While working on a story for National Review about ten years ago, I called an old acquaintance for an interview. His secretary picked up and I gave her my name. When he came on the line, we chit-chatted about our families. Then I went into questioning. At some point — maybe five minutes into the conversation — he stopped talking. An awkward silence descended upon us. “Wait a second,” he said. “You’re that John Miller.”
This happens to me more often than you might imagine. Most people seem to know a John Miller or two: You might say that every Tom, Dick, and Harry has a John Miller for a friend. In the case of my acquaintance, he was thinking of a John Miller at the Department of State, a fellow who monitored human trafficking as an ambassador at large. I’ve never met the guy, but I’ve known about him for my entire professional life.
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