Several years ago as a young PAO, I volunteered to help escort and support reporters during one of our higher headquarters’ big annual conferences, which included a multinational military capabilities demonstration in the middle of the city.
With a stable of reporters in tow, I led them across the demonstration’s area toward a bridge overlooking the bay, from which they would have clear shots of the grand finale, over the water.
One road in our way was roped off for use during the demonstration, and we were just about two minutes out from getting started. I laid down the rope and started leading the media straight across.
A local cop, rightfully doing his job, ran by to point out the road had been roped off, and we weren’t allowed to cross.
“Of course sir, thank you. We just need to get across this road and up the street before the demonstration starts, or these nice folks won’t be able to film the event. Now seems to be a safe time to cross, especially with you right by our side,” I responded respectfully.
“Well, you’re going to need permission from the person in charge of this demonstration before I can let you cross.”
“Oh … well, I’m in charge of this demonstration.”
” … really? You are?” he asked my 26-year-old self as bemused reporters listened in.
“Yes. Yeah, this is my demonstration. I’m in charge,” I insisted.
“…”
“…”
“Okay sir. Go ahead.”
(Photo by Master Sgt. Barry Loo, DVIDS)
