Actividades Misteriosos

Last Friday, I told Tom Burke “the story.”

-         It all began in 2^nd grade when my grandmother trained me to deliver the “Mustard Seed Sermon.”

-         On my 15^th birthday, Renee Gaters hired me to work in her law office.

-         Life went into overdrive after I stopped by then-Rep. Mark Sanford’s office to see if he was willing to hire a high school intern.  His receptionist gently suggested that I instead apply to be a Page.

Bottom Line:  The reason why I’m a politically-obsessed lawyer is because of all of the above.  My vocations and passions aren’t popular, but I am who I am and try my best to do right. And outside of my profession, I’d like to think that I’m a better person because of – among other blessings – my grandmother, Ms. Gaters, and having served as a Page.

In the days since I shared those memories, I learned that the most pivotal experience of my life, the United States House of Representatives Page Program, has been discontinued.  I’m despondent.  But I understand the decision.  After 200 years of technological advances and changes in the character of Congress, employing a select cadre of 16-year-old messengers is simply redundant, cost-prohibitive, and difficult to justify in today’s political environment.  Few things last forever.

Before August of 1996, I never before visited Washington, DC.  By June of 1997, I had stood 10 yards away from the President of the United States as he delivered the State of the Union address.  My family saw me on TV.  My mother cried and praised God.

As House Pages, we attended school in the attic of the Thomas Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress, one of the most ornate and beautiful buildings in the world.  Classes and assemblies were often distracted by unobstructed views of the sun rising over the entirety of the nation’s capital, brilliantly reflecting from the limestone, granite, and marble of memorials, monuments, and museums.  Our coveted floor privileges became mundane.  One day we’d watch a world leader address Congress or attend the Inauguration, the next we’d stroll over to the Senate and show off John Kennedy’s desk. We’d often count down the minutes to school being cancelled because another impassioned House debate stretched well into the night. I often had the glorious honor to stand on the roof of the Capitol and hoist up the American flag (signifying whether the House is in session), which was an especially stunning experience on a windy night. What a life.

But we were also 16-year-old kids from all over the country living in a dorm; kids who became friends, best friends, some lovers, others eventually spouses.  We roamed Metro stops and universities, sipped alcohol and skirted curfew.  There was a prom… in the Ways and Means Committee Room.

Sure, it was distressingly non-egalitarian to permit less than 100 high school juniors to roam the halls of Congress.  But that’s easy for me to say now because I was one of the lucky few.  The elimination of the Page Program won’t eliminate life-changing experiences for wide-eyed kids, those events so unreal that one wonders if they ever really happened.  That’s why us former Pages can’t help but be sad that no one – even a small few – will ever again do what we did.  But it all happened, it was real, I did it and I’m forever grateful.