something you’d see in one of those glossy, four-color food magazines. They were delicious too. I was wiping the crumbs off my shirt when Julie emerged from her daughter’s bedroom.
“She’s finally asleep, thank God,” she said. “This is a lot for a five-year-old to take.” She sat in a cracked leather armchair facing the camera and gave a wry smile. “I guess I’m ready for my second fifteen minutes now. Maybe I’ll even get my own reality show. We’ll call it ‘Making It and Losing It in America.’” Her eyes welled up and she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I guess this is a lot for a thirty-five-year-old single mom to take too.”
It’s times like this that make me doubt my chosen profession. Julie Teichner wasn’t a publicity hound or a celebrity. She didn’t seek out the media spotlight but it was trained on her anyway. And here I was, shining that blinding light again, taking her pain and turning it into a product for all the world to consume. But how else would the world know? The real stories of real people are the only things that matter. Everything else is just filigree. Or so I choose to believe.
I swallowed my ambivalence and turned on the camera.
“Tell me about life since the video,” I said, just to get her comfortable talking to the camera.
“It was sort of fun at first,” she said, smiling wistfully at the memory. “Seeing myself on TV. People would stop me in stores, in line at the bank, walking down the street, and say they appreciated what I did, that it gave them a little hope. I had five thousand new friends on my Facebook page. Megan kind of enjoyed it too. The kids at school would say, ‘I saw your mom on TV,’ and she’d feel really proud. That lasted a couple of weeks.”
Her smile faded. The memories weren’t so good now.
“Then it all changed. Someone found out my phone number and address and email and posted them on one of those hateful anti-every-thing websites. I was just. . . overwhelmed. Phone calls, emails, even letters. Thousands of them. And the things people said! Terrible things, ugly things. People would yell at me from their cars, throw trash in my yard. It was like we were criminals. I changed my phone number and email address, started picking up my mail at the post office, closed my Facebook page. I had to call the police twice because people were stalking me. I was afraid for me but even more for Megan.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “I never asked for any of this,” she said haltingly. “I never wanted to be a celebrity or a symbol or a spokesman for anything. All I wanted was a good home, to be a good wife and mother. Now I don’t know if I’m good at anything.”
I moved to turn off the camera but she stopped me.
“I’m sorry, Josh,” she said. “I get a little emotional sometimes.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
“It’s okay, Julie. Really. You want to stop? Pick it up tomorrow? Or not at all.”
She shook her head. “I’m alright. Ask your questions.”
“Where do you go from here?” I asked gently. “Physically. Emotionally.”
“I’m don’t know,” she said. “This is my home. My parents are here, my friends are here. Megan’s school and friends are here. But I don’t know if we can stay. My sister lives in San Diego and we’ve talked about my moving there and the two of us opening a little bakery.”
I would have bought stock in it right then. “You made those cookies?” I said. “They look like they came from some fancy restaurant. Delicious too.”
Julie smiled shyly. “I’m a pretty good baker, I think. John always used to say that. And I’d always sell out at school fundraisers. To leave all this and move across the country. . . I just don’t know.”
“How is Megan taking things? Have you talked with her about—”
A soft tapping at the front door made me stop. Not loud but insistent. Who knocks on
“She’s finally asleep, thank God,” she said. “This is a lot for a five-year-old to take.” She sat in a cracked leather armchair facing the camera and gave a wry smile. “I guess I’m ready for my second fifteen minutes now. Maybe I’ll even get my own reality show. We’ll call it ‘Making It and Losing It in America.’” Her eyes welled up and she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I guess this is a lot for a thirty-five-year-old single mom to take too.”
It’s times like this that make me doubt my chosen profession. Julie Teichner wasn’t a publicity hound or a celebrity. She didn’t seek out the media spotlight but it was trained on her anyway. And here I was, shining that blinding light again, taking her pain and turning it into a product for all the world to consume. But how else would the world know? The real stories of real people are the only things that matter. Everything else is just filigree. Or so I choose to believe.
I swallowed my ambivalence and turned on the camera.
“Tell me about life since the video,” I said, just to get her comfortable talking to the camera.
“It was sort of fun at first,” she said, smiling wistfully at the memory. “Seeing myself on TV. People would stop me in stores, in line at the bank, walking down the street, and say they appreciated what I did, that it gave them a little hope. I had five thousand new friends on my Facebook page. Megan kind of enjoyed it too. The kids at school would say, ‘I saw your mom on TV,’ and she’d feel really proud. That lasted a couple of weeks.”
Her smile faded. The memories weren’t so good now.
“Then it all changed. Someone found out my phone number and address and email and posted them on one of those hateful anti-every-thing websites. I was just. . . overwhelmed. Phone calls, emails, even letters. Thousands of them. And the things people said! Terrible things, ugly things. People would yell at me from their cars, throw trash in my yard. It was like we were criminals. I changed my phone number and email address, started picking up my mail at the post office, closed my Facebook page. I had to call the police twice because people were stalking me. I was afraid for me but even more for Megan.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “I never asked for any of this,” she said haltingly. “I never wanted to be a celebrity or a symbol or a spokesman for anything. All I wanted was a good home, to be a good wife and mother. Now I don’t know if I’m good at anything.”
I moved to turn off the camera but she stopped me.
“I’m sorry, Josh,” she said. “I get a little emotional sometimes.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
“It’s okay, Julie. Really. You want to stop? Pick it up tomorrow? Or not at all.”
She shook her head. “I’m alright. Ask your questions.”
“Where do you go from here?” I asked gently. “Physically. Emotionally.”
“I’m don’t know,” she said. “This is my home. My parents are here, my friends are here. Megan’s school and friends are here. But I don’t know if we can stay. My sister lives in San Diego and we’ve talked about my moving there and the two of us opening a little bakery.”
I would have bought stock in it right then. “You made those cookies?” I said. “They look like they came from some fancy restaurant. Delicious too.”
Julie smiled shyly. “I’m a pretty good baker, I think. John always used to say that. And I’d always sell out at school fundraisers. To leave all this and move across the country. . . I just don’t know.”
“How is Megan taking things? Have you talked with her about—”
A soft tapping at the front door made me stop. Not loud but insistent. Who knocks on
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