Over drinks a couple nights ago-- a deathly sweet caipirinha for me, a beer for my friend-- I wondered aloud about the necessity of remaining connected to my American political roots. The musing was intended to be playful; I could no more easily surrender my deep dissatisfaction with governance than I would give up my mother. While both may frustrate, they each infused my blood with its liveliest catalysts.
The consideration came in response to my friend's easy, proud confession to her limited knowledge of the willfully (blissfully?) ignorant antics of the Tea Party movement at home. My friend earned her stripes in one of the United States, like me, but after making her way for seven years on this small island rising like a benign mole on the shadowed edge of the earth's plump, round bottom, she's converted her stripes to a more flattering, less restricted print. I like her color choices these days as well as the long strand of pearls she wears, maybe to commemorate the bits of wisdom she's come upon since exchanging the grime of LA for the captivating view of the snow-capped peaks of the South Island from her kitchen window. Maybe home is where the view is, where such mesmerizing outlooks aren't sullied by the paralyzed will of representatives too enamored with their power to recall their mandate. Maybe my friend is home.
In the back room of the festive Brazilian bar, folks in business casual learned salsa to quiet music. I checked on their progress while my friend attended to drinks and found them impressively competent. Rather than opting for beer and a bench, they'd chosen to stiffly sway their hips in Dockers and pencil skirts. They followed instructions well and everyone moved in time.
When we reconvened our conversation, my friend urged me to let it all go. "It isn't relevant," she advised. "Better to know the sale price of wool." When I attempted to explain that a hefty percentage of my identity-- that part controlled by the cynical but enthusiastic animus compelling my blood on its course-- had been dedicated to the hyper-vigilant observation of and subsequent bellyaching about all the wrenches tossed flippantly into the poorly maintained works of our government, the one we'd been born under, my friend gave me a bewildered look and said, "I don't even need to understand that anymore."
Well, no, she doesn't, because, as we discussed over the rims of our glasses, moaning about John Key, the somewhat conservative Prime Minister of these fair bumps in the ocean, is like complaining that the ocean outside my window is just too loud. While he ain't riding his bike to work to generate power for his grey water-producing washing machine, he's probably more capable of pushing a Democrat's agenda than the current House and Senate in the U.S. My friend then encouraged me to forego American media. I thought about the menagerie of Kiwiana I could introduce into the time and space left over by the abandonment. I could learn to make lamingtons; I might figure out how to carry my 12 foot paddleboard in the wind; I could solve the mystery of the sizing of women's pants; I might even make a friend.
Of course, all of that will probably come in time. I think my residency application will require the icing of a lamington as well as a cold water plunge.
The truth, however nerdy it may be, is this. Seeing the rhetoric of the most recent batch of political aspirants looking to wrest control of the country from the current cohort of sticky-fingered pocket-divers, I'm unwilling to look away. I may be inconsequential and distant (in either order), but I'm a witness.
A candidate for Senate from Kentucky is charging up his base by calling up the President's gaffe prior to his election about middle Americans holding tightly to their guns and religion. The candidate is calling on guns, religion AND ammunition. For what? To shoot someone? Who does he want killed or severely injured and forever traumatized? Or is for the whimpering, liberal puppies who seek to restore social justice without asking if it ever existed?
Other congressional candidates are lauding their inexperience in the political world as their highest qualification for the job. Even those who do have experience in the political world are denying it. Democrats and Republicans alike wave their corporate CVs as proof of their ability to "grow jobs" while they make ridiculous statements like, "people who have never been in the business world-- they don't know how to run a business." Again, my whipping boy of the moment: Rand Paul. Does he think that the converse in this situation doesn't hold true? Do people who have never been in the political world know how to run the government? And by that, I mean, the government as it exists today? With its three co-equal branches and mind-numbing administrative largesse stumbling all over its own girth to confront the svelte corporate beasts who would rather see it all privatized? (And don't get all excited that maybe the companies could do it all better; after all, they're the svelte beasts, right? They're only so trim because they don't bear the same responsibilities to all of us as the government does. They're the childless women, the carefree bachelors. They don't have to care about other people's kids. That's what government of and by and for the people is supposed to do.)
None of this is to say that folks without prior experience can't do the job, but shouldn't it be a prerequisite that we see some sort of policy know-how and maybe an understanding of our system of government that demonstrates passage of tenth grade civics?
Oh well. Maybe my friend is right. It's all irrelevant from here. And maybe it doesn't actually matter if we pay attention or not, bear witness or not. What's becoming more clear is that while the Democrats did a good job of inspiring voter participation in 2008, the Tea Party has trumped them in 2010 by turning possible voters into viable, if foolish, candidates. Good on them. That's they way to take over government.
Maybe then, I'll look away and commit to disconnection. I would probably grieve a little first.
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