My Not-So-Fun Day as an "Enemy of the People"

Over the weekend, I was out among the masses — some washed, others not — all American voters. I approached people waiting to cast their ballot with a few prescient questions about the political present and the future.

Never before have I been made to feel like such a pariah.

An Enemy of the People.

I felt the stares. I endured the umbrage, the anger.

A large part of the American population apparently now hates the press.

We all know why.

The Great Democrat Daniel Patrick Moynihan once memorably said that “Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but not their own facts.”

That’s not true this year. 

Donald Trump has invented a world where his followers believe they can have both.

And there is one person they all rally around the flag to loathe.

The Messenger.

The Whipping Boy.

The Press.

The supposed Conjurer of Fake News.

Nevadans began early voting on Saturday so I ventured out to contribute to a story by an East Coast newspaper about the present mind of the electorate.

The questions were basic: Why come out on a weekend and wait on long lines when you could have voted by mail? (Nevada gave all voters the option.) 

Do you trust the election process this year?

What do you think will happen if Donald Trump loses the election?

What do you love about America and what is its biggest challenge?

As a freelance writer, I have taken a long break from Man-in-the-Street interviews that I once thrived on as a newspaper staff writer.

I never liked them to begin with.

Working in San Francisco, I would often be sent out onto the Market Street to query passersby about this issue or that. 

And I learned a hard lesson pretty quickly.

People are often in a rush, and will walk brusquely past a stranger to the point of rudeness. Especially the press. Everyone thinks you’re trying to sell them something, which is often true, but not in my case.

I would barely get the words out of my mouth, “I’m a reporter for the ….” when they would snap, “I’m not interested.”

Many days, I stood there swallowing my anger.

I soon learned a trick — to approach people at coffee houses. Seated, they were a trapped audience. Eventually, these Man-in-the-Chair interviews became as obsolete as an afternoon newspaper — replaced by Twitter reporting, work you can do from the office and avoid the sweat.

Over the years, I have covered presidential campaigns — in 2000 and 2004 — and I know that many conservatives believe that all newspapers and reporters are liberals, tree-hugging enviros.

But most GOP voters were polite enough to talk to you.

Not this year.

The War Against the Working Press has had its low points over the years, but nothing comes close to the ugliness of the Trump Era.

Remember the nifty T-shirt that some Bubbas started to sport -- those shirts that read “Rope. Tree. Journalist: Some Assembly Required”?

And with his vacuous “Fake News!” chant, Trump blows his wolf whistle at each and every campaign stop.

Reporter colleagues have told me that they have never been subjected to the vitriol they have endured covering a Trump event, where they are often separated, put in a cage, like Christians at the Coliseum, while the hoards screech, firing insults and worse in their direction.

Really, I would rather be reporting from Islamabad than a Norman, Oklahoma Trump rally. I like to see my threat coming.

On some nights, being a reporter covering any rally can be perilous work.

In 2014, I stood on the street in downtown Ferguson, Mo., waiting among restless protestors just a few days after a Black resident, Michael Brown, was killed by white policeman Darren Wilson.

Not long before a riot broke out, I flinched from the sound of what I first thought were firecrackers.

I turned to two men of color standing next to me. They were young, barely out of their teens.

“Is that gunfire?” I asked reflexively.

They turned on me, irate. F-Bombs flew. I had to walk away.

It wasn’t the last time the scene played out that night.

But there is a difference between a riot, where people are on a razor's edge, and a more staid event, like people lining up to vote.

You almost expect tension at the former, but rarely the latter.

I’d seen the anger among the Trump crowd in 2016.

I voted early, and stood in line at a parking-lot polling station near my house. For some reason, I’d chosen to wear my Johnny Cash at San Quentin T-shirt, where he flips off guards at the prison during a live concert.

As I waited in line, I noticed a much older woman watching me.

I have never been glared at like that by anyone in my life, especially not a blue-collar lady 20 years my senior. Later, I saw that look for what it was: “We’re poor, we’re white and we’re not going to take it anymore.”

I was an obvious Democrat. The Enemy. Not yet for all the people.

Just this scowling old lady.

Flash forward to Saturday.

Time and again, I saw the look. I realized that hadn’t missed it.

Outside a senior center not far off the Strip, 250 people waited to vote. I hopped out of my car, and walked straight toward the line, settling on the first people I encountered.

Luck was not riding shotgun. There were five family members. Trumpers all.

The woman demanded to see my identification. Her husband stepped forward into my personal space, startling me.

If they answered my questions, they spit their answers.

I hurried away, but saw the scene repeated time and again.

People look at you and snarled.

“Liberal,” they said.

“Get out of my face.”

I don’t want to talk to you.”

I endured the indignities that day and filed my story.

But if I’m ever forced to do that again, I'll wear that Johnny Cash T-shirt.

Flipping the Bird.

Because two can play that game.

Because I am no one's enemy.

Unless you make me one.