Oh-Ba-Ma. Oh-Ba-Ma.
I’ve received some lovely emails over the past couple months asking, essentially, if I am dead.
Nope (and here I knock on the desk, which is actually not wood but rather some high-end particle board, maybe? My dad [HI, DAD!] is right now wincing because, at some point, he taught me how to properly identify various building materials. And the different parts of a car engine. And how to shoot. And spit. And drive in the snow, keep your canoe upright when going over a waterfall, and train your dog to heel. Some of these lessons I’ve retained [shoot, spit, drive] and others, alas, have disappeared over time, probably to make room for all the other stuff I’ve had to stuff in my brain over the past decade. Right now, I’m picturing my brain like a large duffel bag, and I’m packing to visit my friend Dia in San Francisco, and can’t fit everything, so what stays and what goes? Do I need both pairs of high heels or can I lose one pair to fit the raincoat? Same thing with my brain—somewhere down the road I forgot about the car engine ‘cause there’s so much Kafka to cram up in there) (and if you say to me, your voice full of scorn, “Well, Megan, knowing your car engine is actually NECESSARY in this life, whereas the Kafka …” and you trail off, like you don’t even need to go on ‘cause your silence speaks volumes to which I’ll reply, with equal scorn: “I’ve got a Triple A card, bitch, and at least, when things get dark, I know that I, too, have my tools.") (Or, "my weapons.") (Depending on the translation).
Like everyone, I’ve been busy; classes and work and Caleb is crawling now, so my days are a crazy, lovely juggle and, amongst all of it, I’ve been carving out writing time, such a precious commodity these days, so when I get it, it goes to my book, not my blog, which you understand, you’re such a nice internet, I adore you, I really do.
But then, things happen that make you want to talk to the world again.
And by things, I mean, of course, the election.
I have voted in three presidential elections, always for the Democrat, not because I’ve been overwhelmed by the candidate but rather because A. the Democratic platform is in keeping with my values and B. the Republican platform … well, it isn’t.
This year, however, is different: I believe in the candidate.
It’s like, I never really got it, the idea of a political leader, someone who could excite and inspire, who could get me thinking in terms of political office as public service as opposed to self service; the system existing to help instead of hinder. I am thirty-three years old, and last week—when I early voted for Obama—was the first time in my life that I voted for someone I was excited about, as opposed to against someone I was afraid of.
There was a moment during the vice presidential debates where Biden was going after McCain about something and he stopped mid-sentence to talk, instead, about Obama. What Obama will do right, as opposed to what McCain will do wrong. I liked that. I liked the focus coming back to the good. The positive. The possible solutions for all this mess, instead of more negativity and bashing and blame.
Cause the truth is?
My belief in Obama is way the hell stronger than my fear of McCain.
That’s some kinda belief there, people.
‘Cause you know my fear of McCain could fill an entire ocean.
The fact of the matter is, I would have voted for the Democrat on policy alone, and I would have voted for the Democrat because the past eight years have been, inarguably—whatever side of the aisle you sit on—a total train wreck, and I would have voted for the Democrat because I find the Republican ticket alarming (my thoughts on this have been expressed with humor, eloquence and obviousness here and here and here and here and here, and here, and, frankly, if I get into this righthere/rightnow, I’ll undoubtedly end up sounding catty, overusing run-on sentences and the caps lock key, and I’m just. so. sick. of all the negativity—of the campaigns, sure, but also in myself; I’m sick of listening to the debates and feeling angry instead of hopeful; I’m sick of watching the news and wanting to throw my coffee mug at the television; I’m sick of the whole water-cooler discussions about the current political landscape and feeling the heat rise behind my skin, as though I’m one of those cartoon characters getting pissed off and slowly filling with red liquid before exploding through the top of my head and getting the ceiling all red and drippy, so instead I’m going to do like Biden and focus on the awesomeness that is Obama instead of the [insert adjective] that is McCain) (Sigh) (Actually, no, I’m not. I’m sorry, I really didn’t want to go there, I really wanted to be respectful, but the fact of the matter is, I don’t feel respected by the man, not in the least. And yes, I disagree with the entirety of his platform, especially concerning education, which has always been my primary voting issue [because A. I honestly believe it can change the world B. it’s my profession and, you know, having a job is a good thing these days and also C. I have a kid. I have a KID!] but even beyond that, the thing that really put the nail in the man’s coffin for me—and there were already a lot of nails, don’t get me wrong, the longest, most dangerous one being his choice in running mate—was his terrifying disdain concerning women’s health during the third debate. The discussion was abortion, a heated topic for everyone, yes, myself included, but in discussing the health of the mother, McCain used actual airquotes, implying that “the health of the mother,” not only mattered absolutely zilch but was also something ridiculous, something trifling. And here’s the thing: like many women, I laid on that hospital table bringing a child into this world, and the thought that, had something gone wrong, my doctor would have been LEGALLY BOUND TO LET ME DIE is appalling. Appalling. Culture of life, in-fucking-deed. And people, I had an easy delivery! I was lucky! I was at an excellent hospital, funded by my husband’s health insurance, with very good doctors whom I trusted, and thankfully, fortunately—God, I was fortunate!—there’d been no difficulties during the course of my pregnancy (which is not always the case. This broke my heart. And made me want to scratch McCain’s eyeballs out) but sitting in my living room with my healthy, happy baby asleep in the next room watching McCain put air quotes around my life was the most disrespectful and insulting moment of this entire campaign. How dare he. How fucking DARE he) BUT! Even with all of that! All my frustration with McCain, and Palin, and Bush, the past eight years, Republican agenda, basing teacher’s pay on test scores, our plummeting 401K, the current value of my home, illogical planning for health care reform ($5000 vouchers? What a joke) and a million other things—my vote for Obama was not just a vote against McCain.
I’ve watched the footage from the Kennedy assassinations. I’ve read about Dr. King. I’ve heard the outpouring of respect for quality, inspired political leadership, and I’ve seen tears when people a generation ahead of me have discussed their deaths. The things is, I never understood it.
At least, not until now.