Just before I sat back down again at my computer a minute ago, I stepped into the kitchen where the TV was tuned to the republican second string, about to begin their debate. I had the misfortune to come in on Santorum’s introduction of himself.
The things these people brag about.
Seven children? Gee, congratulations.
I fled down the hall to my office.
I will certainly be watching when the varsity hits the field in an hour and a half. I know they will enrage me. I know they will say indefensible and terrifyingly stupid things. I wish I could at least have some respect for number eleven, the lone woman. But I know she’s a republican of the usual variety. Not a raving fascist, not a jabbering lunatic egotist—that would be the front runner—and not a strange, soft-spoken doctor who is creepy-scary.
No, the sole woman up there is just unlikeable and dragging a ruthless business past.
So why will I watch them? Because they’re there. Because I’ve been fascinated by politics all my life, a little in love with Adlai Stevenson as a kid. I read his biography and made a speech to my parents hoping to steal their votes away from Ike. They never voted republican, but who didn’t like Ike?
Eleven of them, and that still won’t be the whole babbling bunch. I wouldn’t mind them so much if they were just dumb. But dumb and mean? I learned early that’s a combination that leads to everything bad—up to and including hate and violence. The candidate I’ve loved for years hasn’t been handling things very well and may not be the democratic nominee after all. So I have to think more about my vote.
Why do I care so much? Because if I don’t, who will? How many of us will use the crappy excuse, they’re all the same, why bother? That scares me to death. And it’s just plain wrong. They’re not at all the same.
I much prefer my chances with Hillary, Joe or Bernie. Stack them up against Huckabee or Santorum or Cruz. I can’t bear to think about it. And I can’t bear not to.
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