When I re-entered the WBAI arena in
2009, I soon found myself huffing and puffing, dismayed to see so many people
abuse WBAI with impunity. I had seen the seeds sown many years earlier, but the
resulting crop was far worse than I could have imagined. It had, as it turned
out an ugly Monsanto quality about it, yet, it was a mixed crop, so I
maintained hope and lifted that green curtain. It was by no means an original
thing to do, but I sensed a hesitancy on the part of many who felt as I did
about what could best be described as a dummying down of WBAI. When attempts to
contact the station's management failed, I tried another approach and did my
best to point out what I saw as flagrant violations of Lewis Hill's original
concept and stressing the sheer folly of self-delusion.
It gave me some comfort to see that I
was not expressing the feelings of
a minority, but I soon discovered that few
who saw what was going on were willing to speak up directly. Thus, the voices
raised were mainly those of the
abusers, opportunists who saw, but tried to
obscure, the writing on the wall.
Several of these people went on the
defensive (anonymously, for the most
part), but the shortcomings that for too
many years had characterized their
work at WBAI now carried over to what well
could prove to be a not so gratifying climax. So they raised their flimsy
shields, pointed a chosen finger at
reality, and hurled epithets in the
direction of any light that shone on their
dark corners.
In the meantime, Berthold Reimers, the
latest squirt of enabling glue, was busy dodging listeners, running up bills, and tucking them away like so much listener e-mail, so many ignored phone
calls. This was one of WBAI management's secrets until a giggly Summer Reese
blew in from the
Coast and lifted the veil to reveal what gross negligence and
exemplary mismanagement hath wrought. Ms. Reese, Pacifica’s latest Interim Executive Director, was affable,
but if she perceived the
extent of the station manager's destructive
ineptitude, she chose not to act
on it.
Revealing the extent and urgency of
WBAI's financial problem was a bit of a bombshell to snug abusers. Suddenly,
that writing on the wall became clearer, so much so that even the most
delusional among them could now begin to make it out.
Out? The mere word had a chill to it,
but it was a taste of reality they had managed to overlook for many decades.
Action was called for and even the
most fossilized now stirred. Reimers
whimpered something about creating
"BAI buddies," but creditors were
not living in his dream world. They shouted
something about "a half
million dollars," and seemed in no mood to dilly-dally.
Reese's response was
WTF!
As in
WBAI Transmitter Fund.
There followed a flurry of anxious pitching, but it only staved off the
wolves temporarily. "Never mind," the turf-protecting abusers sighed,
when gullible listeners bought their hype and made pledges, "we can
breathe again." So, they went back to their routines, wheeled out Ifé and
her turntables (with help from Michael Gee-whiz Haskins) and hip hopped their
way to temporary
rented quarters at a college station. It was cramped, you had
to climb a steep
hill to get there, but it was Harlem—it was that imaginary
"community" they
so much wanted WBAI to represent.
Not everybody made that uptown trek. Oh, "Tom from the Bronx"
was on the
phone when they finally connected it, but he almost lived in the hood,
anyway.
Something,
however, was missing.....
The
listeners!
While all this clawing for turf, backstabbing, and stomping on the grave
of Pacifica founder Lewis Hill was escalating, the audience had quietly slipped
away...
...bamboozled
and bewildered.
