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Neighborhood Report

Democracy lesson gets bumpy

They drive more than five hours to Tallahassee intent on giving Ruskin residents a voice. Their bill was tabled for the year, but all was not lost.

By MELANIE HUBBARD
Published April 28, 2006

I've been telling my students all term that the research and writing skills they learn now can help them to be competent professionals and effective citizens. I tell them I'm a learner as well as a teacher.

Well, here goes - I get to put my money where my mouth is. I'm about to find out how our democracy works, because my friends and I in Ruskin have a bill before the Legislature and we testify before a House panel on Tuesday.

We gather at my house Monday afternoon, pick up another person north of Brandon, and we're on our way to Tallahassee, a more than five-hour trip. We talk strategy, analyze the legislative report, formulate answers, call our consultant.

The bill would give voters in Ruskin the chance to decide whether to become a municipality, the better to control growth.

Hillsborough County is against the whole idea (presumably because it would lose some tax base) and has five lobbyists chipping away at our legislators. Developers and landowners are also lobbying against the bill.

The county has threatened a 25 percent surcharge for services the town of Ruskin would contract with it, and the developers have gotten what we consider an amazingly high quote for the sheriff's services. The late-breaking numbers don't match the ones in our feasibility study. Now we're showing debt. We're screwed.

Driving north, Wade and I one-up each other with tales of the organ meats we have known until Mariella, our den mother, suggests music. Jazz, polka, anything. Well, I was having fun.

We're in Tally. I catch a cab to my friend Carrie's house in the Old Town section of the capital. The spare bedroom is gutted down to the dank-smelling dirt. It'll be the couch, and at 11 p.m. a couch will do just fine.

In the morning, I have to get to the Capitol. After phone calls, I'm to meet my counterparts in the House rotunda. We'll sample a hearing to get a feel for our own later in the day, we'll meet our legislators, we'll get some face time, we'll have lunch.

My hostess drives me in, and we can't help commenting on the symbolic significance of the tall skyscraper flanked by the two domed legislative branches. It's laughably phallic. We nearly die of laughter as she lets me off.

Our lobbyist and guide for the day, Denise Layne, has one speed: high. All business is conducted at a rapid walk down the halls of the House offices; strategy is quickly relayed as we wait for an elevator; legislators are given five-second pitches as they step to their next appointments.

We pass Hillsborough County's chief lobbyist on the way out of Tom Anderson's office; he's one of the legislators who will be hearing our testimony in a few hours. We go in.

As the former mayor of Dunedin, he's quite sympathetic and gets the sheriff issue right away. He hands us an off-the-cuff analysis of Dunedin's population and consequent sheriff's budget and concludes that our sheriff's quote is four times the usual rate.

As we rise and shake hands, I call him "Tom" and get a swift fist in my arm from Denise, plus a hairy eyeball. "I mean, Representative Anderson." My comrades wish they'd begun the morning with that meeting. While I was having my bucolic, Tallahassee-in-the-spring walk, they were getting pounded by some representatives dead set against the bill.

We regroup. There are five of us plus Denise, and we file quietly into a hearing to get a sense of the process we're about to go through. Eight or 10 legislators occupy a dais equipped with a long, curved desk, microphones and water. They have a quorum.

They hear testimony from each bill's legislative sponsor, take testimony from any and all parties involved (anyone may fill out a speaker card), hear questions from the legislative committee on the dais, take debate from those same members and vote in a tallied voice count.

The chairman maintains strict control, turning the various microphones on and off so that you can't be heard without being "recognized."

I'm impressed by the orderly process, by the sense that all sides are articulated, by the judicious killing of unfriendly amendments, and by the cordiality of back-room deals and last-minute fixes, which are apparently conducted out of the sunshine. Diplomacy, mutual trust, a sense of quid pro quo: The whole engine would grind to a halt without them. And yet. We're outgunned. Support for our bill has crumpled overnight.

We go to lunch in the House cafeteria. The walls have ears, and the county is right behind us. We whisper strategy, designate speakers and compose talking points over uncommonly good Southern home cooking. I will not be speaking, so I can relax. I'm body count, window dressing, Citizen X. Still, I spend too many minutes in the bathroom, according to Denise, getting my hair right, and now we have just 15. Which is plenty, I think to myself.

We enter and sit. We size up the opposition. They've been anonymous until now, but finally we can see who's who and assess what their probable interests are. We already know their arguments.

Finally our bill comes up and the chairman asks Rep. Ron Reagan, our bill's sponsor, to speak. Next, the chairman sifts through the cards and pulls one opponent, then another.

He calls the president of our committee, Wade Clark, to the mike and proposes to him that the panel "T.P." the bill. This doesn't mean "toilet paper," which it evokes - but it's close. This parliamentary maneuver "temporarily passes" on taking any action. Wade consults with Denise; yes, that'd be acceptable. None of us testify. It's over. "City plan for Ruskin fizzles," the next day's paper will say.

One of theirs comes over to shake the hand of one of ours. We all have to live with one another. We talk to reporters, photographers, the opposition's lawyers, our neighbors; we're still passionate about our cause, articulating it, cordially arguing, patiently putting together our case.

Denise pulls us aside in the parking garage. I am heartened by the things she says. Our bill was tabled, not killed. The members of the panel were supportive; we have friends we don't even know about. I feel light. I want to cry. Despite the setback, I have to have faith that democracy works. At least, that's what I want to tell my students: Participate. It works.

We aren't killing each other, for instance. We work it out. And though oppression may occur on one level, another level is available to correct it. And though money and interest stain and even pervert the process, I cannot help thinking that what is good and right does eventually emerge. Usually in some other country.

We all pile into the van. It won't start. It turns over and over. Denise stays until we figure out we've got the wrong key.

The long drive back is filled with talk. Stress, massage, wheelchair rugby, travel, Ben & Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, where to stop for dinner, life's cruxes, two fish joints, barbecue, Chinese, why don't we stop? I crawl into bed around 11, set to work the next day. I'm exhausted after 11 hours out of 30 on the road. I heard the opposition flew. I bet they got paid, too.

Melanie Hubbard teaches writing at the University of Tampa and lives on the Ruskin Inlet.

[Last modified April 27, 2006, 13:46:46]