Photo: my contribution to zeFrank's group project, "from 52 to 48 with love", to help heal the election divide.
Last night over dinner, Amelia asked me who I voted for. I struggled to swallow my potato-leek soup, I looked down into my bowl, and I took a deep breath. Then I told her, even though all the while I felt as though I were committing a cardinal sin.
That is private, I was always told. You NEVER ask ANYONE who they voted for, or how much money they make. (And questions about sex were so taboo that the rule against them went without even saying.) In politics, I was encouraged to not even select a party, but to judge each candidate on his or her own merit. Like journalists or news reporters, we were taught to maintain an appearance of objectivity, even though fierce and passionate opinions were waving their arms and jumping so wildly in the background that you couldn't miss them if you tried.
You know where everyone stands, though no one can name the positions. It is like watching a baseball game in which the commentators aren't allowed to name the bases, nor the umpire allowed to call, “ball”, “foul”, or “strike”.
And yet the game is what it is.
Yet, by working so hard to appear “objective” or “independent”, you miss out on primary voting, for one thing. Naming support for a candidate publicly with a button or t-shirt is not allowed, and actually campaigning for the candidate of your choice is completely unheard of. Celebration or sorrow after the election is frowned upon, as it will give away your Big Secret. Who You Voted For.
Last night I couldn't help feeling sadness for all I'd missed—the opportunity to help line my street with Hope posters in the window, the chance to wear a t-shirt and invite a political conversation, the invitation to leave my cynicism by the wayside and really—publicly—
believe. I missed celebrating, for fear of alienating the ones who mourned their loss yesterday. When I heard last night on NPR that every newspaper in the city (as far as the interviewee could tell) was sold out, I could have wept. It hadn't even occurred to me to buy one.
This containment of the political is part of
my inheritance of silence, part of a bizarre mixed message: proselytizing for religion--good, conversion conversations for politics--bad. It's taken me this entire election cycle to see the way I've lost my voice in this arena.
This I believe: I will not feel this sorrow again. I will speak now, and in the future.
Hope has triumphed over fear. Even for me. Even in this
. Amen.
Photo by Bella Cirovic, shetoldstories.com
Photo by Bella Cirovic, shetoldstories.com 
52 to 48, originally uploaded by jenleedotnet.
Thursday, November 6, 2008 at 9:14AM |
Reader Comments (4)
Wow Jen, well said. Did you grow up next door to me? I'm glad you are finding your voice - and in turn helping others to find theirs.
Celebrate the HOPE!
Jen,
There are those who ignite the flame and those who valiantly continue the embers flickering in their true glory. Wear that t-shirt, hang that poster. Celebrate President-Elect Obama's transition the next 75 days by doing one item each day or week to proudly show your support. You've earned it. That's the beauty of hope, we need it now more than ever. It's a relay race one member starts the race and you and I can continue it. Invite that political conversation, have you own personal inaugural of the politic personal. There's no need for sadness but glee so you and I can cheer today going forward. Yes. We. Can.
Trish
yay! it will be so happy to have you. politics (and politicking) is very, very fun.
welcome!