First Tuesday after the First Monday in November, Every Four Years: Sins of Commission

dirty little confession: not in my first Presidental election, not now, and not at any point in between have I ever left my voting place without a few shameless little goosebumps (detectable only by me) and even, on occasion, an accompanying swell of emotions. Even now, there are no computer terminals (in favor of faded markers and plain printed ballots), no booths (in favor of portable plastic carols), nothing noteworthy at all, save the fast food wrappers and bags of chips piled high on a fold-up conference table from volunteers' long hours in a sweaty middle-school gymnasium. The whole shebang is all very temporal, all as easily disassembled as the cardboard stalls of street vendors.There's nothing the least bit sexy here; but, of course, that is exactly the appeal.

All PACs, lobbyists, cynical politicians, big business moneys, and campaign finances aside, memories of the 2000 convention now irrevocably overlay and color those of my first First Tuesday in November. I can no longer think of my first time voting without also thinking of a moment when, the night after Clinton spoke, former Senator Bill Bradley stood all alone at the podium and, amid euphoric eulogies to the renowned $USD, said publicly what so many us have hoped privately in our hearts for so very long: "You don't have to give up your idealism to be successful in America." (See Note #10)

September, 1992: All the News That's Fit

second confession: along with virtually everyone else I knew, I voted for Tom Harkin in the 1992 Iowa Caucuses. Not even ballots in this election -- volunteers corralled us into different portions of the university gymnasium, counted us, and reported what we all knew: at our voting place, the prominent Iowa Democrat had handily beat former "Governor Moonbeam" of California (Jerry Brown), Paul Tsongas and a whole host of other assorted characters, most of whom, we'd only vaguely heard.

Later that year, through a politically apathetic (though apparently well-connected) friend of my girlfriend Katie, I scored a pair of tickets to see President Bush speak on a campaign stop in downtown Des Moines, IA, where I was in my second year of college. The VIP passes gained us access to the only opened entrance to the Veteran's Auditorium, where, for me, naïveté met initial disappointment: in those days, there was none of what critics of the 2000 Republican National Convention called "Affirmative Action, The Musical" and, in fact, nothing particularly affirmative, particularly active or, least of all, particularly musical going on at all. (See Note #11)

I suppose this is as good a point as any for a third confession (an extended sin of omission). Lots of gay friends talk of having "gaydar," by which they claim to be able to spot -- like a blip on a screen -- another person of same-sex persuasion. Well, many of us Semites might be said to have "Yidar" -- same principle, different group (admittedly, I am not much help in naming the secret Wonder Twin power possessed, alas, by Gay Jews). Well, with Yidar on full alert, I scanned the lobby for any signs of Yiddisha kopf or even a Hebrew-inflected gentile accent. Nothing. A blip? Not even a false alert. Had I wandered into a spot as bereft of conspicuous Jews as a Bush family Texas oil country club golf outing? Could I be that sure? Without putting too fine a point on it, Jews in Des Moines, IA (and about a million other diasporic places) develop the visual talent to spot a dark-skinned, kinky-haired fellow traveler about as quickly as they develop the aural talent for distinguishing local patois from "back east" (which is consequently anywhere between Washington, DC and practically the Canadian border).

Not on this day. The average age seemed to be about 50 and I watched as folks reacted to waiting in line for the security check with a curious inquisitiveness that made me wonder how long before someone grew weary and asked when we expect to board first class. If (at the back of the line) I had no luck "thinking Yiddish," I realized the mistake I'd made (at the front of the line) by breaking form and not "dressing British." Just imagine my horror when, after passing the metal detector unscathed, one guard (agent?) began inexplicably poking Katie with a rolled up newspaper and told her "lift up your shirt." Perhaps I should re-fashion this narrative to read that I expressed purely chivalric outrage at Katie's impending humiliation; unfortunately, my discomfort came from a fact that I have not yet mentioned, that I was wearing a "Mexican" style rough-knit pullover sweater. And as though that weren't contextually indulgent enough, I was, this entire time, engaged in a harmless little act of (what I assumed would be) private sabotage. Underneath, I was wearing a T-shirt featuring a sparsely-rendered modernist carrot and the words "George Bush: Vegetable or Noxious Weed?"

Even as Katie listed the obvious reasons for not lifting her shirt and passed with a few expertly-placed newspaper pokes, I tried to mentally fabricate my own reasons. To this day, I am conflicted with both shame and pride that the only words I could silently conjure were those of a profound gem from Bush's predecessor: "Ketchup is a vegetable." (See Note #12)

A few symbolic brandings later (I still wonder: which newspaper was that? Which section? "Are you done with op-ed?"), I found myself staring directly over a bank of newscameras and directly at an enormous poster promoting Bush's education policy, written in childlike "Crayola" font (think of the Toys 'R' Us logo) and hung in strategic "grassroots" position among spectators, for what might as well have been a "filmed before a live studio audience" appearance. After his entrance (from out of nowhere), Bush sat on a swiveling wooden barstool and literally led the cameras through an orchestrated charade of "audience questions." No one mediated this downright bizarre, even surreal, televisual event for which, as far as I could tell, each chosen member of the audience had been rehearsed to stand and ask his or her question in accordance with Bush's body movements on the stool. At one point, Bush "swiveled" almost 180 degrees and (like the lead in some refund-worthy interactive theatre in the round) stopped at almost exactly the same moment a young woman I recognized from campus stood up and said -- this is a very close paraphrase of both her caveat and question -- "I have a very tough question for you, Mr. President. As a young person, I am concerned about finding a job when I graduate, so can you elaborate on your economic policy to help ensure a strong job market while you are President?"

Layers of memories overlay in pastiche, perhaps a Miro or Dali of disparate moments in my life, or even the lives of former selves (describing these memories, I imagine backlit snow against a blazing desert blur): I remember during the Bush rally thinking back to a day in early high school in the late 1980s -- a class field trip to the Kansas State Legislature. It is one of those short and cold winter days where the color gray becomes so ubiquitous that visions of sugarplums can't help but begin to dance and students can't help but begin to do some of their least learning. On the House floor, they are defeating an amendment making it illegal to discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation. Only one representative speaks in favor of the amendment, and the kid next to me starts laughing. The speech turns out to be a cleverly cross-dressed fire-and-brimstone rhetorical co-optation espousing what the representative calls the quintessentially American values of inclusion and tolerance and respect for individual rights. But no matter. Out of somewhere, a clerk wheels an enormous red tin of pretzels dolly-style onto the floor, and most of the representatives proceed to stand around chomping and laughing and talking, water-cooler style. Even then, I feel irate as well as sympathetic with the sole soul speaking in favor. What they're not doing is listening or engaging in dialogue, taking part in the debate or acting much like citizens, let alone representatives. Even now, I cannot overstate the impact that day had upon me: on the spot, it almost killed my faith in democracy. All civics cloaking aside, it was nothing more than a city council meeting, all dressed up with nothing to do.

Read my lips: the feeling of disappointment on this day (as a teenager) almost always conflates with my memory of that day, years later, when (as a young man) I saw Bush speak. A moment of crystal-sad clarity, it's only when I remember how those pretzels became an end in themselves (on so many different levels) that I understand the fantastic sleight of hand by which ketchup became a vegetable and by which the Presidential appearance of that hot September day was orchestrated with such glossy-cynical precision.

10. For a copy of Bradley's August 15, 2000 speech, see http://emediate.dems2000.com. Bradley also honestly urged "To all those young people who believed that America can be just, I say never give up and never, never sell out." Much has been said of Clinton's middle-leaning politics. On another side, I suspect statements (and indeed speeches) like Bradley's could not (or would not) have been made without at least Clinton's persona, if not his tightly targeted policies. Like Bradley, he (at least) believes. Could Bradley have said this at the 1988 DNC? (Return to Text)

11. In the previously mentioned New York Times article (August 2, 2000), Dowd called the Republican convention "an icky evening of Republican kissy-face and blaxpolitation," and dubbed it "Affirmative Action, the Musical." (Return to Text)

12. This debate re-emerged in '90s fashion, as salsa-as-a-vegetable (which won Federal school lunch program approval). Proponents (including the Center for Science in the Public Interest) quickly pointed out that, in place of vinegar and sweeteners, salsa is often entirely made of vegetables. See http://www.amarillonet.com/stories/070198/new_as.shtml. (Return to Text)

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