Sharp Elbows

They get me into places

I was disappointed when the fabric of my favorite sweater was so worn at the elbow, I could see skin. Wool. Soft and gray. It was a Prada, a welcomed castoff from a daughter who bought it at a consignment store. I found a way to mend it, which lasted several years before I told myself “no mas” and recycled it.

The Prada sweater is the second top that has suffered the same fate, which leads me to believe I have sharp elbows. Yes, when I touch them, only a thin sheath of flesh covers bone.

Not so good for clothes, like my prized Prada sweater, but a useful trait if you’re a journalist, as I was for oh-so-many years. Having sharp elbows served me better under those circumstances.

The term using sharp elbows sounds like a person forcing themselves into a situation. You know — get out of my way or you’ll get jabbed. I prefer to think a person will be tough when the situation warrants it.

To back up a little, I was definitely a shy girl when I was younger. I preferred to watch instead of act because I was unsure of myself. I lived a sheltered life. But I had to change when I became a reporter and realized being that way wasn’t going to get me the information I needed for a story.

When I was the hilltown reporter for the Daily Hampshire Gazette, so-called sharp elbows got me a private tour of a nuclear power plant that was on the verge of being shut down. They got me into meetings already pronounced closed. I recall walking through people’s backyards after a tornado hit a town in the Berkshires. I did interviews in prison. I even went to the White House.

There were times I knocked on doors, uncertain whether the person on the other side would let me in for an interview or give me a comment for a story. Or I would corner them at a meeting. Then there were those cold calls I made. My intent was to share all sides of a story. Sometimes the best I could do was to write the person “declined to comment” or “couldn’t be reached for comment.” But at least I tried.

By the way, I called those so-called deep breath phone calls. That’s when you take a deep breath before beginning the call.

In Taos, when I was the editor-in-chief of the newspaper there, I recall going to an event where then-Gov. Susana Martinez was speaking in a hotel’s hall. I wanted to interview her about issues that involved our community, so I asked the governor’s staff members for some time with her. The staff was doubtful, so I stood to the side in the hall as she spoke to the crowd. Guess what? The governor came over to talk. She answered all of my questions.

I left journalism for good three years ago. Now I write novels instead. What I learned as a reporter and editor was to have confidence in myself when I have a goal in mind. There’s no need to jab anybody with those sharp elbows of mine. Just speak up and be heard.

ABOUT THE PHOTO ABOVE: My late mother painted that genie on the cellar wall of my childhood home. People have asked about it after I mentioned it in a previous post. Voila! Here he is.