There was the time when I was 17 and my senior class took a trip to Vienna, Austria. I attended a school for army dependents in Baumholder, Germany so this wasn’t much of a stretch. One night a group of us were sitting late in the lobby of the Prince Eugene Hotel awaiting a few of our more daring classmates who’d gone out on the town. Mind you, this was a formal place, ornate and quiet and staffed with good haughty men. The front doors were locked and when we saw our classmates outside I jumped up and headed to the door to let them in. Impulse. One of the formally-attired men came up, looked down at me with his most disapproving sneer, and said “You are the doorman?” Oops. That was pretty embarrassing, but I think it’s safe to say that the most embarrassing moment came in the spring of 1976.
I often say that 1976 was a big year for me, and it was. I had a mad, passionate relationship with the assistant conductor of the San Francisco Symphony; I went on my first backpacking trip – 10 wonderful days in the backcountry of Yosemite and Kings Canyon; I spent almost three incredible months temping as vacation replacement for the catering manager at the 5-star Clift Hotel; I moved to Reno and became a Ferrari salesperson and I jumped head first into the California presidential primary campaign for Jimmy Carter. Quite a year.
When I called to volunteer for the Carter Campaign they offered me my choice of two paid positions: office manager, or executive assistant to the campaign chairmen for California and the western states. Not surprisingly, I chose the latter. I always like to be right in the middle of where things are happening. The job was unspecified. We made it up as we went along and dealt with crises that arose. Among other duties I handled the money, fielded phone calls nobody else wanted to deal with and whatever else came along at any given time. I can safely say there was never a dull moment. Eventually, the two campaign managers and I closeted ourselves in a large corner office with three desks and a closed door, simply so we could escape the mayhem of the rest of the place.
Because of our enforced isolation, I rarely went into the bullpen area where the volunteers and office staff hung out, and I couldn’t even tell you which office handled the press or other necessary functions. I recognized faces, perhaps knew some names, but rarely did my path cross that of most others on a daily basis. We all had our jobs to do and little time for pleasantries. I always knew what was going on, who was traveling through town on what date, but I had no hand in setting any of it up and the dignitaries rarely visited the campaign office. They flew in for a speech or fundraiser and flew out.
One of our full-time volunteers was an extraordinary African-American woman, a graduate of Bryn Mawr married to the first African-American to receive dual degrees in law and medicine. Both of them were beautiful human beings. She always knew more about what was going on in the rest of the office than I did, because she answered phones, worked with the volunteers, happily accepted whatever menial chore might be asked of her. We became fast friends, always stopping to chat at some point of our long, crazy days. I think her name was Betty and I hope she’ll forgive me if my memory 33 years later is faulty. Other than Betty and the office manager, I really didn’t know any of the others very well and the volunteers came and went. I offer all this as an excuse.
One of the dignitaries who came through was Andrew Young, the prominent civil rights leader, activist and humanitarian who’d marched with Martin Luther King, been mayor of Atlanta and would later go on to even greater things. I knew he was coming, and because of Betty I knew that he would be staying overnight at her home. She told me that even in that day and age African-Americans often preferred to avoid hotels when possible. I filed all this information away and forgot about it, as I did with all the other dignitaries.
My usual tendency was to arrive at the office early and retire directly to my office, usually with one of the campaign managers. Rarely was anyone else around at that hour but since campaign headquarters were in Atlanta, our west coast hours left us way behind the beginning of every day. On the morning in question I followed routine, but found myself in need of staples, or some other mundane bit of office supply, so I wandered down the dark hallway and into the dark bullpen area in search. Nobody else was there and the lights hadn’t been turned on and I didn’t bother because the big, old double-hung windows gave enough ambient light that I could see what I needed to see. Normally, I’d have asked the office manager for supplies so I didn’t know where they were and had to poke and pry into cabinets, totally focused and needing to get back into my office. At some point I was vaguely aware that another person was in the shadows of the room, but in my focused frenzy and because I was used to strangers milling about, I didn’t pay any attention to them. Until I heard a voice behind me say, “Hi, I’m Andy Young”.
This got my attention. I spun around, looked up to a smiling face and a hand reaching out in friendship. All manner of thoughts raced through my mind, not the least of which was utter chagrin at having ignored his presence in the room. I was also a little star-struck and I believe some groveling was involved as we shook hands. He was kind and gracious and beautiful and we shared a few moments of private conversation there in that dark room.
My most embarrassing moment? No doubt. But at the same time one of the most incredibly special moments I ever experienced. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
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