Nearly 30 years ago, dozens of members of the Fairfield High School Scarlett Brigade Marching Band protested me outside the Daily Republic building. With signs.
It was 1993, weeks before my second (and final) child was born. I learned there was a potential problem when I got call before heading into the newsroom to start my evening shift. I was told that I might want to come in a back way. The editor had heard from the Vallejo Times-Herald that the high school band was going to picket against me. It could be ugly.
What. Had. I. Done?
That's was my first thought: Me? Really?
A day or so earlier, it had been brought to my attention that some people in the band were mad at me because of a satirical column I'd written in the "Best of Solano" special section put out by the paper. The annual publication celebrated things and places that Daily Republic readers voted as their favorites. Best hamburger. Best park. Best winery. Best local sports team. Best shoe store.
Best local band.
My column was an attempt to add some levity by mocking some of the strange votes. For instance, The Liquor Barn got votes as best winery. A convenience store got votes for best sushi. And for best local band? Well, I stepped in it, unthinkingly.
I don't remember who won, but I'm forever scarred by the fact that I chose to make fun of two recipients of votes – thinking of how different they were: "The Scarlett Brigade Marching Band and Crotch Rot tied for third as best band," I wrote. "Shouldn't their votes be combined? Isn't Crotch Rot the nickname of the Scarlett Brigade brass section?"
Hah hah hah.
Ooops.
I wrote the column in February and probably published two dozen sports columns between then and when the column was published. The students in the band were livid, inspired by the band director. Someone made a copy of that paragraph and passed it around, fanning the flames.
Anyway, I arrived at work on the day in question and things were fine. Nothing going on.
At around 4:30 p.m., chattering started. Then others from the newspaper building came into the newsroom, giggling. "They're out there. They're protesting."
Sigh.
I got up from DOING MY JOB and walked over to the window. A few dozen kids with signs were marching. Signs that said I was evil. At least one said "Stanhope = Crotch Rot." (Which was reasonably clever, to be fair.)
Something had to be done.
However . . . I wasn't ready to go face what I perceived as an angry mob. Didn't they know I wrote it as a joke? That I had forgotten writing it? Didn't they recognize that there were a bunch of silly one-liners in the column?
Nope.
Eventually, a group of kids came in. I tried to explain satire. They said it wasn't funny. Neither of us would give in.
Eventually, they finished up and left. The newspaper printed one of those semi-apologies where you say you're sorry someone was offended. The hard feelings from some of the kids undoubtedly persisted. I moved on and largely forgot about it, except for occasionally telling it as a great newspaper war stories to new friends and colleagues.
Recently, a friend's son–now in his late 40s–told me about being part of the band. He was uncomfortable and may have expected me to be upset at him or to have negative memories.
I didn't. I told him the truth:
"That's a great story. It makes me seem way more important than I ever was."
Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.
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