[Author’s Note: This is my first Kos diary. I’m an avid reader of this blog and an occasional commenter, but I’m a little intimidated by the writing skill and researching talent of the diarists here, so don’t expect to hear from me often. I offer no useful links and no breaking news. This is just a bit of me sharing my thoughts in the last few days. I hope some of you find them interesting and worth the moment spent.]
Yesterday was a very proud day for me. I’m a fifty-five year old, overweight white female, a Christian, a native-Texan and a life-long Democrat, like my mother and grandparents before me. I took a shine (as Gramma would have said) to Barack Obama way back last year, but I knew he was my candidate when I watched his victory speech after the Iowa caucuses. "Yes, we can!"
It had been a long time since a politician actually inspired me. Anyway, I started donating little bits of money here and there, and I bought myself a t-shirt, a hat and a few other things. Please follow me over the fold —
The first of my stories occurred last Saturday. I had been out running a few errands and decided to stop by a fast-food restaurant on my way home to pick up dinner. (Budget time, you know.) I happened to be wearing my Obama 08 t-shirt. The previous times I’ve worn it, I’ve only had one person say anything about it and that was positive. I’ve noticed a lot of smiles when people see what I’m wearing, and I’ve seen a couple of frowns, but that’s about it. This is Dallas, after all, and there are more and more progressives in Dallas County every election.
The girl behind the counter noticed my shirt and smiled. I smiled back as I took the bag o’burgers and headed toward the door. Just before I got there, a man approached from outside. He apparently saw me coming through the glass door and so he held it open for me to step out. I thanked him as I started to pass by, but suddenly his finger jutted out in front of me, bringing me to a sudden halt as he pointed at the "Obama" on the shirt.
"What’s that?" he asked gruffly.
The hairs were starting to stand up on the back of my neck, but I replied, "This is my Obama shirt. I’m hoping he’ll be our next President."
"You want a commie n***r to run the country?" he yelled at me. The noise of the restaurant behind me got suddenly very quiet.
I’ll admit, I took a small step backward. "No," I replied as calmly as I could. "I want the best man for the job to lead our country and I believe that’s Barack Obama." I just stood there for a few seconds. I would have had to move a little closer to him to get through the door, and I really didn’t want to do that, and retreat was so not an option. Of course, it was a little annoying to have him standing there staring at my, uh, chest, but finally, he turned his head to the side and let fly with a blast of tobacco-laden spittle that passed me about a foot away.
"Ain’t votin’ for no n***r," he announced. "I’m an American. I can vote for anybody I please."
"Yes, sir," I replied, "you can. And I’m an American and I can do the same." With that, I figured I’d be pressing my luck if I waited any longer, so I shot off a quick, "Have a nice day." and moved past him and headed for my car and I didn’t look back.
I’ll admit, it bothered me a bit that night as I lay in bed thinking about it. I had a pretty good idea that if I’d gotten really indignant and told him what I really thought of his bigotry, things might not have ended as, well, peacefully as they did. Did I do the expedient thing? I wondered if that made me a coward. Maybe I should have tried to engage him in discussion.
But the truth is, there was no way my getting angry would have changed his mind. And his tone and body language made it pretty clear he wasn’t going to be very receptive to reason. I resigned myself that I’d done the only thing I could without risking making the situation a lot worse.
Now I come to the second tale. Yesterday — October 22, 2008 — I voted.
It’s not like I haven’t voted before, but somehow in years past it just seemed something you did if you were a good citizen. Kind of a duty. Something I learned from Grampa, if you don’t vote, you don’t have any right to bitch for the next four years! And four years is a long time not to be able to bitch!
Yesterday was different. This entire election season has been different, and I think most everyone here knows what I’m talking about. This time it feels more important. This time, there seems to be more at stake.
I planned it out carefully. I waited until the third day of early voting to let the overly anxious voters get through. I have back problems and arthritis that makes it difficult to stand for very long at a time, so I was trying for a reasonably shorter line to have to wait in.
I drove into the church parking lot just before 10 a.m. and a car pulled out right in front just as I got there. It had an Obama-Biden sticker on one side of the bumper and a Noriega for Senate sticker on the other. There’s a good omen, I thought! I slipped into the space and headed toward the front door. The line wasn’t exceptionally long, but it was out the door and all the way down the steps. I spent a few moments exchanging small (non-political) talk with an older lady in line behind me. We moved quickly though, and in about 15 minutes, I was escorted to my machine and the election worker pressed the right buttons to bring up my precinct’s ballot. I stood there for a second just looking down at the first page of the ballot — savoring the moment — then I did it. I pushed a button. The one that simply said "Democratic Party."
With the push of that one button, checkmarks magically appeared next to the names of candidates of European, African, Latin American and Asian decent; Jews and Christians; men and women. There was even at least one gay candidate! Short, tall, blonde, brunette, bald . . . Yes, this is what the Democratic Party’s slate of candidates for my precinct in Dallas County, Texas, looked like. That’s what my party looks like, and that wealth of diversity made me proud to be a Democrat.
When I had reviewed all the choices (to make sure the machine knew who actually was a Democrat) I hit the flashing red button and walked out with a smile on my face. (One of the election workers even commented that I looked happy, and I told him I was -- very!)
As I left, I thought back to my tobacco-chewing (and spewing) friend. I guess I could easily feel distain toward him, but I don't. I just feel sorry for him. His prejudices have blinded him to the glorious tapestry around him. A country, a state and a community made up of a wide variety of people — and ideas and cultures — all contributing, all part of the whole, and all of us Americans. He’ll benefit from my vote today, too. Even if he doesn’t realize it yet.
Yes, the spitter is an American, too. And maybe one day he’ll come to realize just how much that really means.