Blame Game

As the oldest of four girls, I heard the question, “Who did this?”, a lot. “Where did that come from?” ran a close second, but never knocked “Who did this?” out of first place.

The question, of course, always led to pointing fingers and defensive whines. The words “…but she…” were thrown around quite a bit. I’m not saying those fingers were usually pointed at me…but my mother would.

Fast forward lots of years. It’s the late 80’s. MTV still played music videos and John Bradshaw was the darling of public television. Mr. Bradshaw wrote a book called “Healing The Shame That Binds You”, among others. He was featured prominently during pledge week. At the time, I was hoarding quarters in hopes of collecting enough to buy a box of Hamburger Helper, but I often dreamed of pledging and, when I did, I determined to do the magnanimous thing. I’d tell them to keep their silly old umbrella.

Bradshaw fascinated me for a number of reasons. He was good looking for one. And he had a great voice; a voice a father would have if you had that kind of father. You know the kind; the kind whose lap was yours for the taking, the kind that listened, the kind that comforted.

No, I didn’t have that kind either.

The thing I remember most when thinking of John Bradshaw, besides his delicious shock of salt and pepper hair, is the mobile. That’s what sucked me in, really; it was a simple thing. It might even have been made from a clothes hanger. Family members, represented by shapes cut from shiny paper, dangled from it. Bradshaw used the mobile to demonstrate that instability in one family member threw everyone else off balance. With a flick of his finger, he’d send one paper doll spinning. The rest followed suit in a crazy chaotic dance that demonstrated it didn’t matter who jumped first; in the end they were all hopelessly tangled up in their own strings.

Everyone loves a good whodunit…Who was the last one here? Who took the last paper towel? Who left the seat up? Who spilled the tea? Who moved the remote control? Who left the window down? And the classic…who let the dogs out?

Our society’s obsession with blame is the main reason I no longer talk politics. It’s impossible to make a comment, no matter how innocuous, without someone borrowing from my sisters and I; “But, he…”, “But, she….”, “But, they…” And we all know what happens next.

Mom gets the switch.

She never seemed to notice, but I did. Nothing good ever came from getting a switch. Despite her admonitions to the contrary, there was always lots of crying and, afterwards, Mom was red-faced and sweaty. We didn’t stop doing what she didn’t want us to do, we just did it better, more quietly, and with a heightened sense of accomplishment.

As the rare liberal living and working in a red sea of Bible-based Republicans, I’ve kept my head down since the partial government shut-down. (Even typing those words feels ridiculous…but I digress.) You can hear better with your head down, and what I hear is a lot of blaming. The paper dolls are dancing, and everyone is so busy pointing out who jumped first that no one noticed Mom going for the switch.

Maybe Ken Fisher watched John Bradshaw too. Fisher is the chairman of the Fisher House Foundation. On Wednesday, Fisher House committed to providing death benefits and transportation to family members of soldiers killed in the line of duty. Ken Fisher didn’t ask “who”. He kept his fingers to himself and, instead of muddying the waters with feckless accusations; he provided a solution to a problem caused by lesser men with bigger titles and lots to lose.

You can learn more about Fisher House Foundation here: http://www.fisherhouse.org/

Photo credit: http://www.diabetesmine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/pointing-finger.jpg

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell…Osama-style

It was a Tuesday.

I had already worked long enough to induce desperate glances at the clock in hopes that it would soon be time for lunch.

My desk phone rang.

Ann calling to say she’d be late wasn’t unusual. The frantic tone in her voice was. It took several minutes and many incomplete sentences, for me to realize something truly terrible had happened.

The need to call my husband was visceral, not so much to relay the news as to hear his voice.

I would have given anything to call my son. I fought the urge to pick him up at school, take him home, lock the doors, and hold him…forever.

It was Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

The world had just tilted on its axis.

I shared the small amount of information I had gleaned from Ann with my husband who, in turn, filled in with what he’d heard on the radio. As he spoke, images of other recent acts of terrorism flashed across my brain. When he finished I said, “It was Bin Laden. I know it was. He’s the only one smart enough, evil enough. This has his fingerprints all over it.” And, it did.

I felt a sense of triumph when the Bush administration announced American troops had entered Afghanistan in search of Bin Laden…until they didn’t. The subterfuge began. Personal agendas superseded national security, and suddenly Sadam Hussein was painted as the new face of the Taliban.

And they believed.

People I know to be intelligent, successful people, learned people, people who contribute to their communities, people who knew better, believed. Even now, as I attempt to write about it, nausea threatens and a whirring begins inside my head. Everything about that time defied reason. Everything.

It took decades for me to learn not to worry about things over which I have no control. The lesson came in handy as I read a memo, circulated by two vice-presidents of our company, forbidding negative commentary about the Bush administration and/or its policies. The directive was, of course, couched in language less than direct, but the message was clear. I turned off the television. I removed NPR from the pre-sets on my car stereo. I pushed the newspaper out of the way when I sat down to eat lunch. I dropped out.

To be honest, I haven’t given much thought to Osama Bin Laden. Oh, I paid attention when he released videos. Well, they said he released them, I was never quite sure.

At one point, I heard he had kidney disease. Soon after that, I began to imagine him dead. It was a coping mechanism, I’m sure, and goes a long way towards explaining my shock upon hearing he really was.

But, not really.

The shock came with the words, President Obama’s words, “Tonight, I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden…”

It was the word “killed”.

Inside my head, the sentence compressed, and I heard “…the United States killed Osama bin Laden…”. Even now, I get stuck on the word “killed”. Perhaps his speechwriters could have chosen more carefully?

“Killed” is raw. “Killed” is brutal. “Killed” is harsh, and cold, and violent. On “24”, Jack Bauer might have used the word “marginalized”. That’s a good word…

I’m not comfortable with killing. I don’t kill bugs. Okay, I’ll kill a cockroach. But that’s it. Well, and a bee, but only if he’s expressed an intent to get me first.

And then, there’s the other side, the side that says, “We created him, and now we’ve destroyed him.”. I can see justice in that.

I go in late on Mondays. By the time I get to the office, everyone else has been there for hours. Even so, I thought someone would say something. When Joe Biden commits a verbal gaffe (which is, admittedly, almost every time he appears in public) the talk is incessant.

No one said a word.

I breached the office door of the only other non-dyed-in-the-wool-republican in the building and asked, “Have they talked about it at all?”. He shook his newly hairless, Carvillesque dome from side to side while wearing a look of reluctant resignation.

Sometime around ten yesterday morning, I felt relief. By noon I was ready to admit it. An older woman, the mother of one of the memo-writing vice-presidents, finally tossed it out there just before she left for the day.

“What do you think about our troops killing Bin Laden?”, she asked, loudly, as she reached for her $400.00 handbag with one hand while flipping the light switch with the other.

An officemate who had recently declared her intent to vote for Donald Trump in 2012 spoke first. For the first time in a long time, she was proud to be American. (Cue the fireworks…has anyone seen Lee Greenwood?)

I admitted feeling relief in knowing Bin Laden was gone.

No one else said a word.

>Party Pooper

Until recently, I’d never thought of people in terms of political affiliation. Of course, ten years ago, “recently” meant last week. Now, “recently” refers to any occurrence still present in my short-term memory bank. That happened about the same time I came to think of the wraith-thin, long-haired, twenty-five-year-old in my office as a kid.

I changed jobs ten years ago. I spent the first day on my new job alone in the boardroom, in a leather chair, pushed up to a massive, gleaming, cherry table. Heat from my hands left a steamy outline on its surface, a way to pass time between tests. There were aptitude tests, and intelligence tests. My favorite was the personality test. Every question read like a trick question. By the time I had filled in one circle on every line of the answer sheet, I felt sure I would be declared certifiably insane.

Apparently, at least one of my answers gave away more than my IQ. From day one, I’ve been labeled “The Token Democrat”

I don’t like labels. I don’t like labels even more than I don’t like being told what to do. And, I really don’t like being told what to do. My tendency in both cases is to prove the opposite of the assumption, giving little or no thought to my own best interests. In other words, even if I had thought of myself as a Democrat, I certainly wouldn’t own up to it. But, the truth is, I didn’t.

The truth is, I rarely give a thought to politics at any time other than a few weeks before an election, at which time I dutifully research the candidates, read the amendments, and stand in line with the other five percent of the population who give a damn. Actually, five percent might be ambitious. Some voters appear just a little too pleased to see “Fred” or “Ethyl” behind the folding table passing out pencils they might have pilfered from Yahtzee. And, apparently, it’s not possible to hand out forms and pencils while reciting what amounts to two years worth of Christmas letters.

I work with CPAs, real estate investors, and mortgage brokers, self-proclaimed Republicans all…until recently. A couple of weeks ago a real “maaaverick” of a woman attended a Sarah Palin rally and henceforth refers to herself as a Libertarian. Her penchant for shoes rivals mine. She’s sure to have at least one pair that will compliment a tri-cornered hat.

On Wednesday, a memo circulated about the office, detailing changes prompted by our ever-weakening economy. This led to a discussion that, as it seems most do, turned political.

“It’s the same way Clinton was elected.” The speaker’s expensively sheathed legs stretched as he leaned against the corner of my cubicle. “The economy went south under Reagan, and Clinton was elected. The economy went south under Bush, and Obama was elected. No matter who the Democratic candidate had been, he’d have been elected.”

“Those darned Republicans…”, I murmured, aiming a coy smile in his direction.

“Hey, Stacye!”, the Sarah Palin supporter called over the unfortunately-colored, burlap-covered wall separating our PCs. “Why’d Barack change his name?”

I hesitated, looking to the leaner for enlightenment. He answered with a half smile and raised eyebrows. We both waited.

“Before he was elected he was Barry. Now all the sudden he’s Barack!” She’d obviously taken notes.

“It’s a nickname.” I failed in keeping derision from my voice. I don’t set out to defend Democratic positions. It’s just that I abhor inanity.

“Well you know…”, the leaner’s voice got louder as he straightened. Throwing both arms wide, he finished. “It’s like a lot of people who come to this country from somewhere else. They adopt an American name!”

A local radio station plays the sound of crickets when someone says something stupid. I heard them then. There was no other sound until I spoke…softly.

“You know he’s American, right? Barack Obama was born in America. You know that… right?”

Relief washed over me as fast as color filled his face.

“Yeah…”, he shuffled his Italian leather loafers. “Yeah, of course, I knew that…” He turned towards his office.

“It was a Freudian slip!”, he called over his shoulder, composure already regained.

The latest issue of New Yorker magazine contains an article by Jane Mayer in which she depicts Koch Industries, and specifically David and Charles Koch, as the Mad Hatter. Its tea time and Alice is drinking the Kool-Aid.

The Koch brothers might be described as fundamentalist Libertarians, a doctrine borne out of their father’s fervent anti-communist stance. Koch Senior made a fortune in Russian oil until Stalin kicked him out. Following in their father’s footsteps, David and Charles preached “No Government” while Koch Industry oil refineries raked in millions in subsidies mandated under George W. Bush.

I listen as my newly minted Libertarian office-mate encourages her friend to apply for a “handicap sticker”.

The disillusionment I feel in Barack Obama can not be overstated. I miss the prosperity we enjoyed under Bill Clinton. But, I know he wasn’t entirely responsible. I am one of the few Georgians I know, including my Republican friends, who continue to support our Republican governor. John Linder was my congressman. We emailed, back and forth, often. His idea for a Fair Tax was appealing if somewhat unrealistic, as presented.

I’m not a Democrat. I’m not a Republican. I’ve a sudden aversion to tea.

I’m a woman. I’m a Mom. And. as any mother knows, not necessarily in that order.

Ask any Mom.

We just want what’s best for our babies.

More Than A Calendar Change

I have a thing for calendars….

Every year, around this time, I struggle with which ones to hang, and which to donate to the “extra calendar pile” at the office.

It seems every charitable organization, to which I donate, sends me a calendar. Many of these, especially the ones portraying animals, are hard to resist. One year I didn’t. I hung five different calendars around my office, so that no matter which wall you faced, you were met by a furry visage, or a magnificent vista.

Last year, during a post-Christmas shopping trip, I stumbled upon a kiosk of interesting calendars in a local hobby store. I left with one for my son, featuring unusual, black and white photography, and one for me, decorated in a colorful, quilted pattern. I was enticed by the pocket at the bottom of each page, and the large, pastel-hued butterfly that adorned it. Each month was marked in a different color scheme; one more beautiful than the next. I really enjoyed that calendar.

During a spate of time, since 2004, really, when there didn’t seem to be much to look forward to, my calendars filled a New Year’s void.

The shock of that election changed me. My television went dark, and my radio presets changed. NPR could no longer be trusted. I shut off every media outlet that might remind me of America’s folly. I adopted a mindset of entrenchment. And, if ignorance wasn’t exactly bliss, it was definitely preferable to the panic, and utter embarrassment, which set upon my heart, and mind, at the sound of our president’s bumbling speech, or the sight of his “Aw, shucks” grin.

As 2008 dawned, I had a truly magnificent calendar, and a glimmer of hope, based in the knowledge, that no matter how the upcoming election turned out, one thing was certain; George W. Bush would no longer be President of the United States.

I struggled, for months, with choosing a candidate. There seemed to be so little difference between them. The feminists would have me vote for a woman, for gender reasons, alone. Patriots would have me support a former POW, based upon his years of military service, which ended over thirty years ago. Christian fundamentalists had their man, whose shining moment occurred during an appearance on Saturday Night Live. I was impressed. I would hire him as a straight man, but President of the United States?

And then, there was the tall skinny, big-eared, black guy, with the scary name.

I live in Georgia. I wish I had a dollar for every time, over the last eleven months, I’ve heard the following:

“Well, I just can’t vote for a man named “Obama”. It’s just not right!”

I assume this phrase to be uttered by those who choose their candidate based, solely, on appropriate surname…and their sports teams, by jersey color.

The feminists’ choice floundered, shrilly, when prompted for details. The patriot lost his edge, and the Christian choice threw in the towel, as did many other, less noticeable, candidates.

And, then there was one.

I began to research. I spent hours poring over internet articles. I listened to speeches, I sought highly regarded opinions, and by the time I flipped my calendar over to reveal November’s butterfly, I was content in my choice.

As is my custom, I took my son with me to our polling place. We stood, on a sun-splashed, blustery morning, in a longer than usual line of voters. We conversed with neighbors,rarely seen otherwise, and accepted the offer of a warm beverage from an excited, gray-haired poll worker.

At one point during our wait, my son scanned the affluent, monochromatic, bedroom-community crowd, and stage-whispered, “I don’t think many of these people are voting for Obama.”

I laughed, in surprise, at his insight; reminded, again that he is an old soul.

“You’re probably right!”, I began, before bending closer to him. “But, that’s ok. That’s what makes our country great, the ability to choose. We just have to hope that enough of us make the right choice.”

And, to my thinking, we did.

My television remains, for the most part, dark, but NPR has, once again, become part of my morning commute. The economic legacy, left by Mr. Bush, dampened my Christmas, and continues to spread its pall over the new year. The devastation didn’t come about rapidly, and, recovery will take some time.

My son-in-law was laid off, with a reasonable severance package, two weeks ago. My daughter has made arrangements to support her family by increasing her hours, from weekends, only, to full-time, starting this week. One of my sons has seen his hours cut back, drastically, with the warning that lay-offs could come in January. My next paycheck will reflect a ten-percent salary cut, in an admirable move, made by our administrators, to protect all our jobs.

And, while these events are somewhat disconcerting, they are not devastating. I find myself anticipating 2009 with a sense of hope, based in the fact that, despite our former misguided choices, this time, we, as a people did the right thing; we put aside petty differences, and superstition, and bias, and chose a rather unlikely leader to guide us through, what will surely be, very treacherous times. We dared to hope, we took definitive action, and we showed the world that we can change.

And, the world expelled a long-held sigh of relief…and applauded.

“How do you measure a year? In daylights, sunsets, midnights, cups of coffee…in laughter & strife. Remember the love. Measure your life in seasons of love.”
Jonathan Larson

Fruition…

“There is a freshness to the air, this morning….” These words began an email from a friend, whose status as an Irish expatriate rendered him unable to vote, but no less concerned with the outcome.

Our daily wake-up call, and the question I was eager to answer, greeted as expected, by juvenile shouts of joy. And his exuberance; as he detailed his plans to enlighten his middle-school friends with, “I told you so…” The image of a visage, flush with responsibility prompted my cautionary tone, as I encouraged my son to enjoy the victory quietly and gracefully, with a sense of community.

And, the ensuing, excited text message, “My bus-driver is mad. The kids are yelling “Obama”, but I didn’t do it. She says we can’t talk until Tuesday.” And, my answer, “Thank you, honey. I love you.”

The sob-clouded voice of a local radio DJ, openly wearing the label “Lesbian” in hopes that others like her will find un-closeted comfort, describing her reaction to his words of inclusion;

“It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled.”

A friend’s exuberant voice over my headset, as he describes a recent conversation, fraught with “pregnant pauses”, with his McCain-supporting brother, and the grace he was proud to offer.

The long-legged stride into my office, by a Republican hard-liner wearing a forced smile above his alligator-embossed shirt, and his cheery “Congratulations!”. And, as I swivel, my response;

“And, to you, too!”

“Oh, you mean the senatorial race…”

“No! I mean, you are an American, too. This is a great day for all Americans!”

And, an email from a Dutch friend, followed by a message from a German friend:

“Indeed it is true: in the USA fairy tales can come to reality!
We watched our TV during this night and early morning: of course CNN, but also 2 of our Dutch stations had a full-covering 9 (!) hours programme of the results of your election (what illustrates that not only “the Americans” were interested in the outcome).
We are so happy with the clear outcome: it will be Obama for the next 4 years. No doubtful 49.5 % versus 50.5 % but a huge non-arguable victory for Obama!
We sincerely hope, that he (and his administration) will soon get the opportuinity to show that he (they) can do better than your today’s president. Not only for the benifit of your country, but also for the other “inhabitants” of our world.”

“Hi, thaaank you for this mail after talking with us. You know me thinking like you! – and one of these days I will come over to meet you, so stay healthy and in good condition, so are my wishes for you. We got up this morning at 4 am to bring Marlen to the airport sur looking to the TV to see that B. Obama made it – that made us lucky and happy. This will be very important for your country and the relationship again between USA and Germany! (that`s what I want to come up again after these long 8 last years.) Marlen should be between GB and your continent, we two tried not to be sad like all these times but like ever we didn`t really made it.”

And, the artificially-cooled memory of watching, with interest, an aged black man, whose love for my father thwarted a punishing sun, as he withdrew remnants of the previous night’s dinner from a grease-stained brown paper sack while he perched on our back stoop.

And, Kathy. As integration creeped slowly into the deep south, we were bussed across town to a new elementary school. Kathy had skin the color of creamed coffee surrounding snapping dark chocolate eyes. It was difficult for me to understand why something as simple as skin pigment could render a person “less than”, and I defied my mother’s admonitions right up until the day we moved away from the city. Understanding, through experience, came easier to Kathy. I never heard her voice, again.

“Four years ago, I stood before you and told you my story, of the brief union between a young man from Kenya and a young woman from Kansas who weren’t well-off or well-known, but shared a belief that in America their son could achieve whatever he put his mind to.
It is that promise that’s always set this country apart, that through hard work and sacrifice each of us can pursue our individual dreams, but still come together as one American family, to ensure that the next generation can pursue their dreams, as well. That’s why I stand here tonight. Because for 232 years, at each moment when that promise was in jeopardy, ordinary men and women — students and soldiers, farmers and teachers, nurses and janitors — found the courage to keep it alive.”

The Journey

I am discriminating. I can be hard to please. I am slow to trust, as years of failed promises have left me skeptical. I have to remind myself, sometimes, to see the light hiding behind the darker surface. I tend to set very high standards for those who would court my trust. I want answers, answers that make sense, and I do my homework.

The last two presidential elections were, for me, at best, painful, and, at worst, devastating. In my opinion, George W. Bush’s shortcomings are plain for anyone to see, and his cabinet, nothing less than dangerous. Sadly, the Democratic Party failed to offer up a reasonable alternative, and though I voted for the man I considered the one less dangerous, I did so half-heartedly, at best. My reticence, however, did nothing to appease my disappointment and embarrassment in our electorate.

The 2004 election was particularly hard to swallow. John Kerry was not an exciting, or even hopeful choice, but the alternative was unthinkable. Our country had been in free-fall for four years and every misstep I had ever imagined, combined with those no one could ever have foreseen, to create a recipe for disaster; and still, many eagerly vied for a place at the table.

I remember dark hours immediately following the election, and the utter hopelessness filling those days. I remember sleepless nights punctuated by tears of frustration, and I remember my decision. In the fall of 2004, after America spoke, I made the decision to disconnect. I turned off my television and changed my pre-sets. Top-forty radio, instead of National Public Radio, now fueled my commute. Novels replaced the newspaper at lunch, and a click to my homepage now revealed carefully crafted, voluminous lines of internet jokes, sent to me by my former mother-in-law. Life lessons, and the accompanying character traits, had taught me how to insulate; to protect.

As you might expect, I was slow to board, as our most current election geared up…

Rudy Giuliani, and his handling of one of the most traumatic events in American history, warranted a second look. Arrogance killed his candidacy, early on.

Mitt Romney showed promise. As a businessman, he had shown remarkable financial acumen, and even two years ago, as those in the know began to scrawl upon the wall, I could see the merits of that trait. Honor, though, and party loyalty prevailed, as he threw in the towel in order to increase the chances of his party rival.

And, then there were three…

In 2004, I pinned my hopes on one John McCain, still, at that time, a true maverick. Karl Rove had other plans. Most of us easily saw through the allegations of impropriety surrounding the ethnicity of McCain’s daughter, completely unaware of backroom negotiations which would ensure McCain’s exit, leaving Mr. Rove’s candidate alone on the Republican ticket. In my despair, I looked forward to 2008, when “Maverick” could ride, again.

The face was the same; the voice familiar. The rhetoric, however, markedly changed. Need had removed the teeth from his message, and the 2008 incarnation of John McCain in no way resembled the man I once admired. Desperately, I turned to the other side of the aisle…

A feminist at heart, I really wanted to support Hillary. Admittedly, her handling of her husband’s repeated infidelities had left a sour taste in my mouth, but it was her shrill rhetoric that provided a barrier I could not jump. I listened, eagerly, for meaningful words that would invoke confidence, or even hope, and heard, instead, the cry of a fish-monger’s wife. I was not unhappy to see the odds piling against her.

The very idea that a man named “Barack Hussien Obama” would entertain the notion of being elected president of a country wrought with fear labeled “Muslim”, struck me as ludicrous; and I said so, to anyone who would listen. But, as the months ticked by, and his opponents became less and less desirable, I was forced to take a second look.

During this time, a good friend smilingly presented me with an Obama bumper sticker. He didn’t insist; he offered, through a face bright with hope. Feeling bereft of alternative, I accepted the offering, placing it in my carry-all. It rode there, under a succession of lunches, for several weeks, until a bright Saturday morning several weeks ago.

I accompanies me, now, on my commute, as it rides my back right bumper, and, today, the sight of it inspires pride in our journey.

An Intangible Difference

“No other national election has evoked this kind of emotion.”
As a form of explanation, in the heat of the moment, during a discussion of politics, these words rose to the surface, and sat on my tongue, while I considered their veracity. My mind ticked through previous elections. Images grossly akin to Halloween masks, strolled across my mind’s eye; Reagan, Carter, Ford, Clinton, Bush I and II, and I realized I had felt passion for my candidate during each of these contests, as well. The words remain unsaid. And, still, I consider them…and have come believe the words to be true in an intangibly unsettling way.

In years past, my choice of candidate was usually accompanied by a sure feeling of being “right”. As I considered the men running for President, the decision was a simple one, based on my beliefs and life experience.

“Do you want what’s hiding behind curtain “A” or curtain “B”?” Monty Hall’s face leered under a battered fedora as he spun a shiny black cane.

“Curtain “A”!” My voice rang true with the force of my convictions.

“Is that your final answer?” The question came in the form of endless, expensively produced commercials touting the merits of the one not chosen.

“Yes! That is my final answer!” And it was.

This time around, when asked the question, I find my voice wavering as my eyes search a distant point in the room, and my chest fills with a need for hope. And, therein, lies the difference.

The need for hope; not a full-blown, fist-clenching, flag-waving hope, but a need for hope. A look out the yawning door of an airplane, just before the jump, with the sincere desire that the parachute will function when called upon. That first tentative, pitch-black step away from the side of the bed towards the spot on the carpet where the dog might be sleeping. The catch of breath, when the numbers are called, as the ticket shakes inside a needy hand. The look on the face of one beaten down, afraid to trust an outstretched hand.

As my octogenarian friend frequently laments, “I’ve never seen things this bad.”, I realize it’s no wonder so many of us are uncertain. Nothing in our life experience has prepared us for our current condition, and our beliefs have been challenged by almost a decade of half-truths and outright lies told by those in whom we were forced to rely. We are the ones beaten down, afraid to trust.

On Tuesday, I will stand in line for hours, with hundreds of others in search of hope, and the mere presence of the crowd, as I scan it, will invoke these words:

“In God We Trust.”

Watching….and Waiting

Steam from my bath still filled my pajamas as I prepared to reap my reward of curling up with a book in preparation for bed, when one of my more apolitical friends called to tell me to turn on CNN. It didn’t strike me, at first, the aberrance of her behavior, as she gushed excitedly about a report on the cost of making Sarah Palin a presentable Republican candidate, because as plasma filled the television screen I saw she was giving an interview, minus prepared remarks, and my attention became focused in hopes of witnessing, yet another, blunder.

Whereas her words were not particularly polished, neither were they foolish, as she stumbled through her efforts to give the appearance of answering a question, while directing as many barbs as possible at her running mate’s opposition. I became bored quickly when it became apparent she would say nothing I could use as fodder around the water-cooler next day. But, I didn’t change the channel, or turn off the set.

In my ennui, I noticed her appearance. Her perpetually carefully coiffed hair lacked it’s usual luster, as it hung below her shoulders in strands shaped by the length of her day. Dark eyes, known to sparkle and snap, appeared somewhat dull behind the glare on her designer glasses. Her voice was tired, and her posture strained.

I began to reflect on the many faces of Sarah Palin. Sarah Palin, wife, may have had an argument with her husband, just before sitting down for another, in a long line of interviews. Sarah Palin, mother of 4, and soon-to-be grandmother, may have just had to bandage a knee, or discuss a report card, or quiet the histrionics of her pregnant daughter, or settle an argument between siblings, or diaper her baby. She may have come from an appointment with her son’s doctor, and the news may not have been good. Sarah Palin, Governor of Alaska, may have had to deal with unhappy legislators, or worse, disgruntled constituents. She might have just flown cross country after attending a ribbon-cutting, or spent hours shuffling through official government documents requiring the governor’s signature. Sarah Palin, Vice-Presidential candidate, may have slogged through all of these things; a disagreement with her husband, fights between her children, insecurity in her daughter, dirty diapers, doctor’s appointments, complaining constituents, cross-country flights, and reams of paper, only to end her day in a cheap vinyl chair across from a news reporter asking impossible questions. Because Sarah Palin is all of these things; Wife, Mother, Governor, and, Vice-Presidential candidate.

And this is why we watch. This is why, at the end of a Presidential campaign that seems to gone have on forever, we still sit in front of our television sets, mouths agape, watching, and waiting.

As the interview ended, the anchor teased the following segment which was to detail the cost of making Sarah presentable, and, in a country whose primary source of entertainment is contained inside digital video recorders, we sat through commercials to watch an unprecedented piece. And it is unprecedented, because we, as a nation, have never been in this place before.

Kicking her gender aside, I wondered as I waited, why they hadn’t done the same kind of piece on Joe Biden, and then I remembered. Joe Biden has been presentable, and present, forever. I ticked through a list of others who might have been profiled, and realized that none actually qualified for this kind of attention. Given that, and the marketability of her gender, which was, after all, the motivating factor in her choice as a candidate, I feel the piece was fair.

I’m not bothered by the fact that Republican supporters footed a $4000.00 bill for her coiffure, or shuffled her off to Neiman Marcus with a blank check with which to purchase her form-fitting suits. Realistically, one could not expect them to trot out an Alaskan housewife/hockey mom-turned Governor without a little sprucing up. It is, after all, the American way, and “when in Rome….”

Pundits, and even John McCain, himself, have been quoted as saying Sarah Palin was brought on board to breathe new life into the Republican party. Some are even going so far as to say she is the “new face” of the Republican Party.

Pundits aside, I am convinced that Sarah Palin, wife, mother, Governor, and Vice-Presidential candidate, has breathed new life into a Presidential campaign that had already gone on too long before she became involved. And, regardless on what side of the aisle we sit, SHE is why we are still watching…

>Watching….and Waiting

>
Steam from my bath still filled my pajamas as I prepared to reap my reward of curling up with a book in preparation for bed, when one of my more apolitical friends called to tell me to turn on CNN. It didn’t strike me, at first, the aberrance of her behavior, as she gushed excitedly about a report on the cost of making Sarah Palin a presentable Republican candidate, because as plasma filled the television screen I saw she was giving an interview, minus prepared remarks, and my attention became focused in hopes of witnessing, yet another, blunder.

And this is why we watch. This is why, at the end of a Presidential campaign that seems to gone have on forever, we still sit in front of our television sets, mouths agape, watching, and waiting.

“Well…There’s the Problem!”

He is more like his Mom than any of my other children. He is opinionated, yet compassionate, he is strong, and, yet, remarkably weak, he is intelligent, yet questioning….

He has let his opinions fly, in this election year, on the strengths and weaknesses of the candidates, and never fails to bemoan the loss of Hillary.

And, still, I wonder… Does he really know? Is he informed, or merely led by his peer group, as so many of us are?

Upon announcement of the first debate, I made the decision that we would watch, together; as a family.

Days went by in limbo as one candidate waffled on his participation. Around noon today, the call came.

“McCain will participate. The debate is on.”

“I’m cooking…will you join us?”

He accepted, and with that, our plans were sealed.

Long lines, waiting for open gas pumps, precluded my usual entrance to the grocery store. Taking a circuitous route, I found a parking space quickly, and after ending a musically, brogue-laden, political conversation with my professor-friend, I went inside to procure the items I needed to prepare a special dinner.

The manicotti was rich, the salad fresh, and the bread had just the right amount of crunch, as my son questioned his father and I on the differences between “Republican” and “Democrat”. As the meal ended, Roger rose and began to tidy up in accordance with our long-standing tradition of, “I cook. You clean.”.

Accompanied by the sounds of running water, and colliding cutlery, my youngest son leaned forward in his chair, and asked, “But Mom, why are all my friends voting for McCain?”

Holding his eyes with mine, I met his lean.

“I hope it’s because that’s what they believe. Just like I hope you know that we want you to make your own decision.”

Sitting back in his chair, he looked towards the ceiling. That, and the finger he inserted between his front teeth, were his only signs of discomfort.

“You know? I really liked McCain…”, he started.

“Yeah?”, I encouraged.

“Yeah.”, he countered.

“But, I just don’t know about the girl.” He paused.

“I mean, he’s old! What if he dies? What if she has to be President?”

I felt the smile start in my eyes.

“What?”, he asked.

“You get it, Shane. You really get it!”, I exclaimed.

He relaxed against the seat-back as his eyes went, once again, towards the ceiling.

“I am so proud of you! You see the bigger picture. At your age, that’s great!”

Noise from the other room told us the debate was starting. Hurrying, we took our places.

We listened attentively. We remarked appropriately.

And then, Senator McCain dialed up President Reagan.

We listened.

As he finished, Shane’s form rose from the couch where he languished with dog, blanket, and pillow.

“Well, there’s the problem!”, he exclaimed. And with that, he fell back among the pillows. Within minutes, he slept; an old soul.

He didn’t watch till the end, but that’s ok.

He got the gist of it…