For millions of us, that name sounds like a call to prayer – and I’m not trying to be blasphemous – not at all. I simply mean that her name feels like a supplication for guidance to those of us who read her social media posts every morning. And give me a break – this January has made the average shitshow look like Oklahoma and I need to write about something remotely fun. Besides, who doesn’t love a cool woman known by all three names. I see you Sarah Jessica Parker.
Where she posts, I will follow.
I’ll confess, I may not floss everyday – don’t tell my dental hygienist – but I read Heather Cox Richardson like it’s my job. Yes, I do Wordle first to jumpstart my brain, then proceed immediately to Facebook (yes, I’m old) to see Richardson’s post. You can also find her on Substack where she emerged as one of the breakout stars of that platform in 2020. She publishes her newsletter Letters from an American daily and she provides a straightforward explanation of the events of the previous day. No grandstanding or hyperbole – just the facts and scholarly analysis, often providing in depth historical context for the day’s chaos. Richardson is all business, but sometimes she uses the word bonkers which delights me.
She’s a bit like a decaf Rachel Maddow without The L Word wardrobe and fashionable eyewear. Simmer down – I love Rachel, too, but watching her percolate in real time can make me even more jittery about current events, and when I read Richardson’s posts or hear her speak, I can almost feel my blood pressure dropping. There’s something quite comforting about her calm, measured delivery and her L.L. Bean fleece – you feel like you’re sitting down to coffee with her.
HCR is our MVP – every week.
Richardson, for those who have been living in a FOX hole, is a Harvard educated historian who works as a professor at Boston College. She has authored several books, hosts a podcast, and makes speaking appearances all over the country. She’s like the smartest girl in your hardest class, but she’s so easygoing and accessible, you feel comfortable asking to borrow her notes.
Her presence has never been more critical since Trump’s reelection in 2024 and his all-out assault on democracy. Her posts are never political fast food – she is thoughtful and thorough in her analysis of events. Boy, is she thorough. I know I’ve learned more about the rise of fascism after World War I from her than I ever did in any history class – and I almost always feel a bit smarter after I’ve spent some time with her.
Not wrong
I just worry about her – and I know I’m not alone. Many of us wonder when/if she ever sleeps. She usually posts late at night – way past my bedtime. And during the day, she pops onto social media for live chats about the crisis du jour. Richardson lives in Maine with her lobsterman husband Buddy and sometimes when it has been a particularly horrendous day in the USA, she’ll simply post a photo Buddy has taken somewhere along the beautiful Maine coast. She gets us.
Sometimes you just need a dose of Maine. Photo credit: Buddy Poland
I love Maine and I rented a little cottage on the water’s edge there for two weeks last summer. It was something right out of Cabot Cove – just without the murders. The owners of the cottage live nearby, and we had some brief conversation as I would come and go. On my last evening there, Dorothy, one of the owners, texted me to see if she could pop over to tell me a proper goodbye. I was delighted to spend a little time with her in “our” cottage and learn a bit more about her. Our conversation quickly turned to politics and how much we both want to get rid of Sen. Susan “I’m concerned” Collins. Spoiler alert: Her lobster is cooked.
Dorothy and I talked about the state of things and discovered that our fall of democracy survival kits were similar – NPR and the NY Times app to name a few. Then she asked me if I followed Heather Cox Richardson. “Of course,” I replied. Dorothy smiled and said, “Well, you know, she lives down the road about 10 miles.” WHAT????? My reaction was not unlike a group of 12-year-old girls hearing that KPop Demon Hunters were in the house next door.
Me when I heard I was within stalking distance of Heather Cox Richardson
I tried to remain nonchalant, but Dorothy could clearly see that I was a hardcore HCR fangirl. She laughed and said that they were friends and that she was as down to earth as could be. This made me happy and I was grateful I did not know Richardson was a neighbor until my last night in Maine. I know myself too well. I would have spent way too much time hanging around the local market – just in case. Nonetheless, I slept a little better that night knowing that Heather Cox Richardson was right down the road preparing her post for the next day.
But if I return to my little cottage this summer – all bets are off. Heather Cox Richardson – you’ve been warned.
Last week was rather Dickensian for me. It began by seeing a group of Buddhist monks pass through my city on their Walk for Peace. Hundreds and hundreds of people lined their path in reverence and were lifted by the wake of hope they left behind. It was the best of times – and I did not want that glorious day to end.
A tale of two cities
And my week ended watching and rewatching videos of an American citizen being shot dead by a gang of ICE agents – one of whom applauded after the victim lay dead on the street in front of a bakery in Minneapolis. It was the worst of times – and it feels as if these horrific days will never end.
You all know by now that Alex Pretti, the man executed by ICE agents on Saturday morning, was an ICU nurse at the Veterans Affairs hospital in Minneapolis. Jesus, irony can sometimes be as bitter cold as a Minnesota winter. Alex Pretti was a helper – by all accounts a kind man who held a deep respect for the veterans he served. In the aftermath of his death, the son of a deceased veteran who Pretti had cared for posted a video of Pretti giving his father a final salute in a hospital corridor as he somberly read aloud from text that began with these lines:
“Today, we remember that freedom is not free. We have to work at it, nurture it, protect it and even sacrifice for it.”
Like any reasonable American, I was appalled that Pretti was killed exercising his First Amendment freedoms, and his connection to veterans made my heart ache even more. The grandfather I was named for was a veteran of both world wars and my father served in the Army. And I worked as a development officer for the Paralyzed Veterans of America (PVA) for eight years. I was responsible for cultivating planned gifts – bequests, trusts and annuities – and would always visit the local Veteran’s hospital whenever I was meeting with donors. These hospitals are deeply attuned to the veteran experience, and you certainly feel a sense of respect for service and love of country when you spend time in one – especially when you see some of the collateral damage left behind by combat.
And I think that’s why I mourned Pretti’s senseless and unnecessary death even more deeply when I learned he cared for veterans. And I’m certain that is why I was utterly consumed with rage when Kristi “ICE Barbie” Noem and other federal agents immediately tried to defame Pretti’s reputation and described him as a domestic terrorist who had taken to the streets to sow carnage. We’ve all seen the videos – deep gratitude to Pink Coat Lady who risked her own safety to record the definitive angle of the murder on her own deadly weapon – an iPhone. Hey Siri – Please save us.
NO SUCH THING AS THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER – poem by Andrea Gibson
“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” is a well-known 1970’s spoken-word/song by Gil Scott-Heron that condemns passive consumerism and argues that real change only happens in the streets – and not by watching TV. I guess the song could be updated to include doom scrolling. As it turns out, the revolution will be live-streamed, and that is what is saving us, and democracy, these days.
Alex Pretti knew this and he was an active participant in what Rachel Maddow eloquently describes as “principled, peaceful, and relentless protest.” And he paid the ultimate price – his one, precious life. And cue the irony again – yesterday, the Trump administration – reacting to the massive public outrage over Pretti’s killing, booted Gregory Bovino – the Nazi Munchkin in charge of immigration operations in Minnesota – and signaled that the number of federal agents in Minneapolis would be reduced. And just this morning, we learned that the chief federal judge in Minnesota has ordered the head of ICE to appear in court on Friday for a hearing on contempt for violating court orders.
Pretty sure Mary Richards would have been protesting. Rhoda, too.
Enough? Not even close, but it’s a start and none of it would not have happened without the good and brave people of Minnesota taking their ire over how their neighbors are being treated to the streets – in sub-zero temps mind you. Operation Metro Surge – the ICE mission in Minneapolis – was doomed from the start. For starters, don’t invade a city full of descendants of Vikings in the dead of winter.
Do you hear the people sing?
I just know that a modest group of Buddhist monks in plain robes and throngs of Minnesotans in puffer coats have given me tangible hope that better days are ahead. But as Alex Pretti knew all too well – we have to work at it.
Alex Jeffrey Pretti, ICU nurse and patriot, 1989-2026
Alex Pretti’s colleagues offered a moment of silence yesterday in a hallway of the VA hospital where he served.
“First time farce, second tragedy.” ~ Bill Kristol
How it started…me, Kamala and Beth
I hate this post and I hope you hate it, too.
We’ve been here before, but this feels different – even worse than 2016 – and I didn’t think that was possible. Imagine the unimaginable – or is it the unmanageable?
This time is different. Hillary Clinton was a flawed candidate even though I enthusiastically supported her. You know what I mean – her emails and that deplorable comment – although to be fair, she nailed that one in spades.
Kamala Harris was a magnificent candidate and she ran a great campaign in 107 days. Trump’s campaign was almost two years long – it only felt like seven. Donald Trump won a free and fair election and I’m not going to take a dump on Mike Johnson’s desk to protest his victory – even though I feel shitty today. And yesterday. And tomorrow.
How it’s going… me and Dewey’s cake squares
The people have spoken, only they’re not my people – even if I’m friends with some of them or even related to them. I have always viewed my vote as an affirmation of my values and I clearly don’t share the values of what is now a majority of Americans. They chose immorality – felony convictions, sexual harassment, vulgarity, insurrection, lies, more lies, Arnold Palmer’s big putter – over decency and democracy – oh, and the reproductive health of women. But hey, I get it – the price of eggs is apparently a deal breaker for folks who don’t really believe in deal breakers.
Stuart is my people. He and his husband have been together 14 years. And he’s one of the kindest souls I know. This was his “I Voted” selfie.
In the cold dark hours of Wednesday morning, when it became apparent that we are going back after all, I sat on my couch and felt like I was teetering on the edge of the abyss. My dear wife had gone to bed because she had to go to work the next day and see a full slate of therapy clients. Silver lining – I’m feeling good about her job security with Trump’s victory. We’re going to need hella lot of therapy. And Kit Kats.
Marco (far left) is my people. He is from Italy and became an American citizen in 2016. He’s a college professor and canvassed in PA with his union. Citizenship remorse is a thing, right?
Writing is how I process the world – the good, the bad and the apocalyptic. And even though I could hardly see through my fear (not a typo) smudged glasses in the dark, I tapped out a Facebook post trying to capture my feelings. I didn’t intend to publish what I wrote, but I think I needed to connect with my people – the people who believe in deal breakers. The post went viral – at least by my modest standards. Over 40 people shared it and almost 200 commented on it. Let me be clear – this doesn’t mean I’m a great writer – but don’t let me stop you from thinking that. So, this blog post is an extension of that election night post because, well, I had more to say. And maybe you want to hear it.
It became very clear to me when I knew that Donald Trump would be president again that I could not allow him to live in my head for another four years. Enough. I’m evicting him and his rot. Think of it as an intervention on Hoarders. I’m taking out the trash. I guess you could say that I have a concept of a plan of how to go about this. Here’s what I’ve got so far:
Avoid cable news like it is radioactive
I cannot listen to his “They’re eating the cats and dogs” droning voice any longer. I cannot look at his spray tan trainwreck of a face. I will miss my TV wife Nicolle Wallace the most, but it’s time to say goodbye. Talking heads is not news – even if it is on MSNBC. I will listen to some selective podcasts and read the NY Times on my phone – until Maureen Dowd drives me to hit the cancellation button once and for all. I already ditched the Washington Post when Jeff Bezos left Democracy to die in the darkness of his billions. My gay husband suggested I subscribe to NPR’s Up First newsletter and podcast as a sort of methadone clinic for political news junkies. I might do that, but for now, I’m staying with British crime shows and Seinfeld reruns.
Become a Disinformationbuster!
I know this sounds like a fulltime position with bad hours and no benefits, but I do think that disinformation – deliberate, of course – was a major factor in this election. Let’s take for example, those ads vilifying transgender people. If you live in a battleground state, you saw them in your sleep.
AdImpact, an analytics firm, reported that Republicans spent nearly $215 million on anti-trans network TV ads alone – not including the spending on cable and streaming ads. There are about 1.6 million transgender people over 13 in the United States – representing 1 percent of the U.S. total population. And yet the Trump campaign spent more money on anti-trans ads than any other issue. Overkill? Nope, just the standard playbook for Republicans as Nancy Pelosi noted in a recent NY Times interview – “guns, gays, and God.” Once again, Republicans hammered Democrats on cultural issues to stoke the fears of conservative voters. I can tell you that being used as political collateral – again – by the GOP is not a good feeling.
Just don’t be a dumbass!
And Trump repeatedly made the absurd claim that schools are secretly sending children for gender-affirming surgeries. What the absolute fuck? And some people with a college degree still voted for him – although I’d like to see their GPAs. We have got to stop normalizing these lies because the mainstream media is not going to do it – at least not loudly enough.
So, when my friend from high school who never left the little town we grew up in posts about Democrats supporting after birth abortions and adds the prayer hands emoji for good measure, I’m going to respond with FACTS. No more free passes because you’re old or we’re related or we’ve been friends for so long. Nope. I will be respectful, but I will not ignore your participation in the promotion of these often dangerous falsehoods.
Do something!
Unlike Melania, I’ll give Michelle Obama credit where credit is due.
I’m not just going to keep howling at the moon. Now is the time for everyone to use their particular set of skills to help protect the most vulnerable among us in an even more dangerous Trump administration. I’m a writer, so I’m going to write more. Lots more. I’m thinking about starting a weekly newsletter type piece – sort of a Dollar Tree local version of Heather Cox Richardson – only without her blazing intellect and amazing context of history. The content would be a combination of pith (again, not a typo) and vinegar, but also useful information about what we can do locally as the opposition. I’m still working out the details, but the response to my election night post made me think there’s an audience – albeit a small one – for this type of content. So, stay tuned.
Jennifer is my people and she took her son to vote with her and let him put her ballot in the machine.
And I’m going to try and carry the joy and hope of this campaign with me for as long I can. I’ve worked in politics a long time and I’ve never felt anything like these 107 days. I got involved early on with my local Democratic Party and I was gob smacked by the sheer number of volunteers from day one. Some days, you could hardly find an open parking space at headquarters.
Campaigns aren’t all Beyonce and pizza. There’s a ton of grunt work that has to be done – such as assembling campaign literature and collating it into bags for canvassers. I did this several days and I saw the same group of women at the tables every time. They were mostly my age and older – retired but they showed up like it was their job.
It was like a book club sweatshop. They had all gotten to know each other and chatted away as they worked. They shared stories about their children and grandchildren and, of course, they talked politics a lot. I didn’t know any of these women – and yet I did. I knew that they had cried the same hot tears I did in 2016 when Hillary Clinton lost. And I knew that they believed that Kamala Harris would become the first US woman president. There was something so moving about their laser focus and camaraderie. They had waited a long time and they were not going to let it slip away this time. I will miss these women.
I met this woman in line at early voting. She’s been waiting longer than me for a woman president. I loved her moxieand, yes, she’s my people.
Once we had a good inventory of packets, we could start canvassing – knocking on doors for the unacquainted. It’s not for everyone, but I love it. It was even more fun because I did it with my good friend Beth. She moved here a couple of years ago from the bluest of the blue states – California. I think she had some electoral sticker shock when she started to learn more about North Carolina politics, but she was all in.
My little friend Scout and her parents and grandmother are my people. She has a chronic health condition and a concept of a plan is not helpful to her. Photo: Michael Scoggins
Yes, a lot of folks don’t answer their door and those dang ring doorbells have become a real buzz kill for canvassers. Also, you can feel pretty silly leaving a voice message for a doorbell. That said, we had a high number of good conversations with voters. I’m such a political nerd that I get really excited and often emotional about talking to voters. I consider it a privilege when they share their thoughts – and sometimes their hopes and dreams.
Canvassing with my dear wife was one of the sweet highlights of this campaign. She has never done anything like this and I was so proud of her engagement. She’s also way better at directions than me, so that was a real bonus.
These conversations stuck with me and Beth and I both thought of the same one when we met for coffee a few days after the election. We pulled up to a modest home one Sunday afternoon when we were canvassing and saw a dilapidated van parked on the grass by the side of the driveway. A Latino woman, probably in her late 40’s, was getting some things out of the van and looked up at us. Her expression was anxious and even a little fearful. I called out a friendly “Hi” and introduced myself and told her that Beth and I were from the local Democratic party. She softly said, “Democrat?” I nodded yes, and the expression on her face immediately relaxed. I explained that we were hoping to speak with the couple on our list who lived in the house. She told us they were not at home and surprised us by volunteering that they had already voted. And then she pointed to the flyer that Beth was holding and simply said, “Kamala.” We all broke into big smiles – and hers was so beautiful. She told us she could not vote because she is not yet a citizen but explained that she was here legally and hopes to become a citizen by February. [Please insert prayers]
She went on to tell us that she loves Barack Obama and that she wants to vote for his wife one day. We laughed and assured her that we all feel that way. Her face was downright beatific when she spoke of how much she admired the Obamas. I want America to deserve that face.
As I thanked her for her time and prepared to leave, I reached out to pat her arm and she gently pulled me in for a big hug. Damn. I long to live in that hug today. Beth and I both spilled a few tears in our lattes as we wondered aloud what would happen to her – this kind other from another country.
There were so many wonderful conversations – the young black student from App State who was so excited about voting for the first time, the 93-year-old man with a thick German accent who was delighted to tell us he had already voted for Kamala and shouted out, “Go girls!” as we walked away, and the woman who said her daughter was coming home from college that weekend so they could vote together for the first woman president. Gulp. Yep, those conversations stay with you, especially when so many dreams are denied.
I drove folks to the polls for early voting. My new friend Charlena was so excited to vote for Kamala, she forgot to put her teeth in. I get it! She’s my people.
I’m gutted and I’m angry and I’m scared – some days all of those things at the same time. But you know what? I loved every single minute of this campaign and I will not let the results steal my joy. I love my people and in my daily life, I am blessed that there are way more of them than those other people. So, I’m not going to participate in the post-mortems of why we lost and what we should have done. I’ve endured enough mansplaining for several lifetimes. And at the end of the day, you know you’re on the right side of history if all the worst people are happy.
Lord knows it’s hard. I find myself at the grocery store making eye contact with strangers as they’re picking up that carton of eggs wondering, “Was it you?” I know that sounds a bit like Michael Corleone, but the results of this election do feel like a betrayal of so many of the principles that so many of us hold dear. And I’ll never understand how anyone could have felt good about casting their vote for Trump and the vile and harmful malevolence he represents.
Shame on you. Shame.
The best advice I’ve gotten as I’ve been wallowing in despair came from my young friend Will, the son of one of my best friends from fourth grade. Will is in his late 30’s and works as an accountant. He is differently abled and like all of us who represent a minority, is worried about what a new and emboldened Trump administration will mean for his community. We love to talk sports – especially since my wife has below zero interest in that subject. He told me the story of how Jackie Robinson was angry and worn down by the racism he was experiencing as the first African American to play in Major League Baseball. Robinson’s wife simply told him, “Keep showing up.”
And that’s what Will said to me at the end of our long conversation late last week when I was feeling so hopeless – “Keep showing up, Addison.”
Okay, I hear you, Will. I’ll keep showing up. And when we show up, we win. Eventually.
Until then, take my advice and stay away from the egg cases.
DANGER ZONE!Kamala Harris for the People – my peopleI’m not great with directions, but I know we can get there from here.
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.
Now selling for $116 on eBay! How did my dear parents not know that I was gay?
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.
Math is awesome! So are landslides.
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.
Me calling a few of my thousand closest friends.
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.
So many stories. And yes, I have the handwriting of the Unabomber.
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.
My guy, Jeff. He’s shy like that. I love him more than my luggage.
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.
Sweet Chris wasn’t so confident when she shot me those nervous texts late at night. She’s true blue in every way.
This guy got me.
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.
Me and my dear wife about 30 seconds after Joe Biden was elected president. We had just finished levitating.
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.
We grabbed back.
Election night with just a few of the democracy warriors I worked with this cycle. We’re in good hands with these bright young souls.
That was the text I got from my dear friend Chris last Friday night. She is not one to normally share her digestive issues, so I sent her back a perplexed emoji.
“RBG is dead” was her response. Oh. My. God. The words most of us have prayed we would never hear – well, at least not until Joe Biden was safely sworn into office.
Ruth Bader Ginsberg. March 15, 1933 – September 18, 2020.
We were so foolish. How did we expect an 87-year-old/pound woman who had cancer 17 times to survive long enough to save us from ourselves? So, I did what a lot of people did last Friday night. I wept. The flat-out ugly cry. And then I cursed God and humanity and rent my garments in an Episcopalian sort of way. And then I felt fear. That kind of fear you feel deep in your gut – cold as steel.
I saw a montage of every civil rights march, vigil and meeting I’ve ever been to race before my eyes. Only the montage was running backwards – like Benjamin Button’s aging – all those things so many of us have fought so long and hard for – women’s rights, gay rights, trans rights, healthcare, all disappearing. I turned on MSNBC – I know I’m a liberal cliché and I can live with that. It was the first time I was praying for FAKE NEWS, but it was real. And then, before RBG’s ferocious tiny body was cold, Mitch McConnell announced he would work to fill her seat as soon as possible. And that’s when I got angry. White hot rage. And that’s pretty much where I have remained and that’s okay – that’s a great place to be 39 days before this election. Rage gets shit done.
I’ve been working for Progressive Project Turnout for the past two months and we just moved into Phase 2 of our operations – ballot chasing. Think of it as storm chasing for political nerds. I don’t have a cool truck or Helen Hunt by my side, but I do have my trusty data that tells me who requested a mail-in ballot but has not yet returned it. Sexy, right? Damn straight.
Ballot Chaser. Coming soon to a phone near you.
The truth is that talking to voters is the thing that has saved me since RBG died. I was dreading getting on the phone that first Ruthless Saturday afternoon. I was teary and anxious and wondered if I could maintain my neutrality with a Trumper. My first call was to a woman in rural Pennsylvania. “What do you want?” she barked at me and I could feel tears brewing. I gave my spiel, took a deep breath, and popped the question, “Are you supporting Joe Biden on November 3rd?” She said – and I swear on RBG’s gavel that I am not making this up – “Hell, yes. He’s next to the Lord in my book. I love Joe Biden.” I checked to make sure that I had not called Jill Biden and I thanked the phone bank Gods and felt a smile on my face for the first time since Ruth died. But wait, that’s not all – she went on. “I confess that I kinda liked Trump when he was on that stupid reality show, but when he talked about grabbing women by the hoo-hoo, I knew I could never vote for him. You know, I loved Obama. I wish he could have served forever like the Queen of England.” It was an embarrassment of Democratic riches and it was just what my weary soul needed to hear.
I needed backup on my first day at work without RBG.
My next call was to a deplorable who told me to go to hell. And that was perfect, too – it got my blood pumping – my deep blue blood. Call after call, one clear theme emerged – voters are mad as hell and they aren’t going to take it anymore. And here’s the other thing – a TON of people have already voted. I love those calls! These voters are so cute – like the student that hands in their homework early for extra credit. They are proud to tell me that they have voted, and I give them a shiny virtual participation trophy and my endearing thanks.
These call shifts have gotten more difficult though – probably a combination of my grief from RBG’s death and the anxiety of the election drawing closer. Some days I feel like a sponge – soaking up the angst and fear and hopes and dreams of the voters I am speaking with. I am exhausted when my day is done, but the good news is that these folks are giving me hope with their testimonials to democracy. And their stories. Good God, the stories.
I spoke to a woman in her late 50s who was in the hospital recovering from her 24th surgery related to a horrible car accident that killed her husband many years ago. I apologized for bothering her, but she was all in for talking to me. She has raised five children on her own and told me that because of her pre-existing conditions, if Trump erases the Affordable Care Act, “I might as well shoot myself in the head.” I hope she was kidding. She has already mailed in her ballot.
I wondered how many folks would talk about the Supreme Court vacancy. A 21-year-old college student -a woman – told me the most important issue to her in this election was healthcare – until RBG died – now it was the Supreme Court and protecting the rights of women. As she said, rather eloquently, “Shit just got real.” That’s pretty much what a young trans woman in Philadelphia told me, too. She’s worried about losing her legal marriage status to her partner. That one hit close to home. Damn.
My dear friend Lynn created this beautiful gourd a few years ago in honor of Justice Ginsberg. It is one of my most treasured possessions. She calls it Ruth’s Dissent.
And the conversations around racial justice continue to gut me. I talked to a black man in his early 60s. When I asked him what issue was most important to him in this election, he said somberly, “Some justice. Not equal justice – I know that will never happen. Just some justice.” This was the same day that dry wall got more justice than Breonna Taylor. And there was the older woman in Rockingham, NC who told me she’s never missed a vote in any election. She explained, “Honey, you know folks don’t consider what black women think about anything too much. Other than raising my kids, the most important thing I’ve ever done is vote.” Conversations like this are not soon forgotten.
Everyone has a story. I spoke with an 86-year-old woman who graduated from nursing school in 1956. She’s still working – because she wants to – as a home health supervisor. She talked to me about income inequality and the CNAs that work for her company for $10.25 an hour – while working their other two jobs. She has two grandchildren in college who both contracted COVID-19 and were very sick. “I’m a nurse. This is not a hoax,” she said. She’s voting for Joe Biden – the 13th president she will have voted for. Her mother lived to be 106, so let’s hope she gets to vote to re-elect Kamala Harris in 2032.
Over mine and 204,057 dead bodies.
Democracy is a word I hear a lot on my calls. Many of the people I speak with talk about our democracy being vandalized by Trump and they are not having it. They are sick and tired of a president who spews division and hate and continues to undermine our institutions. They speak with pride of how great our country is – this is especially moving to hear from folks who were not born here. Like the Latinix woman who told me that she had lived in several other countries. “We have a lot of rights here, but if we don’t fight to keep them, we will lose them. I’m going to be the first one in line when early voting starts.” I bet she will be, too.
“The vote is precious. It is the most powerful non-violent tool we have in a democratic society, and we must use it.” ~ John Lewis
And some days it is the simple kindness of strangers that makes me believe that good will prevail over evil on November 3rd. I had a long conversation last night with a 73-year-old man in Durham. He is retired after 55 years of masonry. He told me he has 10 kids – two served in the Marines – and all of them went to college. He preached me a little sermon. “I’m a black man. I’ve seen tyranny. We got too much hate and division in this country. What we got is precious and why do we want to hate and mess it up every day? I believe in love. That man in office is just too much – too much hate. We got to get him out.” Amen, brother. Amen.
And then I thanked him for taking the time to talk to me and share so much and he said in such a genuine way that it might as well have been my own father speaking to me, “I love you so much. And you’re doing a great job.” And in that moment, I thought that ballot chaser was the most noble profession in the world.
Ballot Chaser. The most important job I’ve ever had. The coolest, too.
39 days, my friends. We can do this. We must. Democracy is counting on us. And so is Ruth.
Rest in justice, dear Ruth
Early voting in NC begins on October 15th. Click here to find early voting polling sites where you live.
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