Looking for Mr. Left in a Right-Wing World: 2004

I wrote the first part of this essay shortly after voting in the Super Tuesday presidential primary in 2004. The Post-Election Epilogue was written, well, after the 2004 presidential election. This is how I felt in 2004, and it's mostly how I feel today. Except for John Edwards. He's my guy in 2008. But how I got from Kucinich '04 to Edwards '08 is a long story. This is just a small part of it.

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Looking for Mr. Left in a Right-Wing World

I voted today. I'm reminded of this as I look in the mirror, preparing for bed. My hand moves over my heart to rip off the frayed sticker attached to my shirt. I pause for a moment as I read the words stuck to my chest, declaring to the world "I Voted." The image of a proudly waving Stars and Stripes reminds me what's good about this country.

I love to vote. I savor the tactile experience: the cold building with its sanitized public smell, the hushed tones of voters and volunteers, the banners of red, white, and blue which scream "VOTE HERE" as if announcing "this place is special; this place is worthy." I consider any election day a holiday to be lauded, and among the holiest of these days is primary day, when we go to the polls to select our party's presidential choice.

I've always taken picking a presidential candidate very seriously, but the right choice is even more important this year since George W. Bush has implied the President of the United States has staged a coup against Jesus and now sits at the right hand of God. With so much on the line, I knew on this Super Tuesday I had to vote for a champion, someone who could take a punch, could come out fighting, could go the distance. I had to vote for someone who was the living embodiment of all those boxing clichés that would eventually end with a Democratic contender beating the daylights out of the Republican title holder. Too bad I felt there wasn’t anyone like that on the ballot. Where's Bobby Kennedy when you need him?

I'm not picky, you know. I've been looking at the lineup for months, wondering who would be my guy. For the past three weeks, I've been on the presidential prowl like a spinster seeking a husband. After all, I am trying to find that one person I can live with for the next four years. I've searched so long I've thought about taking out a personal ad: "SF, 41, seeks presidential candidate for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Potential POTUS should be pro-choice, fiscally responsible, and opposed to the Patriot Act. No hawks allowed." Alas, budgetary considerations prevented my presidential personal from appearing in publications nationwide.

In a post-9/11 America where blowing up other people's things up seems to be the answer to other people blowing up our things, I was looking for a candidate with the courage to stand up against a popular President and a newly defined super-patriotism that included opening up a can of whoop-ass on anyone who dared to defy the Great American Dream. In my Democratic party, everyone seemed to have a little bit of something I liked, but no one seemed to have everything I demanded. Except this one guy.

Congressman Dennis Kucinich was the only candidate running for President who had the courage to vote against the Patriot Act in a time when doing so meant being labeled unpatriotic. Six weeks post-9/11, George was declaring, "You're either with us or against us," while pushing the Patriotic Act through Congress. Dennis had the strength to stand up against that kind of pressure. This impressed me. He was also pro-choice, but the fiscal responsibility thing was in question. People claimed he bankrupted Cleveland when he was mayor. But Dennis denies it. Even if it's true, it's not like he inherited a balanced budget then drove the wealthiest nation in the world into a $2.7 trillion deficit. So maybe Dennis was a little loose with the Cleveland cash. Better that than using the most advanced military in the world to kick the shit out of a third-world nation and generally pissing off people all around the planet.

Of course, my pseudo-courtship with Dennis wasn't perfect. I loved Dennis, but it was kind of like being asked to the prom by the nicest, yet geekiest, guy in school. I knew Dennis would never be White House material because his wimpy appearance made him completely unsalable as a presidential candidate. That's when I met Potential #2, Senator John Edwards.

John was what every American dreams of being: young, successful, smart, well-off, and good-looking. He voted for the Patriot Act, however, so I'd quickly dismissed him as someone I could support. But he visited my university just days before Super Tuesday, and I had the opportunity to ask him to defend his Patriot Act vote. His answer wasn't the best—"I knew it had problems, but we needed it"—but he was willing to admit civil liberties had been twisted and sacrificed, and he admitted the irony of sacrificing freedom in the name of preserving freedom. I found myself being seduced, not as much by his platform as by his smile and smarts. The man was a political player, and I knew he could hold his own in a debate with George. And I knew he could look good while doing it. He was glitzy, and I was ensorcelled by him for three glorious weeks. But the spell wore off today.

I've voted in five presidential elections, and each ballot has been cast very deliberately. I don't know where I got my odd appreciation for the process. Maybe it comes from listening to my dad talk about FDR. A WW II vet, he thought FDR saved the world. I'm sure that's why I'm a Democrat, although my folks were pretty apolitical. Opinionated, but passive. I'm not sure if my dad ever even voted; however, I know my mom did because I have memories of going to the polls with her. Maybe that's where my passion for the ballot box was born. All I know is that for my sixth presidential election, I still consider my right to vote as one of my most precious possessions, and I want my vote to be meaningful. And that's why I had a problem today.

Ever the eager ballot-casting beaver, I usually vote in the morning before work so I can wear my "I Voted" sticker all day. But not this morning. Something didn't feel right. I was having second thoughts about my shiny presidential hopeful because the geeky guy kept whispering his slogan in my ear. "It's time to awaken the American Dream…where Fear Ends and Hope Begins!" Dennis's refrain touched my most sensitive nerve: fearful living.

I live in Oklahoma City, and I've never been more afraid than I was the day Tim McVeigh bombed the Murrah Federal Building. For the next four years, I found myself paralyzed with throat-closing fear. Was there another nutcase out there waiting to avenge Tim McVeigh? Would someone hurt my city again? My loved ones? I was almost consumed. But I learned, from this city I love so much, how to stand resolute.
The bombing taught me about life, death, terrorism, and prudence. Its greatest lesson, however, was how to handle fear. The bombing birthed a faith in me—faith in my neighbors, in the world, in my government, and in a spiritual power. This faith allowed me to learn to trust again—to turn back the terror, refuse the fear, and go about my life in the best way possible. And although it took time, I also learned human beings aren’t meant to live in a cloud of dread. Instead, our souls are meant to celebrate life, to embrace it fiercely and fearlessly. Of course, that didn't stop me from being afraid on 9/11 as I saw more buildings explode and more cities on alert. But instead of cowering in my home this time, I knew I had to live not fearfully, but rather defiantly. Some terrorist wants to take me out? Fine. But by God, he's going to take me out doing things I love instead of being glued to a television set desperately wondering why someone hates my country. Been there, done that. Got the t-shirt.

There were people who decided to live in fear after 9/11, and those feelings were only reinforced by the President going on television every night telling horror stories of an enemy working to destroy America. Suddenly my country found itself drowning in paranoia and dread, and this fear was used by the White House regime to set in motion an agenda that has, in its own right, terrorized the world. But even in the wake of 9/11, with Oklahoma City flashbacks playing in my head, I knew we couldn’t be propelled by a government of fear. And I know that even more so now. And that's why Dennis was in my head today playing the role of my conscience.

The more I thought about Dennis and John and George and fear, the more entrenched I became in an election day voting dilemma: Should I throw away my vote and vote my heart, or should I vote for the guy who might actually stand a chance of winning? Thirty minutes before the polls closed, I didn't have an answer. Then I got a phone call from my niece.

As I was driving to my polling place, Susan told me about her entire voting experience. At 32, my niece voted for the first time today, and she was thrilled. She told me she voted for Wes Clark. "I have to vote ABB in November," she said, "So this time around I voted for the person I wanted to vote for."

"What's ABB?" Sometimes I'm not so hip to the cool slang.

"Anyone But Bush."

It was 6:55 p.m. when I pulled into the polling place parking lot. I vote in a community center, last door on the right down a very long hall. The walk gave me time to dwell on memories of hanging chads and The Sunshine State and the face of a man declared President by the Supreme Court. With every step I took, I heard the cadence "A-B-B. A-B-B."

An elderly gentleman and two blue-haired ladies greeted me as I walked into the room. I signed the roll sheet and was given a ballot. I went into the voting booth.

Looking down, I saw the word "PRESIDENT" followed by a list of names, and I had an epiphany. My niece was right. I have to vote ABB in November, so today was my chance to make a positive statement. To vote for someone instead of against someone. Suddenly John didn't seem so shiny at all as I colored in the space to complete the line for Dennis.

As I pull back the covers on my bed and slip inside their warmth tonight, I go to sleep secure in the wisdom of the founding fathers. As revolutionaries who fought and died for a new system of government, they ensured that no one else would have to. In their cleverness, they devised a system which provides for a peaceful revolution in this country that takes place in a voting booth. And all they asked of us is that we be smart. I was reminded of this a couple of hours ago as I held a slip of cardstock in my hand, marked a name, and wielded something more powerful than any weapon of mass destruction.

I voted today. And I feel redeemed.

Post-Election Epilogue

There's nothing more pathetic than a pity date. Just when I thought I couldn't feel any worse than being stood up by John Kerry on election night, along comes the guy elected prom king telling me he wants to embrace those who voted for his opponent. No problem. Like the desperate political wallflower I am, I was willing to forget the distinct lack of hugs and kisses we Democrats have received the past four years just to experience that tingly sensation of being asked to dance by the popular guy. Unfortunately, the tingles went away before the music began.

In his acceptance speech on November 3rd, George said, "America has spoken." The very next day, he said, "the people have spoken," followed by, "I earned capital in the campaign, political capital, and now I intend to spend it." Suddenly, the prom king swerved back to the right, no longer interested in those from my side of the aisle. "America has spoken," he said. But I didn't vote for George Bush. Where does that leave me?

I was so ashamed by the Democratic loss that I wanted to hide. My spirit was broken. Left with nothing but John Kerry's empty promises, I was heartsick. On top of that, George's recurring theme belittled my vote, indicating the only votes that mattered were the 59 million cast for him. I rolled over when the President of the United States inferred my thoughts, dreams, ideals, goals, and values had no place in my homeland. I developed a case of liberal laryngitis as I discovered rhetoric is yet another weapon of mass destruction. I felt I was living that nightmare where you call 9-1-1 but aren't able to speak. And I so wanted to speak. But between the silence of the Democratic party and the majority vote, I felt I had no right. So I remained silent. Then came Fallujah, and, with it, a cure for my laryngitis. And now I have some things I'd like to say.

Mr. President, you need to get over 9/11. Yes, it was horrific and terrifying. Yes, we were attacked on home soil. But the same thing happened in Oklahoma City. I want to scream, scream until my vocal cords are bloody threads, scream to you and the world that we need to stop living in the shadow of the towers. We need to learn from Oklahoma City, learn that not only can terror’s victims survive, they can thrive. You might argue there's a difference. A difference in body count, in attacker, in situation. But there's not. Death is death, destruction is destruction, terror is terror. And a bomb is a bomb, whether it be an airplane or a Ryder truck. Oklahoma City has proven there's no need to attack the world, no need to live in fear. Should we be cautious? Absolutely. But fearful? Never. Fear brings out those instincts we teach our children to overcome on the playground: We don’t strike out in anger, and big kids don’t hit little kids, even when little kids hit them first.

Mr. President, I wish you would remember the words you spoke right before you talked about political capital: "[I]t's very important for those of us in the political arena, win or lose, to recognize that life is bigger than just politics...."

You're right, Mr. President. Oklahoma City and 9/11 have taught us that life is bigger than just politics. So cash out that capital, walk across the aisle, and ask me to dance. And while we're waltzing, I'll whisper into your ear how wise you are in knowing that life does go on and how the best revenge is, indeed, living peacefully and well.

~END~

By Means of Introduction...

Wow. My first blog post. Don't get me wrong—I'm not a blog virgin. I have a blog on MySpace. But I feel I need to kick it up a notch given the current political situation, so I've decided to join a real blog community and not hold back on my feelings.

I am a POD—Pissed Off Democrat. There are many things I'm pissed about, but mostly what gets me going is the war in Iraq. I'm against war in general, but this massacre in Iraq has just got to go. Senators Kerry and Feingold introduced a resolution today to call for the withdrawal of troops. Only 13 Senators, all Democrats, were brave enough to vote for it. I'll remember this come election time. But I digress.

So I am a POD, and I'm coming out of my political retirement to actively find, fund, and support the most progressive candidates I can for the mid-term elections in November 2006 and the presidential election in November 2008. I'm thoroughly convinced if this world is ever going to be a better place, we've got to get away from the Republican agenda. And that means replacing Republican office holders with progressives. And although I am a POD, I'm not necessarily talking Democrats. I don't care what party a candidate is as long as that candidate is pro-peace, pro-choice, pro-Bill of Rights, and fiscally responsible. And yes, Karl Rove, all those things can go together.

I'll be using "A Pretty Hand-Basket" as my political blog. And since politics is so wrapped up in religion these days, there'll be times I'll be talking about Jesus. I should warn potential readers that I'm not going to pull punches. The language will be rough sometimes, and the rhetoric will be cutting. But it's all the Truth as I see it. If people would follow what I fondly call The Donna Plan, I know the world would be a better place. And if you're listening while Karl reads this to you, George (because we all know you don't read), then you'd better sit down. And stay away from the pretzels because it's going to get bumpy.

I'm going to start by posting (or re-posting) some of my MySpace blogs. That way, readers will be able to get a feel for who I am and what I believe. If you like anything about my blog, feel free to leave a comment. If you don't like what you read, go read Ann Coulter. You're probably made for each other.

So I leave you, dear readers, with this warning: If liberals scare you or raise your blood pressure, stop right here. But if you're ready to rebel against our own King George, read on. I hope my words inspire you to be a part of the biggest revolution this side of 1776. I hope you will join me in the Take Back Our Country movement. We will educate, we will protest, and we will vote. And we will win and have peace at last.