Town Hall James C.

Wilson James grew up in central Arkansas, where he did and said many things he would later regret. He received his Bachelor of Arts degree in English from the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville before fleeing to teach in South Korea, for unspecified reasons (possibly related to espionage). He is currently pursuing his Master of Arts degree in Professional and Technical Writing from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock, where he also teaches the luckiest group of First Year Composition students in the state.

As I pulled up to the church, my heart began to hammer in my chest, shaking my whole body and bringing with it an accompanying sickness. Thered been videos dozens of them circulating around on the internet for weeksof angry citizens in town hall meetings across the country, demanding answers. I was angry too, and I too wanted answers, but somewhere in the back of my mind I couldnt shake the feeling that this would be different from those videos, those town halls. This is rural Arkansas; these people arent likely to have read the billthey arent likely to know specifics. I started to sweat. In truth, I wanted to leave. It would be easier, I told myself, to go home and make my points from in front of my computer. People wouldnt stare at me. I wouldnt have to endure shouting or any confrontationwouldnt have to defend myself against points that I hadnt even thought of. What did I hope to accomplish anyway? I decided to park. Regular unleaded was too expensive for me to make three-hour round trips for nothing. As I walked toward the door, a few people stared at the large camera bag slung over my shoulder. I was younger than most of them by decades. My heart hammered audible, I hoped, only to me.

Inside, I was greeted by several smiling people working at a large table. There were clipboards with names, email addresses, telephone numbers, and the like in front of them. Stacks of note cards and several markers were there as well. They noticed the bag and asked which news organization I was with. I replied that I wasnt with any. This seemed to surprise them, but they remained convivial, urging me to sign in and telling me it would be best if I set my camera up near the end of the middle pews. I thanked them, signed, and headed into the chapel. Just inside, my congressmans personal assistant met me and introduced herself. Wed corresponded before via email after Id been sent an invitation to the town hall via his automatic email system. She was the first (and only) actual person in his office Id been able to contact through email. She was as pleasant as the people at the front table, and I soon found myself feeling more at ease. I settled down, set up my camera, and checked to make sure it was recording correctly. I glanced around at the other faces in the crowdmost of them were senior citizensand tried to determine who would listen to what I had to say and who would jeer. I didnt fail to notice the overabundance of police in the room, either. Coming only three months after the attempt on Representative Gabrielle Giffords life, I couldnt really fault their presence, but I doubted their ability to stop an attempt if one were to occur there werent metal detectors at the doors, there werent any k-9 units, and for the most part, they seemed to be milling around the back talking to one another. For all they knew, my bag could have been filled with some exotic machine gun. One lady nearby asked who I worked for. I told her I was currently unemployed but was a student (Id been accepted to the MA program in Professional and Technical Writing at The University of Arkansas at Little Rock but hadnt attended yet, so whether or not I was lying Ill leave to you) to which she made a face. The camera was becoming a pain. He isnt with the media, so why would he want to record this?

Id told my congressmans personal assistant in the email that it was so friends who couldnt attend would be able to watch. Im sure that after the videos shed probably seen surrounding the other town hall meetings around the country, she was skeptical. She was right to be, though what Id told her wasnt untrue: There was only one other group of people in the room with a camera who werent members of the media, and their footage eventually found its way onto a political blog called ThinkProgress. My congressman was not portrayed positively there. Eventually he arrived, though I dont recall if it was from the front of the room or the back. I dont remember if people applauded or stood, and I wasnt recording, so I cant go to the tape to refresh my memory. I wasnt prepared for what came next, but I suffered through it without complaint. I mean, hed never read or responded to anything Id emailed or called him about, but I was just a constituentone of many. He was a congressman. He deserved respect. And so, I sat silently and listened. Im speaking now of the 17 minute presentation he gave concerning Congressman Paul Ryans Roadmap for America, his view for the future of America, biographical tidbits from his own life, bills hed sponsored/co-sponsored, and general things he wanted to change in Washington. Many of his statements were met with applause. A few were met with standing ovationsnot an easy pull from a crowd of mostly septuagenarians. Id thought I knew what it was to be nervous. I thought I knew what kind of crowd I was entering into. I hadnt had a clue. I sat quietlynot applaudingand waited for the time when I would be allowed to speak. Thats what town hall meetings were about, after all: the voices of the public getting past the email auto-responses and apologetic secretaries to the minds of the representatives. I bided my time. Eventually, he wrapped up his monologue. I then discovered what I can only assume was a tactic put into place after the release of all those angry town hall videos. You see, he and the other congressmen in his party had spent a lot of time during the previous week on conference calls with the partys leadership. I assumed it was for

coachingfor crowd control. I dont know if thats true or not, but I know he had something those congressmen in the videos didnt have: note cards. And with that, I want to take your questions, he said. What weve done weve had several of you, uh, drop questions in the box here, and in the interest of time and being able to address as many as we can Im just going to reach in here in the box, and Ill read the questions that have been submitted, and when I call your name if you want to stand up so I can address you directly, that would be great. Son of a bitch. All those nice people tending to that table outside and not one of them mentioned the note cards to me. I had questions! I had comments! I didnt realize my concerns as a citizen, as a voter, and as a constituent meant that I had the honor of writing them down to be randomly drawn from a box full of what I can only assume are true sentiments. I mean, there arent any politicians in the history of this country who would be tempted to fill that box with soft ball questions or praise, right? And he wouldn t even get to all of them. So, even if I had been told by the people manning the table what was required to get my congressmans attention, I might still not get to hear my question read in public might not get to see his response. My nervousness dropped away. My hands were shaking, but it was anger this time. Id been auto-replied and voice-mailed to death; I wasnt about to be curtailed by a bunch of notecardsnot when he was so close. And regular unleaded was so expensive. Plus, I thought that maybe this was just the beginning. I thought perhaps hed go through the cards and then open it up to the floor. I mean, this was his hometown his districtand he was on our dime; we (his constituents, not me personally) had elected him, and our taxes were paying his salary, so surely he would stay until wed been satisfied to some extent.

So, I waited, and the questions came. He answered about 25 of them. The people with the other camera, from the blog site, were soon the only ones in the room speaking out of turn. They yelled questions from the floor. Others heckled them or shouted over them. Once or twice the crowd applauded so loudly that their voices were drowned out entirely. The people applauding surrounded me like a coffin. Somewhere near the end of the questions, I sensed that things were about to conclude. I dont know how I knew. I didnt want to shout out. I wasnt sure that I could even if Id wanted tonervousness, fear, angerthese were probably not the ingredients for an impromptu speech. So, I did what Id done a thousand times before when I wanted to ask a question: I put up my hand. I didnt know what else to do. My congressman saw it go up. Those around and behind me gave me looks but said nothing. I wasnt shouting out, I wasnt interrupting him. I had a question, and I wanted it answeredsimple enough. He ignored it. He spoke some more with the people from the blog, and then it was over. He was waving and moving down the aisle. The crowd erupted into applause and cheers. People clambered to their feet, and he began shaking the hands of those nearest the aisle, thanking them for coming out and showing their support. I put my hand down. I stood. My nervousness was gone again. The anger was back, but I felt calm. He was coming toward me. I was near the aisle. He was going to make it easy. You should have waved your hand around, an older gentleman who had been sitting behind me said, chuckling. I couldnt tell if he was belittling me or not, but I had to agree with him. At about 45 minutes and 35 seconds into the video I hear an older lady tell him shed received his letter. I should have asked her what her secret washow she got him

to respondbut I was too busy focusing on him to bother. He was smilingthat plastered on thing that every actor and politician learns right out of the gateand moving, shaking hands, thanking them with a smile and a nod and a kind word or two. What a showman. Its so obvious. How do they not see it? And then he was there. His hand reached out while his head was still turned toward the woman with her letter. He didnt realize I was the person whod raised my hand until he turned. I had a question, I said as I squeezed his hand tight, I mean, you said that you supported, uh, the rich paying taxes. Here the audio becomes impossible to understand, but I remember that the general idea of my question was: if he said he supported the rich paying their fair share, then why was he voting for a bill that would lower their tax rate? The next thing I can be heard saying is, Why havent you done anything about that? What about the 15 percent tax rate on capital gains? Then, he yanked his hand away. He moved to the next aisle, his smile firmly reappliednot many even saw it flee. Whereas average Americans pay 18 percent! I said, loudly over the crowd. Why should we pay more than people who are making billio ns of dollars a year? I yelled over the din. You need to get your facts straight!an older man using a caneone of those whod applauded my congressmans notion of dismantling and doing away with the EPAsaid angrily, as he trailed behind the congressman. My fear of confrontation momentarily lifted, and I responded:

Ive got my facts straight, sir! Yes, sir, I do! Ive read the bill, unlike some people here! He ignored me and hobbled out. I turned to my camera, my last remaining ally, and started to turn it off. The last line of audio is: And youre with? Asked by a lady whod sat behind me. She wanted to know which blog I worked for. I told her I was a student. No conspiracies here. Sorry to disappoint. Just a guy whos tired of being ignored. I packed the camera up. No one bothered me or stopped to ask me any questions or respond to what Id said. The people from the blog were too involved dealing with their own hecklers to offer any support to me. Not that I needed it. I wasnt one of the supporters my congressman had come to see, and so I was ignored, silenced, brushed asidemarginalized. He thought I didnt have anything good to say, so it was better if I said nothing. I couldnt get an email through, couldnt get a phone call through, couldnt get a straight answer when I held the mans hand in my own. And that was all the answer I needed.