The Passing of a Local: Gwen Ifill

November 2016. It’s been a shitty month on top of an even shittier year. The deaths of Leonard Cohen and Leon Russell. And, on top of an election where reason was in short supply, last week PBS journalist Gwen Ifill, a voice of that reason, died at 61.

Yesterday morning, as I was reading The Washington Post, I turned the page to the obits, and there was Ifill’s paid death announcement. It was no different than the others on that page. But I was surprised. You don’t see many notables in this part of the paper. Most politicos have no roots in this town. These death announcements are to let friends and relatives of the deceased know they died and inform them of funeral arrangements. Ifill’s death generated lots of attention in written obituaries and on social media. We all knew she had died. So why this notice?

I often read these. People who were too young or very old often attract my attention. But hers stood out for another reason. Washington, while home to hundreds of thousands, is a transitory city. Administrations come and go, and along with them, their political appointees, families, and others are moving in and out of power. When George Bush came to the White House, suddenly there were people wearing cowboy hats and boots all over the city. When he left, they left too. Only locals are found in this section of the newspaper. But Ifill wasn’t from here. She was born in Queens and lived in various places on the East Coast because of her father’s ministry with the African Methodist Episcopal Church (AME). So why was her death posted by her family in this section of the paper?

Growing up in Los Angeles, I often spotted actors wherever I went. During grad school I waited on Bobby Darin and Charles Bronson while working at the May Company. And like any good Angeleno, I totally ignored their stardom. When Darin paid for his Kodak film with a check, I knew who he was but asked to see his driver’s license anyway. Now living in D.C., I often run into politicians. Or more specifically, they run into me. In the early 1990s, while attending a meeting at the Capitol, Ted Kennedy bumped into me on the conference committee room floor. (He apologized.) On the street in front of my office, Steney Hoyer, a Maryland Congressman and the House Minority Whip, bumped into me after another pedestrian shook his hand. He, too, apologized. A few weeks back, I saw former Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright, driving her gray Mercedes with her head barely above the steering wheel, turn the corner of 12th and G Streets. Nobody seemed to notice but me. And then there was the time I almost told former Bush Attorney General John Ashcroft what I thought of his Patriot Act as we met on Pennsylvania Avenue in front of what is now, ironically, the Trump International Hotel.

I often encounter these political celebrities, but always at a distance, metaphorically, if not physically. Yet, Gwen Ifill’s obituary announcement made me feel like I knew her: like she was a local and I was a local reading of her passing in my hometown newspaper. Her friends and family wanted us to share in their grief and celebration of her life here, in Washington, where she lived and worked. Their announcement was an uncommon invitation in this city ruled by transients just passing through every four years.

Thanks for inviting me. I fear it’s going to get a lot less friendly around here.