LOGAN JOHNS

I knew it was going to be rough the moment I stepped off the Metro.

A fresh Howard University press badge hanging from my neck, mic in hand, I was ready. Proud. A Howard man with dreams of going full Roland Martin on inauguration day. This was supposed to be my big break. Instead, I walked into a crowd that looked at me like I was lost, or worse, a spy.

Everywhere I turned, rejection. I asked politely for interviews. I was professional, respectful, on point. The responses? Brutal. One guy hit me with a “no English,” while wearing an American flag jacket that basically screamed “Born in Omaha.” Another lady in full-on red, white, and blue clutched her pearls like I was about to snatch her purse and her voting rights.

It became clear: I was not who they expected to be holding the mic. The vibe was hostile-lite. Nobody wanted to talk to the young Black man from Howard.

Hours went by. My feet were throbbing. My camera operator, aka my girlfriend, also a broadcast journalism major, looked like she was about to file for hardship withdrawal. We had nothing.

And then came the turning point. Like a sign from the universe, or maybe just capitalism,  I spotted it: a street vendor selling Trump hats.
 

$12. Red. Iconic. Terrifying.

I stood there with my girlfriend, debating. Did I want to buy this hat? Absolutely not. But did I want to go back to my professor with zero interviews? Definitely not. So, reluctantly, I pulled out twelve bucks and slipped that hat on like I was pledging Delta Tau MAGA.

The change? Instant.

Suddenly, I wasn’t invisible. I was invited. “Young man, come talk to us!” “Get my good side!” “We need more patriots like you!” Before noon, I’d been offered a beer and more disturbingly, validation.

With the hat on, people opened up fast. Sometimes a little too much.

Howard University students Khariss Bender and Joshua Taylor and I approached a man who turned out to be a teacher. He proudly said he supported Trump because he believed eliminating the U.S. Department of Education would somehow give teachers more money. When we asked him to explain that logic, he clammed up and walked away.

Next, we approached a group of white women Trump supporters who taught us a lesson. Smiling warmly, they said, “You people are going to get a lot of money from Trump. HBCUs are gonna love him.” 

“You people.” Nice.

By the end of the day, though, my notebook was full and the mission was accomplished. As I rode back to campus on the Metro, I couldn’t stop laughing. One cheap hat had changed everything. Without it, I was invisible. With it, I was everybody’s best friend.

Back at Howard, when my friends asked why I had the hat, I kept it real: “Sometimes, you have to play the game to get the story.”

That $12 hat now sits in my desk drawer, a reminder that reporting isn’t always glamorous. Sometimes, it means blending in with the crow, even when that crowd thinks you’re one of them.

Sad? Yes.

Funny? Oh, without a doubt.