.

  “Go ahead, Douglas, you’re on the air. Tell it like it is.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Meck. Mr. Rosenberg, it’s a real honor to get to speak to you. I never listen to this show. I only tuned in because I heard you were going to be on.”

  “Thank you, Douglas,” said Izaac.

  “Here’s what I want to know. I mean, I totally agree with you about this being a bigoted campaign. It’s about hatred, not about kids. It’s about using those poor kids to advance an agenda of hate, pure and simple. I don’t know how you can sleep at night, Mr. Meck, knowing you’ve ruined the lives of all those poor teachers, who didn’t do a fu—oh, sorry—a darned thing wrong. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  “Did you have a question for us, Douglas?” asked Meck.

  “Well, I guess that is my question: how can you sleep at night? I mean, really, the nerve of you to have on Tommy Zeilonka’s grandfather, while that poor guy is home recovering from a brutal attack by your henchmen. You won’t get away with it, I’m telling you. He’s lucky his partner was home to intervene, or you people would be up for murder. Didn’t you learn anything from Matthew Shepard, you fascist asshole?”

  At that, Meck faded out the caller’s volume and disconnected him. He tried to diffuse the negativity by talking about stirred passions, reiterating his condemnation of violence, and extolling his faith in the democratic process. As he talked, he was alarmed to see Izaac stand up and remove his headphones. Izaac raised a finger and mouthed to Meck he’d be right back. Meck loaded up the CD “Opposite Way” by Leeland, preparing to buy himself an interlude. He smoothed his bangs and tried to press them up under the headband, dislodging one ear cover. From the lobby, he heard shouting. Chuck Little was always telling Meck to lock the doors before he went on air, but Meck had never seen the point. He pushed up the volume slider. The gentle pulsing warble of the synthesizer, bold piano chords, and Leeland Mooring’s silky upbeat voice buoyed Meck as he strode out into the lobby. Izaac was holding up both arms and patting the air, trying to calm the half-dozen men who dominated the small lobby with their agitated energy and bulky winter coats. Meck was always conscious of his small stature, but never so much as in this moment, facing these jeering men. His immediate thought was to dart back into the studio and call the police, and then he realized with some amount of shame that he was shielding himself behind Rosenberg, who stood his ground, baggy corduroy sleeves flouncing as he continued to pat the air. Meck stepped forward beside Rosenberg, who dropped his arms with a grateful sigh. Meck summoned forth his most explosive voice.

  “Enough!”

  The sound stormed the lobby, instantly shocking the men into silence, and it was then Meck realized he knew them. He frowned, confused.

  “Danny? Clancy, Blair? What are you guys all doing here?”

  Clancy, a muscular young man with close-cropped black hair, spoke from the back.

  “What are you, now, Warren, getting soft on us? We were listening in the van, on our way over to the retirement home, you know, finishing up that library Pastor Royce asked us to do? Blair here said we should phone in, ask what’s going on that you have this gentleman on, and I said let’s swing over there and tell it like it is in person, remind him who’s out there listening. You think we want to hear this homo defender going on about his faggot grandson?”

  Clancy momentarily lowered his head.

  “Sorry, I mean no offense, but give me a break, Warren.”

  Izaac gave a small start at “faggot grandson,” exactly the expression used in the note left on their porch and in the harassing calls. He recovered himself, took a quiet breath, and calmly moved past the men to stand in front of Clancy.

  “This homo defender, as you call me, is pleased to meet you. I’m Izaac Rosenberg. And, you are?”

  Clancy pursed his lips and eyed Izaac’s outstretched hand. Leeland’s music filled the tense silence, and Meck took courage from hearing the singer’s pride as he named himself “one of Yours, Lord.”

  Rosenberg bent forward and carefully took Clancy’s hand in both his own. Clancy blushed, mumbled his name, and shook Rosenberg’s hand.

  “Warren,” said Izaac, still holding Clancy’s hand, “do you think we have a second chair in the studio for Clancy here? Would you like to be on the radio, son? Have a real conversation with this old man? I’m pretty sure we’re back on the air momentarily.”

  Two of the men laughed quietly and exchanged glances.

  “Come on, Clancy,” said Blair, a man with sharply defined cheekbones and soft blond curls. “We’ve got to get over there to the home. We’re already late.
”

  “Are you kidding?” said Danny. “Get in there, Clancy, and tell it like it is for real! Now’s your chance. You know what Pastor Royce told us to do …”

  Clancy’s warning glance silenced Danny. Meck wondered which of Pastor Royce’s sermons Danny might have been about to misconstrue.

  Izaac stepped away and went over to the guest studio. He held open the door. Clancy reddened further and turned to Meck.

  “Just remember who’s listening, Warren,” he said. “Come on guys, let’s go.”

  An hour later, Meck and Izaac stood together in the hallway, waiting for the elevator. Izaac clasped his hat and gloves in both hands behind his back.

  “It’s often the ones on your own side who treat you most poorly,” said Izaac. “That never stopped surprising me. This man met me one time when we were in the midst of a heated and very public hearing about a piece of civil rights legislation I had drafted, a bill that clearly needed some work before it would pass, and when I offered him my hand by way of greeting, he spat on it, said exactly what the caller Douglas said to you today: ‘How can you sleep at night?’ People forget that democracy is about compromise.”

  Meck lowered his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “They must be reading a different Bible than I am, I’ll say that. It’s certainly not the Bible Pastor Royce preaches from. I don’t understand it. Such disrespect.”

  “There are as many Bibles as there are readers, Warren, and just as many versions of truth. You’re young yet, you’ll see.”

  Still rubbing his neck, Meck tilted his head and squinted at Izaac.

  “Do you believe in God, Mr. Rosenberg?”

  The elevator doors shuddered open. Izaac stepped in and turned to regard Meck.

  “I do not. The question of God’s existence was settled for me when I was only fourteen, in 1943, in Poland. You might imagine my reasons. My grandson, however—my faggot grandson, as your friends call him—does believe. He is Christian, baptized in the Catholic Church.”