What's She Doing Here?

The news that Daniel Schorr, the legendary political journalist, died on Friday at the age of 93, sent me back in time to my days as a cub reporter on the Daily Bruin.  It was 1975.  I was a freshman at UCLA when Daniel Schorr made an appearance at Royce Hall during the height of his fame.  He'd landed on Nixon's Enemies List and had much to say about the matter.  For some reason, either a clerical error or serious lapse in editorial judgment, I got to interview him after his speech.  Nervous gal that I've always been, I was terrified.  The mere idea of sitting across from this notorious ass-kicker thrilled and intimidated me and messed with my keppie. 

In the event that my brain clamped shut, mid-interview, I brought along my friend and fellow cubbie Joanne for backup.  Should I fail to speak coherently, I knew she'd step in and utter complete sentences on my behalf.  We met Mr. Schorr in a upstairs room in Royce Hall.  His demeanor on and off stage never wavered. This was a serious man, doing serious work.  But I did have a slight advantage, and I used it early on.  My mother.  She'd been the coordinator of Women For:, a liberal group of political junkies, and Daniel Schorr had appeared at one of her events.  "Tell him I send my regards," she said.  So I did.  "My mother is Gloria Starr, from Women For:," I said, waiting for him to react.  All he did was nod.  "She wanted me to say hi." 

Suddenly, his face brightened.  He actually smiled.  Thanks, Mom!  "Smart group of ladies," he said, then eyed Joanne, who hadn't said a single thing.  "What's she doing here?" Instant mortification.  Hadn't I introduced her?  "Is she your security blanket?" Damn.  Was it that obvious?  "She wanted to meet you," I said, lamely.  Joanne forced a smile and remained silent.  Daniel Schorr looked me in the eye, as if to say, "Grow a backbone, or you'll never make it."  I'm still working on it, Mr. Schorr.  I've got a few more vertebrae to go.