By Ken Freeman
March 15, 2006
I have been coming here a lot lately, to this building, to the Alabama Legislature. It is an oppressive place. It is disturbing.
Last week when I was here, I stopped in an office to ask for information. While the secretary searched for what I needed, we started to talk. I mentioned how I felt about this place. She responded that it wasn't the building. It was the people in the building.
She said:
"You know, I watch them come to Montgomery, all the new Representatives, and the new Senators. When they first get here, they have big dreams, big hopes. They really want to help their people back home."
At that point, her eyes began to fill with tears. "But, then they change," she said. "After a while, they are just like all the others." She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, took a deep, sad breath, smiled an embarrassed smile, as if to say, "What can you do?" and handed me the information.
I didn't know what to say. I just thanked her, and left.
Now, I'm here again. Today, we have this hearing on eminent domain. People have come here from all over the state to speak out. They have come to ask their Legislators to help stop the government from taking their homes and businesses.
How were these concerned citizens greeted when they arrived? Were they greeted by a friendly Representative asking, "How can I help you?" and seated in a comfortable room. No, they were not. When they arrived, they were informed that the meeting had been moved. It was no longer in the House Chambers, which seats one-hundred-fifty-five people. It was now on the sixth floor. When they finally found their way to the tiny hearing room, they were greeted by security policemen, who informed them that only registered speakers were allowed into the room. Even if they registered, there were less than twenty chairs available. If you didn't have a chair, you had to leave.
Soon, the overflow crowd filled the halls. New arrivals were greeted by security police barking, "Stay clear of the door!" Security personnel paced up and down the halls, like prison guards, yelling, "Form two lines, stand against the wall, keep the hall clear!" What they meant was, stay out of the way of the "important people," our elected officials.
I thought, "They want these people to be miserable, so that they will leave, and never come back again." This was a set-up by the Committee Chairman to keep the people outside the process.
So, we stood there in the hall against the walls, sweating, with no air conditioning, or loudspeakers. We couldn't hear what was going on inside the committee room. All we heard were the guards barking orders at women and children and elderly people standing in the hall, while the Representatives sat in the committee room, and conducted business – the peoples' business. People were angry. Some became vocal about the abuse. Others said it was useless, and started to leave for home. "Don't leave," I said, "That's what they want you to do." Most stayed.
Finally, some passing Representatives intervened on our behalf, and we were herded, like cattle, back down to the house chambers to continue the hearing. At long last, one by one, we were allowed to approach the microphone, and speak. Three minutes each was all the time we were given. Many of these folks had driven over three hours, in order to stand nervously before that microphone for those three minutes, in hopes that someone would listen.
When it was my turn, I approached the microphone. But, I didn't give the speech I wanted to give: The speech I have wanted to give every time I have been in this room. Because I looked into the faces of the Legislators, and once again, decided that it wouldn't help. They would only think me a fool to speak such foolish words. I stood there, looking at their faces, and thinking about that secretary with the tears in her eyes.
This is the speech I wanted to give!
"Some of you are still freshmen Representatives, but most of you have been here for a long time now. But, just for today, I want you to remember when you first came to Montgomery. Remember when your friends and neighbors worked so hard to get you elected – that very first time, back when you didn't rely on AEA or League of Municipalities or County Commissioners or Trial Lawyers for their PAC money to help you stay in office. Remember back when ordinary people dropped ten dollars into your campaign fund, and you were actually grateful to receive it, back when the people had so much faith in you."
"Don't you remember all the dreams you had back then? Remember how you thought that you could really make a difference? Back when you came to this building for the first time."
I looked up into the gallery, at the people behind the glass wall. It was full. Those are the real heroes, I thought: Mothers who need to be home with their children, or working to support them; children who need to be in school, although they would certainly learn a lesson here today; Fathers who are losing a day of work, who gave a up one-fifth of their family's weekly income to come, and stand behind that glass wall, and only watch. They came to Montgomery because a friend had sent them an email about the dangers of eminent domain, or because they heard a stranger's voice on the radio, and they had known in their hearts that he spoke the truth. But mostly, they came because they shared the same dream, the dream of young, freshmen Representatives. The dream of a free America!
I stood there, and looked at the people in the gallery, and then, I looked into the faces of our Representatives, and I wanted to say:
"Turn around, and look at these people. Don't you remember why you ran for office that first time?"
I wanted to scream:
"Well, today you have a chance to do the right thing, to do what you came here to do, to vote and defend the people of this great state from the abuse of government, and the power of eminent domain. You have a chance to vote for those who put their faith in you. Will you do it?"
"Why do you have such low expectations of yourselves? Don't you remember when? Don't you know that power and money have corrupted this process, until this building seethes with deception, and this room reeks of compromise and failure?"
"You don't have to believe me," I wanted to say. "Look for yourselves. You can see it in your secretary's eyes."
But, I didn't say it. There were a long few seconds of silence, while I felt foolish standing there, in front of officials, who had forgotten why they came. In that moment, I didn't see their faces anymore. I only saw the face of a secretary with tears in her eyes.
Then, I read the words I had written on paper, and not the words that were written on my heart.