Stand Up and Be Counted

I know I speak for everyone when I say how relieved I am that Election Day is finally here.   The pundits and others in the outer limits of journalism shall return control of my television set.   I can answer the phone boldly without fear of speaking to a robot.  And I can read the newspaper without cringing over yet another moronic revelation.  

I was raised during an era when patriotism and respect for our elected officials was taught in school.  We had “Americanism” competitions where we tried to outdo our classmates by demonstrating our national passion and understanding of the American Way.  Sure, it was brainwashing in the first degree, but the idea was a good one.  We learned to cherish our liberties and our identities as Americans.  There was a sentiment underlying it all that we sank or swam together.  Free speech still had a modicum of respect mixed in.  And, dare I say it?  We could not enjoy good fortune if it came at the expense of others.

The world is vastly different today than it was back then.  We have lost our innocence and our patience.  We are becoming more and more compartmentalized, insular, and skeptical.  It has engendered a culture of closely guarded self-interest. The campaigning process has become like a non-healing wound; the scab keeps getting picked again and again.  It is an ugly sight.

In the last 24 hours I have received  seven emails from President Obama, 2 phone calls inquiring whether I had a ride to the polls, robotic calls from both Elizabeth Warren and Scott Brown, three door tags, and one door-to-door solicitor with a list of the names of voting-aged people in my household.  I also received a personalized postcard in the mail a few days ago revealing how many times I voted in the last five elections.

My polling place is an elementary school.  I headed over at 10am, scheming that if I arrived halfway between the start of the school day and lunch time I might hit a lull.  I  waited in line only 3 minutes.  Our town maintains an alphabetical list of registered voters by home address. After giving my address and my name I was handed a ballot.  No one asked for photo ID, or a high school diploma.  I looked around to see if any poll monitors were present, but everyone seemed to have a specific working role.

The ballot was a simple one, including the presidential election, the hotly contested Senate race, a Congressman, and a few state and local officials.  It was interesting that for each race, the ballot indicated which individuals were “seeking re-election.”  This new wording replaced “incumbent.”  I took a moment to imagine the political capital spent arguing that being dubbed “incumbent” imparts an unfair advantage.  Well, at least they were able to agree on something.   Strangely, this terminology applied only to the state candidates; the presidential candidates were presented on even footing.

In addition to the candidates, we had a series of other important measures on the Massachusetts ballot, including whether consumers should have access to the same maintenance information that car dealers have, whether medicinal marijuana should be legalized, and whether we should be allowed the right to die with dignity.  All in all, the process was anticlimactic given the rancor of the weeks leading up to the election.  I grabbed my little "I voted" sticker, wearing it as proudly as a newly-vaccinated kid wears a Snow White band-aid.

Our state has no high tech ballots or punch cards.  I was handed a legal-size sheet printed on heavy paper.  In the booth, I used a felt-tipped marker to color in the large oval shape by my choices.  I had a nostalgic chill of panic run through me that evoked my SATs.  What if I did not fill in the hole completely, or went outside the lines?  Would my vote still be counted?

The next step in the process took the most time (and is bound to cause a hopeless bottleneck during peak hours.)  I stood in line with my unconcealed ballot until I could check out with a second set of address books.  Skip this step and your vote will not count, I was told—although I could not figure out how they would determine which ballot is mine.

Today made me think of one of my favorite pieces of history:  George Washington’s Farewell Address.  It is an open letter he wrote to the American people upon his eventual retirement from public office.  I read it frequently, realizing that the success of this country was as much a result of his artful leadership as it was due to the crafting of the Constitution.  His insights and cautions are as apt today as they were nearly 220 years ago.  I am struck by how prophetic his words continue to be, as in this excerpt:

“The very idea of the power and the right of the people to establish government presupposes the duty of every individual to obey the established government. . .To put, in the place of the delegated will of the nation the will of a party, often a small but artful and enterprising minority of the community . . . make[s] the public administration the mirror of the ill-concerted and incongruous projects of faction, rather than the organ of consistent . . .plans digested by common counsels and modified by mutual interests.”

TenaCITY

I love New York.  If you’re like me, you know a lot of people there.  I have legions of relatives, former classmates, musician friends, and other acquaintances who call New York home.  Some of these people would never live anywhere else.  Many are involved with careers in business and finance, entertainment, fashion and the arts.  Some were born there.  Others were drawn to the city’s electricity and swallowed up by its endless opportunities.  I seems that once you have lived in New York City you can never return to your natural habitat.

I love New York.  Every few months I feel the need to visit that great city.  It is my version of race car driving, or taking a zero gravity flight.  I know in my heart that New York is not my ultimate destiny, yet for a couple of days each year I treat myself to a grand adventure in free fall.  I prepare to be overwhelmed, to place myself in sensory overload.   It is a place in which to get completely lost, to try unfamiliar foods, to see obscure exhibits of art or books, or to find wardrobe items that have never been seen in a mall at home. 

I love New York.  It is a place of anonymity, where the self-conscious become invisible.   A shrewd people-watcher can take stock of the measure of Man.  In its streets, the most successful and possessed professional shares a crosswalk with the world’s most downtrodden.  The barest whisper of a girl walks past a dangerous criminal.   Sitting on a corner, I have watched the entire world pass by, hearing every language and bearing witness to every walk of life—all in the span of time it takes to devour a hot pretzel. 

I love New York.  It is the face of our country to the rest of the world.  Through it, others see our freedom and our audacity.  We are admired, we are judged, we are scorned.  The people of New York take it on the chin for the rest of us.  We envy their rich lives.  We pity their vulnerability.  We mourn their losses.

I love New York.  I feel a strong connection to this larger than life Metropolis where I have never lived, but where all my interests are rooted.  I visit as a pilgrim, anxious to return to my favorite museums, shops,sights, and restaurants.   It is my favorite playground, igniting a joy that allows me to return home to live happily.  And richly.  And safely. 

I love New York.  Its hurricane-drenched aftermath weighs heavily on my heart and soul.  It is a martyred city that, having done so much for us, was made to bear our suffering, too.  Yet the surge that inconvenienced us paralyzes them.   And yet they endure, wearing their scars like a badge of honor.  They put on their suits and their walking shoes and hit the pavement, cranking up the engine slowly until it once again outpaces the rest of the world. 

I love New York.  I could hardly wait until this next weekend, when I had planned to meet my daughter in our favorite city.  I have not seen her since taking her to college in August.  I have not hugged her since that last moment before I drove away.  But New York is hurting.  The infrastructure is not up to its capacity, unable to handle those who make the city home.  There is not enough gas for the taxis or food for the masses.  We need to let them heal and fix and dry out and recover.  They are not up for playing the gracious host.

I love New York.  So I will stay at home.

The Fall Back Position

There are many reasons why I love autumn.  I love Nature’s Technicolor display as my majestic oaks slowly blush, and then lose their leaves.  I do not regret the extra annual expense from our landscape service.  Their weekly mowing job becomes one of finding my lawn under a blanket of spent foliage.  The “fall clean-up” is done at least twice in this season, the first rendered ineffective after only a few hours.  We make fun out of photographing the house after it has been swept and blown clean of leaves—on the lawn, the driveway, the gutters and the roof—and then again two or three hours later, when it is restored to its thickly obscured state.  A newcomer to my home would not know how to find the driveway under the thick padding of leaves.

There is something beautiful and poignant about the sight of Nature’s renewing itself, turning down the temperature while it takes a break from the extremes of summer.  I love the frosty mornings and the promise of soft sweaters.  We begin to sip hot chocolate and mull spiced cider.  Soon, holiday baking begins and the house wafts with aromas like apple pie and gingersnap cookies.  The summer of stir fries and gazpacho gives way to maple glazed butternut squash and a pot of spicy chili.  My slow-cooker resumes its role as workhorse, cranking out week after week of homemade soups, chowders, and bisques.

While summer blinds us with sun, I much prefer the light of autumn.  It is a crisp and true light—not the glare of a neon bulb.  It is a time when greens, yellows and reds are considerably more visible and saturated.  I love to fill my house with green hydrangeas accented with purple and orange flowers and huge bowls of farm-fresh apples.  I am forever arranging and rearranging vignettes upon my kitchen counter, tickling my own fancy with the beauty and flavor of the season.  It is this time of year when I remember why it is that we live in New England.

This weekend we get one of my favorite Fall treats—the opportunity to set back the clocks.  I cherish this weekend each year.  There are few chances in life to turn back time.  I love the luxury this extra hour imparts; it boosts my productivity and allows me to feel as if I have caught up on life.  Fortuitously, the time change brings a splendid morning light, which tends to awaken me extra early.  It is a quiet morning filled with excess electricity.   I am up and dressed and fed with a whole morning ahead in which to tackle bonus activities.  I try to hold onto that invigorating feeling for as long as possible, letting the morning sun fool my body clock for days (and hopefully weeks) to come.

Many people use this time to sleep in—treating it like a $20 bill found in the pocket of an old coat.  I am afraid of the karma that would bring; we are, in fact, robbing Peter to pay Paul.  I am loathe to squander this hour and risk a deficit I cannot repay.  It is not an ‘extra’ hour; rather, it is my hour.  I try to use it as meaningfully as all the others I have left.

Here Ye, Women!

My husband is fond of saying that anything can be made better by making it shorter.  I think he was referring to writing--although he could be talking about me.  There are a lot of complex issues floating around before Tuesday's election.  I hope everyone votes.

 

Hear ye, Women!

A tiny thing, our presidential vote,

Of value only when it’s cast away,

Once ballots counted, that is all she wrote,

Will we be free to 'choose' another day?

Misogyny remains a latent threat,

Despite acknowledged gains of Rowe v. Wade—

I’d rather live without the Internet

Than throw away the progress women made.

Fair ladies, send a message that is clear,

A woman’s body must remain her own,

Such politics betray a greater fear,

By men who dread their stature overthrown.

Don’t let the politicians fix our worth,

A woman’s equal rights begin at birth.

His Chemical Romance

[Spoiler Alert]  Denzel Washington is a fine actor who makes smart film choices.  That’s why we were excited to see his latest movie, Flight.  In the months leading up to tonight’s premiere, we saw harrowing footage of a heroic landing of a commercial airline flight.  With Robert Zemeckis at the helm, we were prepared for an emotional thriller, Denzel’s emerging as a Sully-like hero who saved the lives of his passengers—“souls,” as the flight crew referred to them. 

Flight is anything but a thriller—despite the fact that I found myself biting my nails for the duration.  It is a cautionary tale of a man who can’t be honest with himself, whose arrogance and recklessness lead him on a path to self destruction.  Its suspense comes from our love of the star, if not his character.  We fear he will not do the right thing or learn from his mistakes.  We brace for the worst.   It is not a toe-tapper.

This film could have been about any professional who works in a high performance, high responsibility job.  The fact that I travel frequently and spent a good ten years of my life traveling constantly for business made it all the more poignant.  There was a particular trip to New Orleans back in the mid-90s when a 767 on which I was traveling lost one of its two engines mid-flight.  We made an emergency “crash landing” in Jackson, Mississippi, at an airport that was too small to accommodate wide-body jets.   Fortunately, everything else in the plane was operable and we landed successfully, albeit hard, thanks to an experienced pilot and a lot of foam on the runway.  I remember the fear of facing death, clutching a photo of my young children in my hand and fixing my eyes on them even as I “assumed the position.”  It was an experience I hope never to relive.  This movie took me back a little too close for comfort.

On another level, the film takes a peek at the human relationship with death.  In one of its most interesting scenes, the injured Denzel limps out of his hospital room, desperate for a cigarette.  He finds a safe haven in the stairwell, only he is not alone.  He meets a young drug addict, and a terminally ill cancer patient.  Together they take account of their respective damages—one being hurled toward death by disease, another by heroin overdose, and Denzel seemingly by accident.  Their responses are sharply contrasted:  acceptance, resilience, and denial.  Throughout the film are random murmurings about G-d’s will.  Are we to accept a dire fate because it is G-d’s will?

But what if our fate is man-made?  As the National Transportation Safety Board holds its hearings, we become painfully aware of how much of our life is left in the hands of others.  It is a complex world.  We take for granted that the cars we drive are expertly crafted, or that our processed foods are safe to eat.  How many aspects of a routine airplane flight are subject to human error, negligence, or incompetence?  Corporations are known to cut corners to squeeze out larger profit margins, testing the limits of established maintenance guidelines.  And then there is the presumed integrity of the uniformed crew that greets us as we board the flight.  Travel is a blind product.  We teach our kids not to get in a car with strangers, yet we put ourselves in the hands of those we do not know and fasten our seatbelts for take-off.  This is the real definition of faith.

With Denzel Washington in the driver’s seat, I found myself wondering whether his character would somehow rise above his failings and be allowed to rest on the laurels of his heroism.  It was repeated again and again, no one else could have landed that plane.  I wondered how far Hollywood would twist this modern day moral tale.  Would we forgive his human failings and find understanding in his back story?  Could he clean up his act in the eleventh hour and skate through the investigative process, learning his lesson once and for all?  Would the investigation in the aftermath of the crash be as negligent as the process that contributed to it?

Flight is an excellent film with sensitive portrayals of broken characters.  It is not formulaic, but it manages to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.  There are no cheap shots or easy answers.  This is not a comfortable film to watch, but it is immensely satisfying because it insists that everyone get what they deserve. 

One Man, One Vote

I am not a constitutional scholar, yet every four years I find myself debating my other self about the wisdom and sustainability of the Electoral College System.  This became a more heated discussion in my head when we saw the inevitable drama of 2000 unfold, whereby the man declared president by electoral votes failed to achieve a majority in the popular vote.  This has happened only twice before in history; both times a Republican won the office with electoral votes over a Democratic opponent who secured the popular vote.  Rutherford B. Hayes and Benjamin Harrison were each one-term presidents—Hayes by choice, and Harrison after defeat by Grover Cleveland.

It is always fun to return to the historic roots of the Constitution to understand best how we got into our current mess.  The right to bear arms, for example, stems from the Minutemen’s defiance of British oppression, mostly in response to unfair exploitation of the colonies by the Crown.  There was a growing fear in England that the colonists would organize a militia (how right they were!)  When the British marched on Lexington and Concord, it was largely to destroy stockpiles of arms and gunpowder.  (Here in Lexington, the taverns that housed the arms still stand!)  The spirit of the Second Amendment and “the right of the people to keep and bear arms” had little to do with defending themselves against each other, but rather was a declaration that the colonists had the right to defend themselves as a body against their oppressors.

The Electoral College is also an interesting Constitutional construct when seen in its own historical light.  In fact, the framers of the Constitution thought the general public not worthy of casting votes for the highest office.  There was never any consideration of “one man, one vote,” or for citizens to have equal voices in the selection of the US President.  The Electoral College was designed to give power to the States in selecting the President.  It was a balancing safeguard against overcharging the federal government with too much authority.

Our Founding Fathers could never have anticipated the extent to which we, the people, could become involved in a general presidential election.  Who could have foreseen the technology that would allow candidates to visit multiple states in a single day?  Who could have foreseen our ability to follow what a candidate says from town to town, to cross reference the claims and promises and to observe body language.  We know more about our presidential candidates then we know about ourselves.  We watch what they eat, what they wear, how much money they spend, and with whom they have slept.  We scrutinize the parts in their hair and the colors of their ties. 

Perhaps the framers of the Constitution understood that good government requires engagement, involvement and contact.  Practically speaking, a candidate for the highest office in the land could not have reached out to his entire constituency within a campaign cycle.  It made sense for the candidates to rise from the ranks of the Senate and Congress and then be vetted against the particular needs of the states.

The question is whether we have now outgrown this level of government paternalism.  With around 45% of Americans of voting age refusing to cast their ballots, it becomes more likely that the distribution of electoral votes does not represent the distribution of American votes cast.  Whether due to apathy, a sense of futility, or just plain laziness, when we do not turn out at the polls we sacrifice the power of our individual votes.  Although the framers feared that the common man (and eventually the common woman, too) did not have the wherewithal to vote responsibly, it was always their intention that the votes cast by state would be represented proportionally by the allotted electoral votes.   That it does not is an American tragedy.

Unfortunately, there are many barriers to doing away with the Electoral College.   The most difficult one is the fact that gaming and suspicion pervade our political system.  Whichever party moves to abolish the electoral system for a more generalized election policy will be suspected of having a near term agenda.  An even greater hurdle is the fact that the Electoral College gives power to the states.  Even if a proposed Constitutional Amendment survived the unlikely 2/3 majorities of the House and Senate, it would then require ratification from 38 out of the 50 states.  I cannot imagine a scenario where states would rally to give away the power that the current system vests in them.

Election night has become  a lot like watching the battle of the lapiths and the centaurs.  We hunker down with a bowl of popcorn to see whether the red states or the blue states will prevail in an awkward and bloody battle.  It seems less and less about the candidates and less and less about the people of the United States.  In the final analysis, the only way that we as individual citizens have a fighting chance is to get out and vote.

Disaster Averted

This has been a week of close calls.  We have been on storm watch as Hurricane Sandy hurled her whims in our direction.  We executed the emergency drills, stowing the deck furniture, pruning loose limbs, evacuating the autumn leaves from the gutters and filling the cars with gasoline.  Over the weekend we stocked up on canned goods and bottled water and withdrew a reserve amount of cash from the ATM.  We kept cell phones and laptops fully charged.   I even posted several days of blogs on timed release in case I could not get network access.  On our kitchen counter, we lined up an array of emergency candles, flashlights, and batteries.

Waiting for hurricanes is a bit surreal.  The predictive computer models are so sophisticated that they are able to forecast almost a week in advance the precise trajectory of the storm to within miles and minutes.  We brace for the surge of the storm even while the air is still and the sun is shining.  Its arrival is certain; only the scope and scale of the devastation in unknown. 

Many survivors describe disasters and accidents as seeming to have happened in slow motion.  This is what it is like waiting for a hurricane to hit.  We watch while the storm intensifies, moving as slow as 10 or 15 miles per hour toward us.  It is remarkable that anyone is caught off guard, as hurricanes are very good at announcing their arrival and their intentions.  Sandy was predicted to unite promiscuously with a Nor’easter, and then quicken by the force of a full moon.  She was as good as her word, hitting the Jersey shore on target, and then fanning out across 1000 miles of Atlantic coastline.

It was impressive to watch.  Satellite photos looked like a CGI-enhanced, apocalyptic Hollywood disaster film.  The Weather-Channel reporters looked as imperiled as Jack-Ass characters.  And from my living room, I watched as dark-clouds moved uncharacteristically from the east, bringing with them the wind gusts of witches’ spells and heavenly plagues.  Happily, my husband came home before dark.  Together we waited for broken trees, power failures, and flooding.

Today we have a bit of survivor’s guilt, watching in horror as news outlets replay horrific scenes of fires in Queens and Stephen King-inspired flooding of elevator shafts.   I have heard from cousins who watched fearfully as nearby rivers crested, the waters creeping toward their home like Birnham Wood approaching Dunsinane.  Other friends spent days without power, then offered shelter to those in need.    Many are affected by the loss of NY subway service, trying to adjust to the inconvenient truth of a new normal.   Others we do not know will be starting their lives from scratch after the loss of homes and commercial boats.

So today, I thought it was my due when my laptop was suddenly besieged by an ominous message box from Microsoft Security Essentials declaring my computer infected by a deadly virus, urging me to immediately initiate a scan. 

“Not again,” I groaned.  Since commissioning this laptop at the beginning of the year, I have twice been forced to restore it to factory settings.  Despite an army of anti-virus products, I continue to be vulnerable to attack.  This time, however, I took a deep breath.  Without pressing a single key, I stared at the screen.  That’s when I saw it:  a revealing typo.  I read the official looking “Microsoft” message out loud to myself, detecting in it a hint of inappropriate definite articles and other artifacts of broken English.  Checking the URL for authenticity, I determined this was fraudulent and immediately shut my browser.   I pulled up the “real” MSE and ran a Quick Check.  My computer was in perfect health.  Just for good measure, I ran the long scan and made it through hundreds of thousands of files without a hitch.

I am not a person who usually finds luck; I have learned to work hard to make my own.  It is with humility that I count my blessings, conscious of those who are suffering this week.  On the other hand, maybe I’ll by a lottery ticket.