Update [2006-10-1 4:46:54 by Coolwateroverstones]:
Some readers questioned the veracity of this diary when it originally posted because it did not have an external link to the print-published story. A different version of this story was published in _The Smyth County News & Messenger_ on Wednesday, Sept. 27, 2006, Page A4, below the fold, under the headline, "Different ways for different people." I wrote the story as a freelance Guest Columnist.
Please follow UPDATE below the fold ...
I formerly worked as a staff reporter for this newspaper, beginning in 1995.
The powers that be did not publish the Allen Spit story to the newspaper's website (please see link at tail of diary). The prevailing SCN&M philosophy is to post _some_ newspaper content, but preserve enough material to encourage people to buy the actual paper.
The Smyth County News & Messenger publishes Wednesdays and Saturdays with a circulation of approximately 7,000. SCN&M is a Media General publication. Any Media General news outlet can pick up the column I wrote, via the corporation's news/article sharing system. If you would like to see the story printed in your local or regional Media General publication, you can contact the editor and tell him/her where and when the column published, and the print headline.
Among MG's metropolitan newspapers are The Richmond Times-Dispatch, The Winston-Salem (N.C.) Journal, and The Tampa Tribune. To find a Media General newspaper in your neighborhood, please see:
[http://mediageneral.com/properties/index.htm]
I submit this update for those who were hesitant to accept it as truth when it was nothing but one person's account. After the diary posted, other people found similar accounts of Mr. Allen's habit of spitting at women in public while executing the duties of his elected office.
*End Update*
*Original diary follows*
My husband claims he owes George Allen a good ass whipping. My beloved does not randomly pick fights; he is a Southern gentleman, born in Alabama, bless his heart. But he has held off on this ass whipping because I have carried an ugly secret for many years.
The governor of Virginia spit at me.
No, not the governor we have right now. I haven't met Mr. Kaine yet. It wasn't the governor before him, either. Mark Warner was always polite to me. He answered my questions straight up, no dodges and no excuses. I liked the way he never made me feel stupid; he was patient and direct. I would have been proud to take him home for dinner with my whole family.
About 10 years ago, I started working as a reporter for a small newspaper in Southwest Virginia. My grandmother was so proud of me. She said I would get to learn about people through my new job.
"Different people have different ways," she said. "You will never know a person until you walk a mile in his shoes."
Even governors are people. They wear shoes, too.
Governor George Felix Allen wore cowboy boots. He was the first governor I had ever met. I have to say, I was excited to have the opportunity. I was nervous, too. At heart, I'm not much more than a shy, small-town girl. Since it was my first time meeting a governor, I remember all the details. It was a Special Day in my life.
Mr. Allen visited our town to announce a major contract for the local defense plant. I was there because my editor had sent me. My job was to listen as the governor bragged on the fine workers of Southwest Virginia who built airplane parts and rocket parts and such. I had until 3 p.m. to write it up so everybody could read about how the governor had helped secure important jobs.
It was a lovely, sunny day. The defense plant workers stood like a platoon of soldiers, waiting for the governor to arrive. I stood near them, holding a pen and a notepad.
Governor Allen rode up in a big recreational vehicle. He looked so tall as he came out of the house-on-wheels. He was wearing a nice suit and his hair was neatly combed. He smiled and worked his way into the platoon of defense workers, who seemed to be all men. I looked around and realized I was the only female standing on the pavement in the sunshine. How about that?
I listened to what the governor was saying. My editor had told me Mr. Allen would talk about jobs and how wonderful this new defense contract was. I listened carefully, but the governor did not say a word about jobs. Instead, he made a few jokes with the workers, then he pulled a small, flat can from his jacket pocket. He asked if anybody else "dipped." One of the workers said yes, he dipped, but not the same brand, and all the men laughed.
Mr. Allen used his fingers to pinch out a clump of the finely chopped tobacco; he mashed it into his mouth and grinned, licking his lips. His bottom lip pooched out where he had lodged the tobacco. The other men chuckled like they were having a grand time.
Then the governor walked toward a building with some men who were not part of the platoon of workers. These other men were clearly Important; they wore suits. One of the suits had already told me I was not allowed to go into the building because a defense plant has Secrets.
I followed along as the governor walked, waiting to hear him say something about jobs. The situation began to look as if I would have to return to the newspaper office without hearing him say anything about "our fine workers." I didn't understand; I had to ask a question.
I stepped near the governor and smiled, told him my name and that I wrote for the local newspaper. Then I asked him a softball question, what some reporters call a "set-up."
"Does Southwest Virginia need these jobs?" I asked.
He stopped and looked straight at me. He had to look down at me, because he stood so tall in those cowboy boots. I thought I spotted a twinkle in his eye, and for a moment, I suspected he might give a humorous, light-hearted answer. Then he leaned forward and looked all the way down at the pavement. I figured he was planning a perfectly crafted answer to my question. I put pen to paper, ready to take it down. His lips puckered as if he might speak.
Then, the Governor of the Commonwealth of Virginia gathered up a glob of tobacco-laced saliva. He used his lips to squirt it out, as if he had practiced. The spit landed just at the tip of my shoe. He grinned, but didn't say a word. Then he walked into the building.
I never told my grandmother about the governor spitting at my shoe.
She's from the South and would have said any man who spit in front of a woman had bad manners. She would have said he was rude to not speak to me after I had introduced myself politely. She would have said he was foolish to brush off someone who could vote for him.
Writing for a newspaper has let me talk to all kinds of people. Most of them have been solid, honest, hardworking citizens. But I have been close enough to murderers to smell their body odors and count their freckles. I have looked into the eyes of rapists, burglars, cheaters, people who started fires, wrecked cars and trucks - even people who molested little kids.
Not one of them spit at me.
The only person who did is a millionaire with an RV and a nice suit who says he wants to be President of the United States one day. I'm not sure if I know what to think about that.
I wrote a slightly different version of this tale for publication in the op/ed section of a small Virginia paper called the Smyth County News & Messenger [http://www.smythnews.com].
I thought people here might enjoy the story, too.