Chasing Democracy

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

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 3^rd?” 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 24^th 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 13^th 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.

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 3^rd. 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.

Early voting in NC begins on October 15th. Click here to find early voting polling sites where you live.

Desperately seeking Atticus

I believe her. I will always believe her.

I need your help. I need your help to get through the next couple of days. Probably longer. Probably a lot longer. It’s as simple as that. And I promise to help you, too. The faux FBI investigation of Brett Kavanaugh is “completed”, and he will most certainly be confirmed by the Republican majority in the Senate. And after we scream and rant and weep, we will desperately try to hang on to everything we thought we knew about truth and justice and…kindness.

Kavanaugh’s confirmation was perhaps inevitable, but I had a flicker of hope after Dr. Ford’s wrenchingly raw testimony last Thursday that maybe, just maybe, this seminal moment in our nation’s history would not be viewed in only red and blue lenses. Truth has a crystalline quality – it makes everything more clearly apparent.

That faint hope was decimated Tuesday night when I saw the president of the United States cruelly mock Dr. Ford’s testimony in front of a frothing white crowd who laughed and applauded his unhinged performance. Every time I saw the clip, I could feel my ears flush with white-hot rage. RAGE. What do you do with rage? Where do you put it, so you can kiss your wife goodnight and go to sleep? Sleep. I try to remember what that feels like – a good night’s sleep. Tylenol PM helped me remember on Tuesday night.

Yes, even my sleep aids are blue.

When I woke up Wednesday morning, my rage was gone, vanquished in the dark of night and replaced by a paralyzing hopelessness. My legs felt as heavy as my heart as I tried to start moving through my day. I felt trapped – caged in by despair. I started a dozen tasks and abandoned them all. I finally just sat down in the reading chair in my home office and cried. Not an ugly cry – Lord knows I’m capable of that – but a cry of helplessness. I just did not know what to do to make it – anything – better.

And then the damnedest thing happened – I was resurrected by a post by a friend on Facebook. Okay, I know that sounds a little like a Hallmark movie, but it’s the truth. My friend Kristin lives in the DC area and founded an innovative fundraising company that supports some outstanding non-profit organizations. She’s a chronic do-gooder in her professional and personal life and she’s a smart cookie, too, so I try to pay attention to what she’s saying. This is what she posted yesterday morning:

Yes, it was Facebook, but it was a lifeline to me. I immediately scanned through my inventory of postcards. Sidebar: My dear Aunt Phyllis sent me a postcard from every place she every traveled and it instilled in me a great love of handwritten correspondence. I found one that seemed like a good fit and wrote my brief message to Dr. Ford. And I felt better. No, I felt good! And I got to thinking about what Kristin wrote – “to counteract every act of hate with an act of kindness and support.”

This sounded like a feasible plan to me, folks, so I reposted Kristin’s post on my Facebook and Instagram accounts and the posts went moderately viral – at least by non-Kardashian standards. As I write this, almost 500 people have “liked” or commented on the IG post and that makes me feel a lot less helpless than I did yesterday morning.

And it wasn’t just Kristin. My friend Jimmy is an addiction counselor in long-term recovery. He is honest and open about his journey and I have great respect for him. Yesterday morning he posted this message:

Followed a bit later by this one:

Jimmy got some very thoughtful responses including these:

Mr. Rogers had the best advice for trouble times. Always look for the helpers. You will find them all around you and friends that care and people with good hearts. Look in the mirror to start with. We are not alone.

If we don’t transform our pain we will most certainly transmit it. I personally take comfort in the certainty that all things change… The best way to find yourself again is to lose yourself in the service of others.

Take a break and watch Mean Girls – it’s October 3rd!

Okay, that last one just made me laugh and I thought you could use one, too.

Last night, Jimmy posted the Tiny Buddha meme below and it made my heart sing. That was about all I did yesterday, too, but it was enough.

#goals

This morning, it was my dear friend Jeff who gave me some hope. I adore Jeff but he would be the first to admit that at times, he can be a crusty curmudgeon and doomsayer. And then he’ll surprise you with a post that’s so optimistic and inspiring that you can almost hear a choir singing. He did it again today. He heard historian Doris Kearns Goodwin on the radio on his long commute into work this morning. She was addressing the great division in our country – liking it to the Civil War. Goodwin painted a pretty grim picture of what’s going on and said that we need a figure to rise above the division and bring us back to the central idea that we all want what’s best for our country.

I’m sure dear Doris would really appreciate Jeff’s summation of her thoughts and would smile at his post:

Things are going to get far worse and I think the chances are high that they’ll never get better. Even so, I will not let these dark days dampen my enthusiasm for the election in November. All we can do is continue to fight and hope that a hero, regardless of if the cape he or she wears is red or blue, emerges from the current dumpster fire and saves us from the abyss.

Jeff is right. All we can do is continue to fight and hope. We are the ones who must save each other. Yes, by all means VOTE and help get out the vote and drive people to vote and ALL of that, but also – be kind. I love Michelle Obama, but I’m not espousing her “When they go low, we go high” mantra – I’m just not that good and I will sometimes still have to bitch slap Lindsey Graham on Twitter, but I can commit to not letting those who do not believe the way I do – in the things that I hold most dear – diminish me. I cannot let my own rage diminish me.

If you’re not familiar with the author and activist Glennon Doyle, you should be. She has been a balm for me of late on social media with her wise words and truth-telling. Today she posted a passage from To Kill A Mockingbird that I have printed out and put on the bulletin board in my office. I will read it over and over again during the next few days, months, however long it takes…

Atticus is trying to explain to his son, Jem, how someone can do the right thing and still lose. Here’s the passage:

“I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It’s when you know you are licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.”

Damn. Where is a good Supreme Court nominee when you need one?

We will see this through the way we always have – together.

And I think we will freaking rock a cape. And it might even be seersucker.

One size does not fit all.

What she said.

Supreme rage

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, Truth Teller.

I haven’t felt this gutted since the late hours of November 8, 2016. I watched every minute of the Senate Judiciary Committee hearing yesterday. I had to see it for myself and I will never forget some of the images.

I started crying as soon as I saw Dr. Christine Blasey Ford sit down at the hearing table. She looked completely and justifiably terrified. I swear I didn’t breathe for the first few minutes of her opening statement. The raw gravity of the moment was palpable. I wanted to puke. I don’t know how she didn’t.

Dr. Ford was genuine and refreshingly unrehearsed and the rarest of all things – non-political. She came not to destroy Judge Brett Kavanaugh, but to tell her story – to be heard – because she felt it was her civic duty. And tell her story she did. It was excruciating to hear her recount the laughter she heard as Kavanaugh held her down and put his hand over her mouth.

There’s not a woman I know who hasn’t had that hand over her mouth – sure, maybe some of them not literally, but figuratively time after time after time. Me, too. Me, too. Me, too.

I won’t even address the absurdity of those questioning Dr. Ford’s veracity except to say that NO ONE would blow up their own precious life to share such a shattering story if it were not true. The End.

When she finished her testimony, I actually stood up (alone) in front of my TV and applauded through my tears. This unassuming professor and mother of two had told her truth with poise and grace and staggering courage. And for a couple of hours – sweet, sweet hours – I truly thought that it would matter – that she would be heard. What a glorious feeling that was. Today, it feels like a gauzy memory from long ago.

Angry. White. Male. Privilege.

Kavanaugh was up next and he took a page from the oldest playbook of them all. See: Adam in Genesis. The man as victim. He ranted and screamed and attacked those who would dare question his path to his promised prize. He was loud and rude and tried to bully the Democratic women on the committee. If a woman candidate – for dog catcher – had shown such temperament, she would have been dismissed and destroyed. But guess what? Kavanaugh’s foaming rage worked like a charm and this afternoon, the Judiciary Committee will vote and advance his nomination to the floor.

I feel that heavy hand on my mouth this morning – trying to suppress my absolute rage. I’m just too old for this shit. I am over it. OVER. IT.

One of the most heartbreaking parts of yesterday was reading so many painful stories of sexual assault posted on social media – some by friends that I was not aware of – others by strangers. All of them gutting. I was so moved that those people felt empowered by Dr. Ford to share their stories – some for the very first time. I thought about them last night when I went to bed with the sense of dread over Kavanaugh’s inevitable approval.

The same old story.

I’m lucky. I don’t have such a story to share. I have never been sexually assaulted but I have been professionally assaulted by some angry white men who felt threatened by my power. Those men took a job I loved away from me because one man yelled louder than me and played the victim card. It worked for him in spades and I wasn’t even given the opportunity to speak my truth. I was never heard, and I can still feel that hand on my mouth.

I know how difficult it has been to put my experience in a place where it doesn’t interfere with my everyday life and I cannot fathom how you do that when the assault is physical and violent and sexual. It must be a never-ending nightmare. I thought about you all when I couldn’t sleep last night. I worry about you today.

So, what’s the answer? We vote? Yep. Done that. We march? Yep. Done that. Yell louder? Well, that might just be a start. I follow author and activist Glennon Doyle on social media and she has, as always, been a righteous prophet for many of us. This morning she tweeted:

If a woman tells her story and no one in her government hears her – does her government exist at all? No. Women have no government, so we will become ungovernable. Way to radicalize women, @GOP. We will now become strategically and relentlessly disobedient.

I’m ready and not waiting.

A Reckoning is coming. You’ve been warned.

The Marry Month of May

Wedding anniversaries are usually intimate affairs for two, but I recently celebrated my first one with my wife and six men.

I thought that might get your attention.

The celebration took place at a dinner party gathering of The May 5^th Club. You see last May, four gay couples from the Triad all got married on the same day – a Monday no less – across three time zones.

They say there’s no place like home but thanks to Amendment One, we all had to leave NC to marry the person we want to spend the rest of our life with. The four weddings were as different as the four couples but over the course of a wonderful evening together we learned that we all agreed on one thing – being married just feels different.

And we love it.

So I give you Four Weddings and a Squirrel (I’ll explain later.)

Mark and David

David and Mark

They got “maui’d” in Maui on the beach at sunset. I would say it was the wedding of their dreams but they would admit that they planned the vacation first. A few months before their trip, they were sitting at dinner in Asheville one Saturday night and Mark said, “You know, we should get married when we’re in Hawaii.” And that was that.

David has a dear friend who lives in HI who helped them arrange the details and served as their witness. They had a traditional Hawaiian wedding including the blessing of rings sprinkled by a Ti leaf dipped in ocean water gathered from a Koa wood bowl. Koa is a treasured hardwood that represents integrity and strength – a fitting reflection of David and Mark.

They both confessed to tearing up “a little bit” at the blessing at the end of the service but their favorite part was the “after”– a celebration dinner that went on for hours.

“Mark feels like home to me,” said David.

As we sat around David and Mark’s table at our dinner that night, I think all of us felt at home.

Mark and Kem

Kem and Mark

Some trips down the aisle are longer than others and that was certainly the case for Kem and Mark. They had been fast friends for years and after Kem divorced his wife of 32 years, they eventually started going out. “It just kind of made sense to start dating my best friend,” said Mark.

I asked them when they knew it was getting serious between them and Kem smiled his gentle smile and softly said, “When the first thing I thought of every morning was him.”

Mark is the analytical one in the relationship and when the Edie Windsor ruling came down in 2013, overturning The Defense of Marriage Act, he began to think strategically about getting married. “The possibilities became real and I knew we had to get ahead of what was happening here in NC,” he said.

They were married in Seattle because as Kem noted, “We wanted to get as far to the left of NC as we could.” They chose a beautiful B&B in the Gaslight district and were touched by the warm reception of so many strangers at the inn. “Everyone wanted to come up and hug us,” said Kem.

After the ceremony, they drove two hours to Vancouver for their honeymoon and that’s when it hit Mark. He turned to his best friend and said, “This has been a perfect day. We’re married.”

Joey and Chad

Chad and Joey

I work with Chad and when he was interviewing for the position a year ago this past February, he told me he was engaged. When he accepted the position, he reminded me that he would need a little time off for his wedding. I said, “Sure, when is it?” “May 5^th,” he replied.

The rest of the conversation went like this:

Me: (shriek) Oh, my God, I’m getting married on May 5^th!

Chad: (shriek) Oh, my God, that’s crazy!

Me: We picked May 5^th because it’s the anniversary of our first date.

Chad: (louder shriek): Oh, my God, that’s why we picked it, too!

Me: Where are you getting married?

Chad: DC.

Me: (louder shriek) Me, too!

Chad: (even louder shriek) Oh, my God!

I’m sure my staff thought we were being taken hostage in my office with all the noise.

It took two proposals for them to seal the deal. Chad proposed to Joey over dinner out one night in a very casual way. He simply said, “So, I think we should get married. What do you think?” To which Joey replied, “No, that is not a real proposal.”

For Joey, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that bling. He wanted Chad to put a ring on it.

Fast forward to the summer of 2013 and Chad and Joey were walking around DC, one of their favorite cities, when they stopped in front of the White House and Joey said, “I think we’re ready, let’s get married.” They were going to do it on the spot but soon learned about the three-day waiting period for a license in DC.

Chad and Joey’s best squirrel

So they decided to wait and do it up right on the anniversary of their first date. They were married in a wedding chapel in the morning and then took a long walk around the city. They once again found themselves in front of the White House and staked out a private space in a nearby park and exchanged their own vows with each other. Their witness was a lone squirrel who chewed loudly on a nut while they poured their hearts out to each other.

Chad’s favorite memory of the day is watching Joey methodically getting ready for their wedding in their room at the Mayflower Hotel. He watched his soon to be husband delicately lay out his shirt, tie and suit – stopping to wipe his eyes after he placed each item on the bed.

I love this story.

Oh, and by the way, Joey got his bling and then some.

Joy and Addy

Addison and Joy

I wrote about our wedding in a blog post last summer and although I never tire of hearing the story, I can understand that you might.

Joy and I had been planning a blessing at our church for months. We knew we didn’t want any part of a “pretend” wedding in NC but when it became apparent that legally married same-sex couples would be afforded federal benefits, we decided we should have a civil ceremony. We thought we would go to DC and have our dear friends, Phyllis and Tom, DC residents, be our witnesses at the court-house.

Phyllis would not hear of it and insisted that we be married in her fabulous apartment near Dupont Circle. Phyllis is my mentor and one of my dearest friends on earth and I learned early on that you never argue with her. And really, why would you?

And so we had a beautiful and intimate wedding surrounded by a few dear friends and approximately 2,000 cherry blossoms. Seriously, Phyllis and Tom’s living room looked like the Tidal Basin in May.

And we were both astonished by how completing overwhelming the moment was. We knew we would be happy but to be held in the center of a circle of so much love and to say words to each other that we never dreamed we’d ever be able to was utterly thrilling.

We really did feel different. We felt more. More connected, more loved, more permanent.

More.

The irony is not lost on me that as we all look forward to celebrating our first anniversaries with our spouses, the Supreme Court is weighing the decision on same-sex marriage perhaps once and for all.

I lost all patience on this issue a long time ago and I can only hope that love will indeed finally win when the Court’s decision is revealed in June. Whatever happens, I know of eight sweet hearts who will forever take the Fifth.

The May 5th Club

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Supreme Court

Chasing Democracy

Desperately seeking Atticus

Supreme rage

The Marry Month of May