BorderWest

How Not to Attend a Press Conference

By Rebecca Powell, 6-24-08

	Press Conference, SouthWest Environmental Center

Lunch. The boy and the husband escort me to the Doña Ana County Wilderness Coalition’s press conference. I eat lunch with my men every Monday.  Breaking our date, even for a press conference, would be close to sacrilege. Between scheduled meetings, work, a husband, a child, and a dog, I have ten minutes I might call my own this day. The press conference will be a family affair.

We pull into a crowded downtown. Parking lots are full. We are lucky to find a space. The boy wants to eat noodles, not attend a press conference on public lands. We offer the SouthWest Environmental Center’s fish aquarium as an alternative.

Inside, people line the walls.  Over a 100 people fill the room, spill down the halls and out the door. A busy Nathan Small takes time to shake the husband’s hand. I peek in on the crowd, notice a few cowboy hats, even more tank top and sandals. Mayor Ken Miyagashima stands toward the front. If I want a decent picture, I will need to train the boy to use the camera. He could crawl between people’s legs, making his way to the front. Two is probably a little young for such subterfuge – perhaps by four . . .

The press conference begins. Small has a resounding voice and the crowd responds to him. He calls for sound policy on public lands, says HR 6300 is unfortunate, and points to a presentation screen I cannot see. The boy is contemplating how he can get into the fish tank. I distract him, pointing to masks on the wall. I hear Small say HR 6300 sells off public land before the boy squeals again.

The husband suggests rounding the building to the back door for a better view. Small could be saying any number of wonderful, mundane, or horrible things as we round the building. The boy, again, expresses a profound desire for noodles. At the back entrance, people crowd the doorway, tall people. One, with long arms, kindly snaps a picture for me.  Mayor Ken Miyagashima takes the podium. The boy eats noodles, as I strain to hear. It is a lost cause. We leave. The boy protests the touching of his noodles with a loud shriek. We walk to the fountain to let boy play in the “rain.”

I can catch pieces of the press conference on the news. Someone else can record the words for prosperity. Two years ago, this twenty-five minute interlude of chaos would have qualified as a tragedy. My plan – hearing the Doña Ana County Wilderness Coalition’s reaction to HR 6300 – was thwarted. Today, it is hardly a blip on my emotional radar.  This chaos is my life.

I watch the boy make rain in the fountain. The husband and I discuss Small’s and Miyagashima’s deliveries. I jot down a few notes, hoping for something to write. We teach the boy to throw pennies in the fountain, to make a wish.

Maybe at the next press conference, the boy will know how to work the camera.

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