Rigorous Introspection (or "I'm Just Like Them...sort of."

During George W. Bush's presidency, I and others of the same political persuasion would be having a conversation about some political event or administration position. Sooner or later someone would pose some variation of the following question:

"How can someone who has

a) lost a job while CEOs plundered 

b) found himself with no health insurance and ended up paying through the nose for private or "risk pool" insurance

c) living on a fixed income with high cost of whatever

d) been forced to work 2 or 3 part-time jobs with no benefits thanks to

the corporate trend of eliminating full-time jobs.

e) some combination of the above

possibly vote for Bush?"

We asked a variant of the question during the last election: "How can someone whose life has been decimated by Republican policy even consider voting for McCain?"

Now I think I know the answer, and it isn't pretty.

During the year or so leading up to the election, I was a passionate constant consumer of political writing.  I paid attention and spent countless hours informing myself.

But ever since the inauguration my consumption of such media has dropped by about 75%. 

At first I thought I had political burnout or a simply too much on my plate, but now I'm investigating an unflattering possibility:

Could I be a blind follower, too?

I have little interest in following issues these days. I no  longer read Huffington Post, Daily Kos, or Wonkette three times a day.  I no longer watch CNN during my time in the kitchen. I no longer read the newspaper regularly.

I am, under this hypothesis, exactly like the individuals on the right I used to castigate.

So I want to ask for your help. 

Will you let me know, in the comments if you (as a conservative) are now consuming more political media or if you (as a liberal) are consuming less?

Please throw your virtual two cents' worth into the fray.

All Grown Up Now

On election night, amidst all the talk of "historic moments" and "monumental firsts," I suddenly realized I'd just passed over a meaningful tipping point.

For the first time in my life, I am older than the President of the United States of America.

But not by much. And therein lies one of the emotional reasons I chose to support his candidacy. Barack and Michelle Obama are of my generation. Our daughters are in the same age bracket. Their personal concerns are my personal concerns. Lest you think I am a left wing nutjob who votes the blue state equivalent of "I love Sarah Palin! She's just like me!," know that ultimately my choice was reason-based. But I'd be lying if, now that the election is over, I didn't 'fess up to the identification thing.

Barack Obama is old enough to be President, and so am I. Welcome to true adulthood. The place and time where we take the reins.

Every campaign - indeed, every presidency - is like a lifetime in miniature. Some presidents, like some individuals, never quite grow up. They either chase rainbows or pick on the weak or live out their lives thinking the world literally revolves around them. The drama of youth plays out on the world stage, damn the consequences.

You know who I'm talking about.

I truly believe that is about to change.

Across the street from my elementary school, a vacant lot was blocked from our daydreaming eyes by a cinder block monstrosity known as The Brick Wall (deep in the Cold War, the Berlin Wall probably had a lot to do with the moniker). We were pretty good kids, and closely supervised, so disputes were usually shut down before they erupted into anything physical. But diplomacy isn't always effective when you're ten. Occasionally, whispers would drift through the halls and notes would change hands; our covert skills rivalled those of any Le Carre' spook: "Fight today behind The Brick Wall." The game was on.

I never made it ringside since my mother picked me up promptly every day, but I heard tales of the rollicking violence that blacked eyes and ripped shirts before the principal would amble over and break things up. He could usually set things right by requiring a handshake, mutual apologies, an honest admission of who started it, and a classic punishment such as writing "I will not fight behind the Brick Wall." 100 times. He was an outstanding example of a grownup in action. Thanks to his leadership, such fights were rare.

This presidential campaign had much of the schoolyard brawl about it. Spitballs. Dinner rolls across the cafetorium. Glue in the chair. Every day brought another taunt, another challenge. Rumors. Lies. Stabs in the back. Every day, someone from the McCain camp was spoiling for a fight, showing up Behind The Brick Wall, ready to kick some ass.

But there was one big problem. No one showed up to fight. Obama wasn't a chicken. He wasn't worried about getting in trouble.

He didn't fight because he is a grown up.

Over the last few days, as I've thought about the election, as I've watched the Obamas do their best to live authentic lives, what has struck me is how remarkably consistent he man is. How grounded. How controlled. How reliable. How disciplined. Just as he was throughout the two-year process. During the primary, he didn't change his wardrobe or his accent to fit the venue as Senator Clinton often did. During the main campaign, he maintained a calm, strong demeanor in the face of outrageous accusations and falsehoods. In doing so, he presented an admirable counterpoint to a ticket that drew each day's talking points from a grab bag, hoping feverishly that one would hit home.

Yes, we are going to have a grownup in the White House.

And I am optimistic that our nation may also be coming of age.

On election night, my friends and I watched the massive crowd in Grant Park - exuberant yet peaceful, so peaceful. Tens of thousands of fully enfranchised Americans, individuals of every shape, size, and color, waiting in hope and joy and grace. I recalled the hate-filled shouting that peaked at McCain rallies in the final weeks before the election, and I thought again of children and adults. I believe the inherent good in us all will eventually make the first example the overriding norm.

My hope is that wise, adult leadership will calm the remaining angry, fearful bullies in our country. That we will hear fewer calls to meet Behind The Brick Wall and more to Hang Out in The Park Together.

Guidebooks for parents and teachers are a dime a dozen, but share core principles:

Be Consistent.

Don't Raise Your Voice.

Support and Challenge Those in Your Care.

Be The Adult, Not a "Friend."

When parents and other grownups follow such advice, we do not call them weak. We call them wise.

When a president follows them, we call him a true leader, a statesman.

When a nation follows them, we can call her mature and truly triumphant.

America, here's to your majority.

The Answer, My Friend, Is 271....

A little music for today, classic in every way....

Flashback: 1964

One of the memories that crossed my mind when I voted for Barack Obama was watching my mother pay her poll tax. 

For those of you unfamiliar with that term, the "poll tax" (along with other practices such as "literacy tests") was a particularly pernicious form of disenfranchisement, abolished in federal elections by constitutional amendment in 1964 and in state and local elections by the Supreme Court in 1966.  

My mother often took me along when she voted. When possible, I take Small Child with me.

But, in a change of seasons, today I took my mother to vote.

With a spiffy cap covering her chemo-hairless head and a cane to steady her ever-weaker gait, she made her way into the courthouse for early voting. She was able to handle the ten or so stairs down into the courthouse entrance nearest our parking spot, and fortunately the elevator was working. 

When we reached the second floor, the stairs loomed so very large.  She was ready, though. Ready to climb to vote in what is, realistically, at age 87 her final presidential election. 

But in one of those moments of grace, all too rare in this season of sniping and vicious campaigning, the worker stationed to greet and guide those arriving to vote took one look at us and said, simply, "We're so glad you're here. Would you like us to bring a machine down so you don't have to climb those last few stairs?"

Mother paused a moment, then replied, "Yes, I think that would be best."

I wish I could say that in the 44 years since the poll tax was repealed the world had changed enough for her to vote for Obama. In truth, I think she was voting for McCain rather than against an African American man. 

But as I sat there, watching a patient Latina assist her with the electronics and a rainbow of diverse voters pass by, I felt so very grateful that my world has.

History.

Yesterday, I voted for Barack Obama for President of the United States of America.

Texas has "early voting," and turnout has been brisk.

All sorts of memories of discrimination -  de facto and de jure -  flooded through me as I worked through the screen. 

And with one touch of a flashing red button I blasted them all away.

Good luck, Senator Obama.

And all you folks out there... go make some history, okay?

Here's What I'm Talking About

The kind of thing that's worrying me these days...



and another:



Hat tip to The Huffington Post.

Now I really need a glass of that Strenuous Tongue Cabernet!

I just thought I'd been rendered mute by melancholy. Last night's debate, and the events of the days leading up to it, made me more so.

Tell me why the Secret Service did not arrest the individual who shouted "Kill him!" (calling for, if you have not heard about this, Obama's assassination) during a McCain/Palin rally.

Tell me why McCain felt that a young black man would not have heard of the two largest mortgage programs in America.

Tell me why the man who wants to lead our country into a era of smaller government last night proposed having the government buy up mortgages.

Tell me why the same man could not correctly state the details of his own health plan, suddenly promising a 5K credit per individual American rather than per household.

Tell me why Rush Limbaugh, a man I foolishly listened to this morning, is now blaming the entire "bailout" (the one proposed initially by the current president) on the Democrats, claiming it is an Obama plan to socialize our nation's economy.

Tell me why the same talk show host is saying, many times a day, that Obama and Osama bin-Ladin are the same because they "know terrorists."

Tell  me why fliers are appearing in low income Philadelphia neighborhoods warning people that, "according to an Obama operative," if they have any outstanding warrants (even for traffic tickets) or prior felony convictions they should "take care of them" before voting because police will be at the polls to arrest them. Maybe it would be best to stay home.

Tell me why people are willing to believe in and act on such vitriol.

Tell me why I am supposed to feel pride for my country instead of sadness and shame.

50-Hate: The Tennis Ladies

Prologue: I remember All in the Family. I saw the phrase "The Generation Gap" defined in my childhood home. I heard the battle cries, "Don't Trust Anyone Under Thirty!" and "Question Authority!" I may not have been old enough to shave my legs, much less burn a bra, but the message came through loud and clear: young = forward thinking; old = backward looking.

I see them everywhere in the county where Small Child attends school: The Tennis Ladies.

Toned, tanned, tended, and tenacious, they meet for coffee and lunch and conversation. Somehow, even after vigorous exercise, they always look put-together, earrings dangling and makeup intact. Yes. They play tennis in makeup. And lipstick. It's different here.

I've always been an outlier where this kind of girl is concerned, "in the corner" as Suzanne Vega once put it.  And "in the corner" was where I was Monday, at La Madeleine to be exact, in my version of exercise wear (black yoga pants, shapeless PTA t-shirt, sans earrings and makeup), shielded by my laptop as a trio of tennilicious ladies lunched at the table next. Definitely the kind of folks for whom "economic downturn" means "Lesser Lexus."

After a quick scan (two late20somethings, one working the ponytail-through-cute-ball-cap look and another with the best blond highlights I've seen in ages, and an oldersomething close to my age with the best matte red lipstick I've seen in ages) and a quick listen (kids, blah blah, car, blah, blah, kids), I returned to the chicken Caesar salad that has been my comfort food lo these many years. Move along, Blue. Nothing to see here.

Then suddenly, this:

"..for Obama."

"You've got be be FUCKING JOKING."

Up popped my head.

And there, calmly smiling with those beautiful matte red lips, was my mid-life sister.

PONYTAIL: Oh, no. No. Why?

MATTE RED: Because McCain and Palin scare the shit out of me.

HIGHLIGHTS:   Oh, come on.

PONYTAIL:   No, really, why?

MATTE RED:   Well, for one thing, they want to overturn Roe v Wade

PONYTAIL, SCOFFING: You know THAT will never happen. They're [the dems] just trying to scare you.

MATTE RED, REMEMBERING ALL TOO WELL: No, they do.

At this point, Ponytail and Highlights unleashed a stream of anti-Obama vitriol the likes of which I have never heard apart from AM talk radio. Vicious. Untrue. Unadulterated Hate.

Matte Red never lost her cool. She continued, pointing out that Sarah Palin is, essentially, stupid. That her presence on the ticket is pandering and insulting. It was clear that Obama would not necessarily have been her first choice. But she has been around the block. The others have not.

Matte Red glanced at me. I mentioned that perhaps the younger women didn't understand that the freedoms they take for granted have not always been universally enjoyed (okay, I may not have been that slick). I agreed that an Obama victory was critical, if only to shift the court. Matte Red shook her head in agreement. Ponytail launched again.

Their party was breaking up, and their spirited debate continued as they made their way out.

As they reached the door, Matte turned back, gave me the thumbs up, and said, "See you at the victory party." The other two were not amused.

In an instant, I passed through some kind of time warp, some kind of bizarro reversal. At that one point in that most red county in this most red state, the Generation Gap flipped.  

And I thought to myself, "Never trust anyone under 30. At least not anyone in a tennis skirt."

Afterword: I know. I said I wasn't going to write about politics anymore. So sue me.

Tragedy and Travesty

Of course, you've all seen the CNN and Weather Channel footage of Hurricane Ike.  And the coverage of the horrendous train accident in Los Angeles. 

My heart goes out to all those who suffer, and my gratitude is immense that my friends in Houston are safe, even if their homes sustained damage. 

On a micro scale, things aren't much better. One friend has been forced to hospitalize a child, just to make certain that insurance will "kick in" for the residential treatment the child needs. Two other families, both connected with the school system in different districts around the state, have insurance that is so worthless that their health is being compromised.  

And, in the face all this national pain, those who wish to be our leaders continue to smile and lie - so very certain of their position, facts be damned.

I see Sarah Palin, and I am reminded of Reagan - a plastic face with no relation to reality. My biggest fear is that the press and the public will continue to present more and ever more evidence of her unsuitability for any public office, but that none of the evidence will matter. Reagan, once called the "Teflon President," will appear - in retrospect - to have been covered with Velcro instead.

What can we do?  

Tonight I want to throw up my hands. 

But tomorrow I will try to remember that all I can do is live where I live in a way that demonstrates my beliefs. I can walk slowly, think clearly, and speak carefully. 

And I can try to find hope.

Sadness and Rage

I feel sadness for a young woman, alone in a spotlight in Alaska, who made a mistake many young women make. My sadness is increased exponentially by the cultural policies of the state in which she was raised, policies shared by my home state, policies which deprive young men and women of the information they need to protect themselves from disease and pregnancy.

Oh surely, you say, she knew how not to get pregnant. Perhaps. Even likely. But I grew up in a home where such things were not discussed, not for religious or political reasons but for generational ones. I am forever grateful for the good sex education I received. Along with memorizing the symptoms of primary, secondary and tertiary syphilis, I had to learn all the then-available methods of contraception and their efficacy.  And then I took a test. And that test was averaged in to my seventh grade health mark on my report card. Yes, in Texas.

But the rage? That is directed directly at her mother.  Yes, I know that children act independently of their parents' wishes and expectations. I certainly did. But I detect more than a whiff of disingenuousness. 

I know I just took a vow of political silence.  So I will let the beautifully eloquent words of  Karen Maezen Miller speak for me. I quote today's post from her blog, Cheerio Road, in its entirety and with her permission:

Seeing the soft bigotry of low expectations

With apologies to those who expected more or less of me.

There was once a supremely arrogant and idiotic man who mouthed this line of someone else's melodic prose – "the soft bigotry of low expectations" – to decry the educational imprisonment of the underprivileged. Nevermind that by his every action he condemned these underprivileged to further generations of poverty, invisibility, exploitation and pain.

Now I see what those words mean.

When you blithely send your firstborn to war and call it foreign relations.
When you leave your three-day-old at home and call it working motherhood.
When you don a dimestore tiara and call it a star.
When you adamantly oppose sex education in public schools and silence comment on your daughter's teenage pregnancy by calling it a private matter.
When you cynically manipulate the future of the world and call it a game.
When you ignore the rules of reason, experience, wisdom, truth, legitimacy, decency and public trust and call it a gamechanger.

I see what it means.

Call me a bigot. But do not expect me to take any more or make any less of this.

Thank you, Karen, for your wise and passionate words. 

And, to that young woman in Alaska: I wish you well.

Election Gag Order

I'm issuing an election-related gag order for Blue Like the Sky.  

Feelings are running too deep. Emotions too close to the surface.

And I need to find focus, focus, focus for writing.

Last night, during what should have been a funky, relaxed, impromptu evening around the dining room table, things got out of hand.

The Man, for reasons related to the family business' bottom line, tends to vote - in national races  - red. I, for reasons related to Supreme Court composition and our daughter's future freedom (not to mention social justice issues like our health care crisis) vote straight blue.  

Small child was painting. Lori from Do You Realize? had dropped by to help me finish the margaritas from last Friday's cookout.  Her eldest, off to college on Friday, wandered in. The Man entered the room, picked up some paint brushes, and started his own masterpiece. Conversation wandered to Sunday night's candidate interviews with Rick Warren.

I've been trying so hard these last few months to stay centered, to just listen, to refrain from making my views known among those who already know them. But The Man, alone in a nest of estrogen-pumped, tequila-lubed liberals, became a bit more provocative and a little less respectful of my opinions than - in my tender state - was appropriate. This resulted in tears.

I recovered quickly - in mid sentence, actually - but after a good night's sleep I've decided to back off from the political in this space. 

In my first entry, I referred to the "cerulean blue of peace."  We all need that peace in our lives, now more than ever. 

So be patient with me, please, as I stumble back to introspective substance.

Thank you,

Blue in heart, action, voting, living

Otherwise Occupied

I'm watching Rick Warren interview Barack Obama. I have such mixed feelings about this forum.

Here's a video to watch while I process.

A Sobering Clip

Thanks to Molly for this one.



I respect that everyone will make an individual choice in November, one that will reflect his or her beliefs and personal situation, and none of us will be 100% happy with any candidate. It should be no secret to most of you which candidate I support. While I may not change your mind by sharing this video, I do ask that you consider the implications of the opinions it presents.

Furthermore, I am fully aware that sound bytes and statistics can be cobbled together to serve just about any purpose...I'm a writer, after all. I'm posting this clip, rather than any of the other zillion available, because the speakers cited are all Republican elected officials, weapons inspectors, high-ranking military personnel, or Republican-associated figures. Perhaps that will give it a bit of cred with my more moderate to conservative readers.

If you've been following the news, you know that some pretty nasty things are happening between Georgia and Russia. While our obligations in this conflict are unclear, some believe we have an implicit if not explicit commitment to Georgia's defense. The fighting in and threats from Afghanistan, Iraq, and Iran are nowhere near a resolution. Large portions of Africa are a living hell (even though in this country one has to search international news outlets to learn of much besides celebrities' outrage over Darfur).

But when I saw this clip, all I could think of was children. Many of you have them. All of you love them. And to think that we can wage war on multiple fronts on multiple continents with a volunteer army and high-tech gadgets is, at best, naive.

 

OoooooWeeee! She's Politically Explicatin'...Watch Out.

Be forewarned.  It's 2:20 a.m. Later in this post you will read sentences that could be construed as racist. When you do, remember these italicized words: I am commenting on the possible thoughts of others, not describing my own.  And it's way too late for me to revise this.  So there.

I've blogged here and here about the serendipity of the iPod. But tonight I found that my adored white rectangle is also a ruthless political truth-teller.

Around 11 p.m. tonight, Large Dog and I set out for our walk. It's been a rough week, but I felt strong and peaceful despite a menu of disappointing news. My mother's white count is next to nothing, a nasty war is afoot between Georgia and Russia, and John Edwards - a politician who articulated so many of my dreams and concerns - admitted to a cliche' affair.  

But it was a bit cooler today, if still humid.  I'd just finished an audio book and thought, "Change of plans. Shuffle Songs." I won't bore you with the details, but off we went to a random playlist that started with "Don't Dream It's Over" by Crowded House and ended with "Chelsea Hotel #2" by Leonard Cohen.

My epiphany hit right in the middle, courtesy of The Pretenders*:

No, my head wasn't split open with a divine solution to my broken washing machine crisis. And, like many metaphors in my unskilled hands, this one is far from perfect. But think on these lyrics:

There go the whites
Mmm, getting whiter
There go the colors
Getting brighter
There go the delicates
Through the final rinse
There goes my Saturday night
I go without a fight

In a nutshell, this is the Obama campaign's Southern White Problem. And Blue Collar White Problem. And Hillary Lovin' Steel Worker Problem. And Evangelical White Problem.

There.  I've said it. Don't hate me yet.

I will fight to the death anyone who says all southerners - particularly all Texans - are racists. We're not. Neither are all Northerners ready to join hands and sing "Kumbaya." But the rumblings are out there. If you lined up 100 "I think Obama might be a Muslim" spouters and scratched their surfaces, how many times do you think you would find honest theological worry? Come on. It's code. 

Those of you who actually talk with me know my belief that Edwards was essential to Obama's middle-South success with white male voters. But today the Delicate - the perfectly coiffed poor-boy-made-good many less fortunate or uneducated southerners hold up as proof it is possible to succeed without family contacts or inheritance - went through the Final (Blond) Rinse. 

Some who fit the Red State demographic profile see Obama and think, "There go the colors/Getting brighter," while others (Toby Keith, anyone?) have no trouble whatsoever articulating - however obliquely - the stereotype of the Uppity N*gger.

And it goes without saying that as the economy flounders, the election nears, and these rumblings come nearer the surface, "There go the whites/Mmm, getting whiter." I don't know about you, but I've not seen many faces of color on the campaign trail with Senator McCain. 

I worry that November's final demographic breakdowns may not make us particularly proud.

Here, in my little part of Texas, the Obama volunteers are of every color, shape, age, and background. This, to me, is what is truly revolutionary about his candidacy. This is what drove my choice. This is what will win the election - outreach to both new voters and stalwart believers in principles the Democrats hold dear. 

What will lose it - for either side - is for any portion of the constituency to think, "There goes my Saturday night/I go without a fight" and stay home, watching the clothes go round, on the second Tuesday in November.

*My apologies...I could not find a Pretenders performance clip of this tune.  I do hope you will click on the song links early in the post, particularly "Chelsea Hotel." Classic Leonard.