The young men standing in front of the gate are wearing red sashes with golden lion pins. Some of them have bagpipes. They are with the American Society for the Defense of Tradition, Family, and Property, handing out anti-abortion leaflets a few hours before Cecile Richards speaks at Georgetown in defiance of the moral law, good taste, and the Archbishop of Washington.
"God bless all of you," I say.
"God bless you," they all repeat.
Richards’s speech is closed to the press. My understanding is that there will not be a live feed or even a recording. I have a hard time seeing how this hush-hush approach is compatible with the Lecture Fund’s argument that the event is about fostering civil dialogue.
The most important thing about sneaking into an event is to give people the impression that you are not sneaking in. I try my best to walk as if I know where the Hariri Building is. I still feel conspicuous, though. I really wish I had shaved my mustache this morning and lost more of my baby weight from last year. I also need to put out my cigarette.
When I enter the building, I see barricades around all the entrances to the auditorium and a sign that says the line for the speech begins outside.
Thus ends my plan of getting in early and slipping into the back of the room. My backup idea is to use an expired Georgetown GO student ID supplied to me by a colleague. We do not look much like each other, but it’s very bright out here. Maybe security will just glance at it like bouncers did at the fake horizontal-facing drivers’ licenses most of us had in college.
It is only noon, but it is very, very hot and I am going to be here for a while. I’d like to talk to some of the students waiting beside me, but I can’t let on that I am an editor at a conservative website. Instead, I just listen.
"I’m just gonna eat my salad," says one girl in a baseball cap. "I brought mints too."
"I can’t wait for the Meet and Greet," says one of her companions.
"Ooooh," says a male associate. "Will they let us in?"
Behind me another girl tells the life story of one of her favorite relatives:
"He was on the national rugby team. He was a Catholic priest. He got kicked out of Texas because he married my grandma. He did, like, everything."
"Does anyone have sunblock?"
"Are there people here protesting her?"
The girl in the cap makes a disgusted noise.
"Are they Georgetown undergrads?"
"There is a girl up there with a pro-life sticker on her laptop."
"Do you think she’s, like, open minded?"
"She probably grew up in a really repressive environment."
"It’s too hot."
"I was, like, ‘Do not talk to me; you do not have a uterus.’"
"I f—king love the bathrooms in here."
"It’s, like, a ball of cookie dough ice cream. It is sooooo good."
"I’m gonna post a Facebook status about how everyone protesting is dumb and I hate conservatives."
An hour goes by like this. I remain mute. I feel severely dehydrated and am on the verge of a nicotine fit. My eyes hurt because I have stowed my glasses in my shirt pocket. Should I be glad-handing and coming up with a cover story about how I’m a Ph.D. student or something?
Finally, a woman comes up and says they’re going to let us in shortly. "Everyone have your GO cards?" This is the moment of truth. As we ascend the stairs, a man reminds us again to have our cards out. I flash mine and continue. I’m really surprised by the size and scope of the operation here. There are security guards and cops everywhere, far more than I’ve ever seen on this campus in one place.
At the doors, everything falls apart. "Excuse me, sir, do you have another ID?"
"No," I say, looking down at the expired piece of plastic with a picture of my friend, who, unlike me, has dark hair and a magnificent tan.
"OK, you’re gonna need to wait. I have some questions about this."
I’m screwed.
A woman comes out and asks me the same question.
"I’m sorry, I lost my newer one."
By the time she runs off to find another official, the line behind me is getting restless and the other security personnel are eyeing us all very closely.
I fess up.
"Look, I think this is a sick, Satanic event. I really wanted to cover it, but it’s closed to me. I tried. I’m leaving now."
"Thank you for your honesty, sir."
They escort me up, past the barricades and down the stairs again to the bottom of a hill, where I see a small group of protestors with pro-life signs. One of them is a priest. We talk for about a minute before I hear a voice behind me:
"Excuse me, sir, could I speak with you?"
It’s a Georgetown campus police officer. His voice sounds smug and vindictive.
"I’m a journalist here to cover the event."
"Who do you work for?"
"The Washington Free Beacon. Our office is right over there," I say pointing in the general direction of the river.
"I know where the Beacon office is."
This strikes me as supremely unlikely. He keeps it up, doing a bad impression of a movie cop trying to sweat out a suspect. I regret giving him my name, address, phone number, and expired Michigan driver’s license.
"Look, pal," I said, "I don’t have to answer your questions."
"You’re calling me ‘pal’ now?"
"You’re harassing me. I don’t have to answer your questions."
He knows I’m right and lets me leave.
I should have stayed with the bagpipe guys.