I met Jim Croom on a cold rainy Sunday in late November of 2016. Donald Trump had recently been elected president and after a few weeks of almost comatose like despair, I decided I needed to do something. Anything. So, I went back to church – a place I had not been in a while since leaving my old church when I moved from Greensboro to Winston Salem. My wife and I had been searching for a new church and we had never been to St. Anne’s Episcopal Church. They were welcoming a new interim rector that day – enter The Rev. Dr. James Croom.
Father Jim – yes, that’s what we called him because I couldn’t imagine calling him anything else – looked like he walked out of central casting for Anglicans in America. He was in his mid-60’s, an elegant and graceful man with a warm smile and a clever sense of humor. He was slender and slight, and he walked with a cane that first Sunday, but his voice carried into every corner of the church. We would later learn that he spent thirty years as a professional opera singer before being ordained – which made sense after hearing him beautifully intone part of the service. He celebrated communion with a euphoric reverence. And he read some of the liturgy in perfect Spanish. We were smitten from that first Sunday, but we admonished ourselves to not get too attached because he would be leaving in less than a year. We were able to hold fast to that promise for about 20 minutes until we heard him preach for the first time. We were goners.
That Sunday Father Jim delivered the sermon I didn’t know I needed to hear. He talked about his own pain about the recent election – his own tears, his own disbelief over what had happened. And he dared to ask the question that I had been struggling with every day since election day – “Where was God in all of this?” I will never forget his answer. He said, “God is here with us, the real question is where are we in all of this.” I have come back to his words time and time again over the past four years – most especially when unfathomable things have happened in our world. On that Sunday he didn’t sugar coat our challenge – he said it would be terribly difficult at times, but our charge was to “be the grace of God in the world.” So much for that eye for an eye mentality I had been hoarding. His words draped over me that day like a shawl that I kept clutching more closely.
Father Jim would preach many memorable sermons at St. Anne’s – often sitting on a stool in front of the congregation. He was a formal man, but so accessible and generous with his spirit. I loved so many things about him but none more than his ability to be so vulnerable in the moment. Often while reading the Gospel, he would be so moved by a passage that his voice would crack, and he would stop speaking and gently rest his hand on his heart while he regained his composure. He cried easily without shame or embarrassment. He was a saintly Velveteen Rabbit – and he became more real the more we loved him – and we felt his love in return. He embodied authentic kindness in a manner I have rarely encountered, and I always felt a bit lighter when I would leave him – as if he had somehow absorbed some of my burdens.
Father Jim gave us a going away present before he left – a mini concert. He sang “Bring Him Home” from Les Misérables. If you are not familiar with the Gospel According to the Tony Awards, this song is performed by the musical’s main character, Jean Valjean, as he pleads to God to save another man’s life. It is a show-stopping prayer and let me just say with all due respect that Hugh Jackman is no Jim Croom. There was not a dry eye in the church. And we’re talking a room filled with Episcopalians.
God on high Hear my prayer In my need You have always been there.
He is young He’s afraid Let him rest Heaven blessed. Bring him home Bring him home Bring him home.
He’s like the son I might have known If God had granted me a son. The summers die One by one How soon they fly On and on And I am old And will be gone.
Bring him peace Bring him joy He is young He is only a boy
You can take You can give Let him be Let him live If I die, let me die Let him live Bring him home Bring him home Bring him home.
Father Jim went home yesterday afternoon after a long battle with cancer. I will mourn his loss as will everyone who ever knew him, but I take comfort in one of the last messages he posted on his rector’s blog at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Monroe, NC.
“Thank you, dear Friends. As we enter the new year, please love as hard as you can, and know that my love for you grows every single day. May your days be fully and richly blessed. And know that I miss you.”
The Choirs of Angels just gained one hell of a tenor.
My dear wife often jokes that I must hate something before I love it. The most annoying thing about her observation is that she is right. Perhaps the most blatant example of this quirk (I’m being generous to myself) is my change of attitude about tours. You know, like guided tours, the kind where you spend two weeks with total strangers on a motor coach with a guide covering a lot of ground in Europe. Nope, not for me. Or so I thought. Never underestimate the power of true love.
My wife and I were married in May of 2014 and her dream was to go to Italy for a belated honeymoon that September. I had traveled there a handful of years earlier with three friends, but one can never have enough Italy, so I said sure – until she proposed the idea of doing a tour. She made a strong case – tempting me with perks like no waiting in lines at sites, no stress of driving in a foreign land and the big one – no schlepping your own luggage. And she ran the numbers that clearly showed we could get a lot more bang for our Euros by going the tour route. So, I acquiesced and immediately started worrying about the boring obnoxious deplorables we would be sharing our journey with.
Once again, I was wrong. Are you sensing a pattern here? I call it the luck of the Australians, and we were blessed with over a dozen of them on our tour. Bottom line – toss in a dozen Aussies and you are guaranteed to have fun. You may need to enter rehab upon your arrival home, but meanwhile, you’re going to have the time of your life. We fell madly in love with our mates from Oz and remain in contact with many of them to this day via social media. A subgroup of them has a reunion every other year or so and always manage to include my wife and me in the festivities – like a drunken conference call at 2:00 AM in the US. That 14-hour time difference is tricky. The last time they got together they had two little dolls representing me and my wife and we made it into almost all the pictures – and some of the drinks.
We never think of these travel friends without smiling and we hope to visit them one day in the Land Down Under. My life is bigger and richer for knowing them and I have my wife to thank for nudging (shoving) me into saying yes to a tour. The downside to that trip was that the bar was set awfully high for future trips. I thought we’d never even come close to such a great group of companions. And then we went on safari to Africa in 2018. There’s really no way to travel in Africa other than a tour unless you’re Bear Grylls and/or incredibly wealthy. We are neither, so once again my wife researched the hell out of all the tours and picked one.
If you’ve ever been on a tour, you know that the initial meet and greet is fraught with anxiety. That’s when you first see who you’re going to be stuck with for the next two weeks. It’s like a blind date on steroids. We arrived in Arusha, Tanzania very late at night and rode on a shuttle van to our lodge with some others who were on our tour. I sat in front of a woman from NJ who never stopped talking. And she was a loud talker – one of my pet peeves. She droned on and on – her poor husband never said a word and I started panicking at the idea of being with her in a jeep on safari for ten days. I leaned into my wife and said, “I cannot be with her. I will lose my mind.” My wife is so much better at rolling with obnoxious people than I am. She smiled and told me it would be okay. I was not convinced.
The next morning our group of 13 gathered after breakfast for the moment of truth. Loud Talker was already there monopolizing the conversation and my palms began to sweat. My anxiety was interrupted by a woman from IL who started talking to me. Not loudly. She was friendly and interesting. Her name was Candy, and she was traveling with her husband Fred. Our host introduced us to the two guides who would be driving us and after an overview of the trip, instructed us to get into one of the two vehicles parked out in front of the lodge.
Candy and I wound up next to each other on the walk to the jeeps – Loud Talker was ahead of us. Enter Divine Intervention. Candy turned to me and said in a slightly desperate voice, “I cannot be in the same jeep with her.” I grabbed her by the arm and said, “Follow me!” like I was Indiana Jones leading her away from the Temple of Doom. We climbed into the open jeep – our spouses followed. Already seated were a brother and sister, Jim and Suzie, who I had previously identified as nice. We had one slot open – and then came Marge – a soft-spoken solo traveler. Our vehicle was full, and we were safe. Funny thing – the rest of the entire trip, the seating arrangement never changed. Our group – our fabulous group – was together for the duration.
My wife is prone to motion sickness, so she rode up front with the driver – she offered to rotate her spot, but everyone was so kind, and we all sat in the same seats each day. I was beside Candy and Fred was in the way back with Marge. They were the serious photographers in our pack. I mean really serious. Multiple cameras and long lenses. They liked being in the back because they could stand up when we stopped and have no obstruction as they were shooting.
Fred looked like he was on assignment for National Geographic. You know how some people look like they just bought an outfit for the trip that they will never wear in their real life? Not Fred. His safari wardrobe was well weathered. He looked like he could be in an ad for a safari or a model for the J. Peterman catalog. He was a quiet man – only speaking to add insights into what we were seeing. He was smart and well-traveled, and he was super sweet to his wife, so we liked him a lot right away. And he had the eye of an accomplished photographer and would spot animals long before we did.
Candy would take pictures with her iPhone like us, but then she would call out to Fred like she was Martin Scorsese, “Did you get the lioness on the rock?” Fred always dutifully and cheerfully got the shot. Later at dinner every evening, he would show us some of the primo shots of the day and we would wonder if we had been on the same game drive. Impressive zoom lens you got there, Fred. And we were so surprised after one of the first nights of the trip when Fred called our room and asked if we wanted to meet for drinks before dinner. We liked Fred even more then and we had some lovely conversations – mostly about some of the many places where he and Candy had traveled. We learned about their son and their two granddaughters and that they loved cats, too. The life stuff that helps you get to know someone.
Fred was one of those rarest of men – at least in my experience. He was a man’s man – an Eagle Scout/MacGyver kind of guy who I’m sure could have gotten us out of any sort of jam. He was also a gentleman who would help you up that first big step into the jeep without making you feel inadequate. He had a kind smile, and he would give Candy and me a sly grin when Loud Talker went off on one of her tangents at dinner. And I repeat – he was so sweet and attentive to his wife. Like he would always ask if she wanted another drink before he got the check. Little thoughtful things like that. I think my wife and I both had a little crush on him and I’m certain Candy wasn’t the least bit worried. They were one of those couples that’s just good together and you enjoy being around them.
I could tell that Fred was a good dad and granddad, too. At the airport on our flight to head home, my wife and I had spent all our shillings – that’s the Tanzanian currency – and we desperately wanted to buy a couple of bottles of water. Fred overheard our frenzied discussion and kindly came to our rescue and paid for our waters. Just like a dad to save the day.
The flight from Arusha to Amsterdam was packed and we never saw Fred and Candy again. When we got home, Fred sent me some amazing photos that he had taken and we exchanged holiday cards. Two years ago, Candy let us know that Fred had been diagnosed with cancer. Fuck cancer. He was in and out of the hospital and rehab and we had not heard an update in a while. Until yesterday. Candy let us know that Fred had passed away last Sunday.
I was at my desk when I read her message and I sobbed. Sitting by myself in front of my laptop, I just couldn’t stop crying for a man I had only spent ten days with. I think this pandemic has stripped many of us of any protective layers we might have had. I know I have been teary about a lot of losses of late. And honestly, it’s not a bad thing to be completely authentic with your emotions. I pictured Fred hanging off the back of the jeep to get the perfect shot, telling a good story, watching an amazing sunset. Fred. Happy being on a magical safari with his wife.
I gathered myself and responded to Candy how very sorry I was and that my wife and I would always hold Fred and her in our fondest memories. She wrote back, “Wonderful memories of the best trip ever. And our last together.” Gulp.
So, this is my long way of thanking my dear wife for making me not hate tours. If not for her, I would have never met Fred Brown.
I recently streamed the film Nomadland and it may just be the most perfect movie to view as our pandiversary approaches. Yep, one year – one endless year in lockdown. The movie is adapted from the book Nomadland: Surviving America in the 21st Century by journalist Jessica Burder. Fern, a sixty-something-year-old woman, played by the astonishing Frances McDormand, is a fictional character that does not appear in the book but is based on a composite of many of the real-life vandwellers Burder followed for almost two years. Here’s the basic plot – Fern puts most of her possessions in a storage unit, tricks out a weathered van to live in, and hits the open road of the American West. Her husband Bob has died and the town they lived in has been dissolved after the closing of the local gypsum plant. There is literally nothing left for her as she leaves Empire, Nevada to find seasonal work at an Amazon fulfillment center in Virginia. She’s got a few personal belongings and a good bit of unattended wanderlust as she heads out alone.
Are you all in? Okay, life can’t be all Bridgerton. Stay with me just a while as I connect some existential dots. I’ve always appreciated clever symbolism and Fern’s storage unit was a pandemic Pandora’s box for me. Most of her belongings are mundane – old furniture, some lamps, clothing – but one special box is filled with dishes her father gave her when she graduated from high school. The pattern is Autumn Leaf and we learn later in the film that he had collected the set at yard sales over the years. The only other item she pulls out of the pile of boxes is a denim jacket – her late husband’s – and she hugs it to her chest and smells it – longing for the scent of her lost life.
I had a storage unit for a couple of years after I moved in with my wife. I had owned a three-bedroom house and was downsizing into her condo. You’ll need some backstory here. My dear wife was a minimalist long before Marie Kondo made it fashionable. She values experiences over things. True story – the first time I came to her condo when we started dating, I thought it was the model unit. I’m serious – there was just not much stuff. I’m pretty sure I broke into a cold sweat wondering how this would ever work out if we got together for the long haul. I had some stuff. Quality stuff, but quantity, too.
I pared down when I moved in with her and rented a storage unit for things I would save for when we moved into a bigger place. The transition to minimalism was a rocky one for me in the beginning. I can laugh out loud about it now. Early on my wife said to me, “what you own, owns you.” Back then, I didn’t mind being owned by a lot of pottery. Today, I no longer have a storage unit and when it came time to get rid of it, I only kept a few antique pieces that belonged to my parents. I either gave away or sold the rest. And guess what? I don’t miss any of it. And I’m grateful for a spouse who would never say I told you so. Oh, and we never did move to a bigger place. We decided to live small and travel large. Okay, we may have questioned that decision more than a few times during the past 12 months.
We’ve all had to store a lot in our metaphorical storage units this past year – luxuries like trips and dinner parties and eating inside restaurants – and more precious things like visits with loved ones. I haven’t seen my sister in California in 14 months – since Christmas over a year ago. She works in healthcare and has had half a dozen COVID exposures at work. She is now fully vaccinated, and I am sleeping better at night. We speak on the phone every day and sometimes we get teary when we wonder when we will be able to see each other again. I always miss her but knowing she has been in the epicenter of the pandemic has been excruciating. That’s probably why I have little patience for those whining about frivolous matters like vacations. Not to go all Melania on you, but, no, I really don’t care that you haven’t been able to go to Europe in a year.
Now don’t get me wrong – I’ve been no role model for selflessness during this pandemic. I’ve had more than a few breakdowns over having to make dinner for the 18th time in a week. Those meltdowns have sometimes ended with an entrée of a peanut butter sammie paired with a nice Malbec. One night before bed a few weeks ago, I told my wife that the white dishes she has had for over a dozen years were sucking my soul dry and that I desperately needed some color in my dinner plates. I give her a lot of credit. After listening to my emotional nonsensical monologue, she paused a few seconds before responding and then said tenderly, “I didn’t realize this was so important to you.” I felt heard and sometimes that’s what you need most in the middle of a pandemic. Note: We still haven’t gotten any new plates because I seemed to have gotten over my deep dish anguish.
Some of us put hair color and professional cuts in our pandemic storage units. I haven’t seen my stylist in a year. If you had told me this a year ago, I would have laughed in your face. No restaurants are one thing, but no cut and color? Am I an animal? Well, now that you mention it, my wife now lovingly refers to me as a silver fox. The fox part is obviously quite generous, but the silver is accurate. I’ve gone a bit grey and I don’t hate it at all. 500,000 dead and counting really helps put one’s hair color in perspective. Now, I know I’m lucky that my wife discovered mad skills as a haircutter during lockdown. She’s cut my hair on the front porch, the deck and in the bathroom when the weather turned cold. She really enjoys doing it and it is has become a pandemic ritual that we both find quite settling. I’ll go back to my stylist eventually, but probably not for color. And with the money I’ll save, I too can go to Europe.
Frances McDormand cuts her own hair in Nomadland. I bet she cuts her own hair in her real life, too. She has long been one of my favorite actors and I am always drawn to her authenticity. I saw an interview with her the other day in which she recalled a review of her Oscar winning performance in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri. The critic wrote that “a close-up of Frances McDormand’s face is like visiting a national park.” McDormand loves that description and she loves the story her face tells. And it is a perfect vantage point from which to view the bare natural landscapes we see in Nomadland as Fern moves from park to park following the seasonal work.
While Fern’s journey in the film is a solitary one, she is buoyed by her new community of nomads. They share meals, help each other out and listen to each other’s stories of loss and love. Their grief is tinged with the shared hopefulness of wanderlust. In one of the most moving scenes of the film, Fern has a soulful conversation with Bob Wells, the author and YouTuber who is a vandweller guru. She tells him that her father always told her that what is remembered lives. She says wistfully, “I maybe spent too much of my life just remembering Bob.”
I know I’ve been guilty of that – too much remembering. Losing my parents the way I did – only seven months apart from each other when I was still relatively young and the cascade of collateral damage that followed that loss – broken relationships and bad decisions – made me yearn for a happier time. Like Fern, I have been looking back for too long. This pandemic has made me turn my gaze more forward to something beyond my borders. No, this doesn’t mean I’m buying a van and hitting the road, but I’ve spent a lot of pandemic time working on emptying out some of my emotional storage units – the one filled with regret and shame for past decisions, the one filled with expectations of others that will never be met, and the one filled with burdens I no longer want to carry. I want to travel lighter when this lockdown is over. I want more room for discovery.
Near the end of Nomadland, Fern returns to Empire to empty out her storage unit. We see the back of a pickup truck filled with her belongings. “Are you sure you don’t need any of this stuff?” the owner of the facility asks her. Fern has a peaceful look of certainty on her beautifully worn face as she responds, “No. I don’t need any of it. I’m good. I’m not gonna miss a thing.”
For as long as I can remember, I have subscribed to a dangling carrot approach to life. I’m always looking forward to the next special thing, whatever it might be – a vacation, a birthday party, a visit to a winery. This never-ending pandemic that we find ourselves in has made me question the sustainability of such an outlook. In short, the carrots these days are in short supply.
Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe this is a silver lining to my life in lockdown. I’ve had to search for smaller carrots – like the perfect cup of tea on a grey winter afternoon. English Breakfast with a touch of cream. Making tea has become a bit of a meditation for me this past year. It’s a quiet ritual – just me and the kettle. I should say that I’m a lifelong coffee drinker, but in the pandemic, tea has become the thing I look forward to a couple of times during the day and always in the evening. I guess you could say that my tea has become a daily cup of tiny carrots and that’s probably enough of that analogy.
I should have been on to the magic powers of tea long before now. My dear wife and I watch a lot of British television and we’ve noticed that the Brits first response to any dramatic or emotional incident, ranging from the confession of an affair to a grisly murder, is to put the kettle on. This has become a running joke for us, and we often call the phrase out loud when some poor bloke gets knocked off on one of our shows. In British films and television, no grave news can be processed without a cup of tea. We’ve noticed that the standard American response to the same news is to offer a glass of water. I’ll take me cuppa, thank you.
I’ve observed that tea pairs well with a pandemic. There’s something inherently comforting about putting the kettle on and waiting to hear the familiar whistle. And after you drop your tea bag into the cup, the one you pulled out of the cabinet because it’s just right for tea, you must wait a bit. Tea requires more patience than coffee – a helpful quality during these trying times. Tea feels more intentional – more like a journey – coffee feels like a destination. You never really hear anyone say, “I’m going to grab a quick cup of tea.” No, tea is a stroll and coffee is a run. Coffee would text if it could and tea would send a handwritten note.
Okay, you might be worrying that I’ve run out of things to entertain myself with in this pandemic – just because I’m analyzing the personalities of hot beverages. Not true at all. In fact, I’ve found that the art of tea drinking has made me more present to things around me – small things, like the soothing shade of butterscotch that my tea turns when I put the cream in. And I often look out the kitchen window as I wait for the tea bag to steep. I may see a neighbor walking by and wonder how they’re navigating this bizarre time. When I drink my tea in the evening, I’m usually sitting beside my sweet wife and I am as aware of my gratitude for her as I am the warmth of the cup in my hand. Tea is thoughtful.
I must admit that tea feels fancier to me than coffee and I’m here for it. Years ago, a lovely young woman in Stoke-on-Trent introduced me to the splendors of a full English tea. She had me at clotted cream. You see, the Brits have snacks with their afternoon tea – proving once again that they are a more civilized nation. Tea is usually served on a two-tiered tray with both savory and sweet snacks. And, of course, at a proper tea, the tea is made from loose leaf tea and not a tea bag. I’m much too lazy for that and besides, I enjoy the dunking of the bag. In a pandemic we take our pleasures where we find them.
The joy of tea drinking has been one of the rare, pleasant surprises of the pandemic for me. It has provided me with a daily peaceful respite from the anxiety of the past 11 years months. It makes everything around me feel quieter and more centered and I’m happy to have been lured by the kettle’s whistle. The Brits are famous for another bevvy that my dear late father was fond of – the gin and tonic. And I’m so fortunate that I married a woman who can mix a G and T that would make Winston Churchill weep. Bloody hell, summer can’t be that far away. Things are looking up, mates. Cheers!
When I was around 11 or so, I was obsessed with The Man from U.N.C.L.E., a TV show about two secret agents – one American, the other Russian – working for a multi-national intelligence agency. My favorite agent was the Russian, Illya Kuryakin, played by David McCallum. He was dashing and mysterious and wore black turtlenecks a lot. I would say that I had a crush on him, but even then I knew I was gay, so, I really wanted to be him – or at least dress like him. I was so obsessed with the show that for Christmas that year I asked for the Illya Kuryakin secret lighter gun. It looked like a cigarette case/lighter from the outside, but it fired caps and inside had a secret radio compartment. I know there had to be other things on my list that year, but I couldn’t name one if my life depended on it. You see, I got what I wanted most of all. And that, in a nutshell, was Election 2020 for me.
Yes, I had a long wish list, including Democrats regaining control of the Senate. I’m still hoping that present arrives late by way of Georgia, and I’m totally cool with that. But here’s the thing – what I wanted the very most was for Donald Trump to not be our president after noon on January 20th, 2021 and I (and 79 million others and counting) got that – even if it does take an army of Secret Service agents to remove him. Paging Illya Kuryakin! Joe Biden will be the next president of the United States and I’m going to just let myself be happy about that for a minute. And I’m proud that I played a teeny tiny part in helping to make that happen.
In August, I started phone banking for Progressive Turnout Project, a non-profit organization dedicated to connecting with voters one-on-one and getting Democrats to the polls. I guesstimate that I spoke with over 3,000 voters – those were actual conversations and doesn’t include the hang-ups and go to hells. Thankfully, I only got a few of the latter and they only came near the end when everyone was suffering from election fatigue – even the people who were happy to hear from me.
I know calling a stranger on the phone and talking to them about voting sounds like a fresh hell to many of you. I get that, but to me, it felt like the most important job I’ve ever had. And I loved it. Most days, I felt like I was making a Ken Burns documentary – interviewing all sorts of people all over several battleground states, but mainly in my home state of North Carolina. Every day I would talk to folks who lived in towns that I never heard of – Supply, Lowgap, Peachland and Chocowinity to name a few. I listened to some southern accents so thick they made my North Carolina born wife sound like she’s from the Bronx.
We followed a script for our calls seeking some basic information – who folks were voting for, how they were voting – i.e. early voting in person or by mail or on Election Day – and their main concern in this election. I captured this information on my iPad, but early into my calls, I started taking notes on a legal pad – writing down things people would share with me. It felt important to me to capture these thoughts and save them – you know, like a special card or note you get in the mail and slip into a drawer because you’re not ready to let go of it just yet.
I was the one who often felt heard in so many of my conversations with people who articulated many of my own concerns – the chaos and disinformation of the past four years and the assault on so many issues I care about – social justice, income inequality, climate change and oh, yeah, democracy. I know some of these voters were a lot like me, but the conversations that left their fingerprints on me were the ones with folks not at all like me – the very young, the very old and the people of color.
One afternoon I called Deasia, a young black woman in New Bern. She was in her car with her mom on the way to early vote for Biden. I knew by the sound of her voice that this had to be her first time voting in a presidential race. She said cheerfully, “I just turned 18. Today is my birthday.” She told me that racial justice was the issue most important to her. I wished her a happy birthday and told her that she would get her present on November 3rd and she laughed politely. She was sweet like that.
The oldest voter I spoke with was 96 and lived in Goldsboro. I asked her what issue was most important to her in this election and she said, “Honey, I’m an old woman. I don’t care about issues. I just want people to get back on their feet and get work and be able to feed their families.” I spoke to many of these wise owls over the past few months and believe me, I hung on every word.
But I think my favorite call was with the young black mother in Sanford I spoke with on the Sunday before Election Day. I asked her if she had voted yet and she said, almost apologetically, “No. I was going to early vote on Saturday, but my water broke on Friday. I’m in the hospital – I had a Halloween baby.” I was shocked that she was speaking with me at all, much less being so nice. I congratulated her on her baby, a girl, and told her that I would let her go. She said, “Oh, that’s okay. I can talk.” She went on to tell me that she would probably be released from the hospital later that day and that she planned to vote on Election Day. I told her that she could certainly vote curbside if she wasn’t up to standing in line – just thinking about that made me wince. She said, “I’ll be okay. I’m determined to vote. This election is so important.” We talked for a good while about family – this was her third child. She told me that education is very important to her – especially getting her older kids back to school safely. As I was thanking her before ending our call, I said, “Oh, I forgot to ask you your daughter’s name.” She replied in the sweetest, most tender voice, “Serenity. Her name Is Serenity.”
There are days that I fancy myself to be a decent writer, but I could never make up a story that good. And yes, sometimes there is crying in phone banking.
In addition to all the voters that gave me hope, I had some emotional support political junkies throughout this election – namely Jeff and Chris. Jeff is my best gay boyfriend and we are frighteningly similar in many ways – good and bad. We are both passionate about politics and on occasion don’t play well with others when they don’t seem to be as engaged or enraged as we think they should be. He is wicked smart politically and is a great student of history. I like to think of him as the Queer Eye version of Doris Kearns Goodwin. Now that’s a podcast just waiting to happen. Maybe next cycle.
Jeff and I, like over 65 million other people, carried our scars and PTSD from 2016 into this election. We both vowed to not give into our poll paranoia (damn you, Nate Silver!) and exude what we called nauseous optimism about Election 2020. Joe Biden was neither of our first choices, but once he became the frontrunner, we were all in for riding with Biden. Sure, we had some weak moments during the long campaign, but we mostly kept them to ourselves through anxious texts. Jeff is also one of the funniest people on the planet, so we laughed ourselves silly through some of the tenser times. One day we were texting about The Lincoln Project and Jeff wrote that he wanted to have Steve Schmidt’s babies. A laugh like that can get a girl over a rough patch.
Chris and I have been friends for so long we can’t remember how long. She lives on top of a mountain outside of Charlottesville and is retired and worked her liberal ass off writing a gazillion postcards for Democratic candidates this cycle. We have been through a lot of elections together – including the 2000 Gore v. Bush nightmare. She, too, has a very keen political mind and puts her money where her blue heart is. She somehow trusted me to help guide her numerous contributions to senatorial candidates throughout this cycle. I must confess, I really enjoyed spending her money. I adore Chris, but she would admit that she was a Nervous Nellie as Election Day drew closer. She would text – “Talk me off the ledge” – and I would. I knew Joe Biden was going to win. I had a certainty about it that belied my cynical nature. And I have all those voters that I spoke with to thank for that. Well, not the ones that told me to fuck off, but you know, even they inspired me in a different way. I just knew that they did not represent the majority in our country. And I was right.
So, it was kind of perfect that Chris was the one who told me that Joe Biden had finally been declared the next president of the United States. I had been babysitting Steve Kornacki and his khakis for days just waiting and watching and learning more about the districts in Pennsylvania than I ever dreamed possible. My dear wife had been so patient with my obsessive viewing that I relented to go for a walk with her the Saturday morning after the election. I felt certain no call would be made until later in the afternoon, but I took my phone with me just in case. We were about 30 minutes into our walk when a text from Chris came through: “I didn’t know I would cry.” I frantically texted her back, “What?” And she said, “They called it.” I screamed, “It’s over!” so loudly that people in their yards started cheering. And then I took my wife in my arms and kissed her like she was that nurse in the famous V-J Day photograph. We practically danced the two blocks to the home of some dear friends who had just pulled into their driveway and had not heard the good news. We shared the biggest virtual hug ever and smiled our faces off. Then my phone rang – it was Jeff, of course. I hadn’t heard him that excited since the Pippin revival. I can only remember that he told me that he loved me and thanked me for everything that I had done. And I have never been happier to hear his voice.
I spent the rest of the day glued to coverage of the joyous global celebrations and I took some quiet time to think about all those voters that I had spoken with since early August. Those everyday Americans who love their country and cherish democracy. They made me believe in the best of humanity again and in some ways, they made me believe in myself again. I wished I could call them one more time to thank them. And it felt a lot like that Christmas morning so long ago when I got what I wanted most of all.