On Speaking Up.
Why one person’s voice really matters.
Hal Holbrook died this week.
A star of screen and stage, Hal was known around the world for his incredible body of work. His widest acclaim was on the stage, where, for over 60 years, he embodied Mark Twain in all his splendor and wit with a one-man show.
Twain is one of my favorite authors, and Holbrook’s portrayals were always so captivating to watch. But it was another character Hal played that really resonated with me, the first character I’d ever seen him play. Unknowingly to him, Hal was among the first persons who taught me about politics and the importance of one man speaking out for what’s right.
The year was 1976. I was nine years old.
My parents had taken our family to a drive-in movie in San Jose, California, to see a movie I knew nothing about and was certain I wouldn’t enjoy. Sleeping bag, pillow, and jammies in hand, I climbed in the back of our family station wagon and we were off to the theater.
At first, I paid little attention to the grainy video on the large projection screen. The tinny sound of the theater’s concession ad echoing through the die-cast metal speaker, hanging precariously from mom’s car window, certainly wasn’t the Dolby audio we‘re used to today. Then, “Bang! Bang! Bang!…”, the sound of typewriter keystrokes opened the movie — “J-u-n-e -1,-1-9-7-2”. My eyes were riveted to the screen.
It took me the better part of the first act to understand what I was watching. My parents helped fill-in the blanks. The character’s dialogue bored me at times, parental-style chatter to my then nine-year-old self. There was no real “action”, per se. No explosions. No superheroes. No cartoons. Just smoke-filled newsrooms, cheap suits, and an occasional dimly-lit parking garage. And one oft-repeated phrase I struggled to understand. “Deep throat.”
The movie was All the President’s Men, the Academy Award-winning story of the Watergate break-in that ultimately cost Richard Nixon his presidency. Holbrook played Mark Felt, the FBI special agent and shadowy patriot informant, who for decades was known only by the colorful pseudonym given him by Howard Simons, the then-managing editor of the Washington Post. By the time the movie ended I understood a good deal more about American politics than I knew before its opening scene.
Holbrook’s character, Felt’s Deep Throat, took incredible personal risks to expose crimes and corruption occurring inside the Justice Department and the Nixon white house. His bravery, and the Pulitzer Prize-winning reporting of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, introduced me to the ever-important phrase, “follow the money”.
Fast-forward 45 years and we find ourselves in a similar place today. A country, and a political party, struggling to survive its leader’s malfeasance. Like life, imitating art, imitating life, we’ve all come full circle.
I remember how Holbrook’s portrayal of Felt, a law enforcement officer willing to stand up and do the right thing, moved me even then. Do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do — even when others wont.
I chose to go into the law enforcement field when I was 20 years old. I wore a badge and uniform for 30 years before leaving the field in 2017. In that time I constantly tried to do “right things”. Was I perfect? No. But I always gave it my best shot. When I wore the badge I always treated people, from the homeless to the judges in courtrooms, with equal amounts of respect.
Guns to me were always a weapon of last resort, tools I trained with regularly but hoped I’d never actually have to use. I succeeded in that arena. My only shootings were at targets on the police range during my regular qualifications. I had other weapons, too — batons, pepper sprays, and the like — but the greatest weapon I had, one I used daily to fend off the most dangerous of criminals, were my words.
I stand six-foot two inches tall on my bare feet, and nearly 6'–4" in my police boots. When I was a younger, less seasoned officer, I was closer to 6'–5". Not too tall, but just tall enough. Tall enough to make a bad guy, or gal, think for a moment that perhaps they wouldn’t come out ahead should they choose to tussle with me. My height and stature helped me avoid the most potentially dangerous conflicts. My words helped me avoid the rest.
I used my words, and the tone of my voice, to calm people. I treated them with respect. I showed empathy for those who were struggling. I taught others how to do the same things. I’m happy to have heard more “thank you’s” from suspects I’d booked into jail than I can count. I knew I’d done right when I heard those words, and I tried hard to hear them often.
Even today, some four years after retiring from law enforcement, I still find myself looking out for, and trying to help, others on a regular basis. It’s just a part of who I am today. I owe a lot of that to my great parents, who taught me manners, respect, and discipline. To great police chiefs I worked for, who honored their professions and the citizens they served.
And I owe a lot of those “speaking ups” and “right things” to Hal’s portrayal of Mark Felt.
Rest in peace.
