Dear Mr. President,
Tomorrow I'm going to see President Jimmy Carter. While I assume that it will involve less screaming and cheering and sleeping on the ground than your rally here last week, I'm going to be prepared, all the same. Tonight my mother dropped off my ballot. Aside from voting to re-elect Patty Murray and Jay Inslee, Washington voters are facing a number of important initiatives. I-1098, a proposal sponsored by Bill Gates, Sr., proposes a state income tax on those making more than $200,000 a year. Since I make about $20,000 a year, you can imagine I'm pretty enthusiastic about this.
Washington State has the dubious distinction of having the single most regressive tax system in the country. While those making under $20k pay on average 17.3% of their income in taxes while the richest 1%- those making more than $537k, pay just 2.9%. I-1098 will work to improve this discrepancy and provide the state with much-needed revenue. I think, also, that there is a moral obligation for those who have money to help out those who do not. Call me socialist, call me a class warrior, call me whatever you will, but if I made $200k instead of $20, I would have no problem paying the taxes to make sure the roads, schools, police and other state services are fully funded. We are all served by these institutions, and holding on to the cold comfort of private wealth in the face of so many others struggling just to get by strikes me as the worst kind of callousness. (Washington State readers of my blog- please vote yes on 1098.)
I'm going to cut this letter short so that I can finish voting and get to bed. Thank you, again, for coming to Washington to help get progressive voters to the polls. For a reliably blue state, we're struggling this year to pass the measures and elect the candidates that our state will need. Thank you, sir.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
PS
All readers: If you have your ballot, fill it out and mail it in! If you live in a state without early or mail-in voting, please make a plan today for how you will vote on election day. Yay for voting!
Showing posts with label Jay Inslee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jay Inslee. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Day 294- Six more years
Dear Mr. President,
My throat hurts and I haven't slept for more than fifteen minutes in a row in almost two days. At 4:30 this morning my friend Casi and I boarded a city bus toward the U-district and gleefully informed the driver we were going to see the President. He laughed and told every passenger that he picked up after us that we'd be the first girls in line.
We were not the first in line. Defying cold and campus security, several dozen others were already waiting when we arrived. We huddled together and tried to sleep on the cold sidewalk but we were shivering too hard. We talked to one another, to the strangers ahead of us and behind us in line, about the rules, about the cold, about nothing coherent at all. We became B-roll. We were joined by other friends, we waited in the only open cafe for warm drinks paid for and abandoned before we could drink them when, unexpectedly, the line began to move forward. We waited longer, bemoaning the lost beverages and looking enviously at the the red-ticketed VIP line and, yes, even the ADA line. It was cold. We were tired. We had driven all night long to get back in time.
FInally the line moved inside. By the thousands we came inside, to the heat, to the light, to the comfortable seats. Volunteers herded us, heedless of our desire to sit together, asking only "can you stand for 4 hours?" We exchanged looks. On a good day? No problem. On no sleep in aching feet and still shivering? We took our seats in the stands, happy to settle in an unobstructed view of the podium. I folded myself in half, curling into a stadium seat to try and sleep a few more minutes. No such luck. The choice between making the whole exhausted row stand up to leave through the non-VIP exit to the bathroom or arguing with the indignant volunteers at the VIP door seemed hard at first, and then, no choice at all. A gospel choir took the task of warming up the cold, exhausted crowd. God Bless America. Beautiful words and voices made up for my usual discomfort with religion. We sang, we started the wave and the enthusiasm rolled around the crowd for more laps than any baseball game.
On stage, a series of successively more powerful leaders took to the podium and said the same things. Excessive references to Husky football victories (stretching back decades to justify the pluralization) made me wonder if Congressman Inslee believes college kids think of the whole world as a football game or if he does. Gradually, our governor and senior senator restored the gravitas we expected, reminding us how far women in our country have come and how well women in our state have done by comparison. The secret service took the stage to check the podium, their earpieces identical to the one I wear for work. We knew what came next.
My voice was already sore, but you took the stage and we didn't stop screaming for seven minutes. I've never been in the same room as the a President, before, and there you were, walking across the stage with Senator Murray's head bobbing just below your shoulder despite the help of 3-inch heels. I have written you every day for 293 days and, though you do not know that one of the fifteen-thousand voices is mine, I believe that when you look my way and wave, you see me. Every one in the auditorium believes that they are seen. You are seeing one shimmering swell of enthusiasm that will bridge any gap. It does not matter that we waited in the cold, or that attendance meant skipping the third day of classes in a row for some of us (classes we can by no means afford to miss; the price of free admission.) We are points of light too small for you to perceive the distances between us, the gaps that define us and make us individual bulbs. We are one bright shine, a stadium full of sound and waiving hands and the consuming emotion of the moment.
They said we can't elect a black man with a funny name. You shouted.
Oh, yes, we can. We shouted back.
And we kept our feet, we kept our voices raised and our hands clapping until my palms were purple and my throat was raw with the damage of sheer sound. Cameras flashed, hands of the lucky red-ticketed VIP were shaken, and, delirious with joy, I wanted to hug Reggie as he collected letters and gifts of goodwill. Elated, we tumble outside, a crowd no longer, and walk home, walking that path from the University to Capitol Hill, the same streets we flooded on election night two years ago, the same joy, the same calls from neighbors and perfect strangers asking for our account of your words.
A shift at work later, still sleepless, I am sobered by exhaustion and the return to my routine. Check in on my secret-service earpiece with the rest of the team. Blend in. Be quiet. Look for thieves. One foot in front of the other; tech center, fiction, main floor, basement. Repeat another staircase with the help of another Americano. It hurts to speak. It hurts to breathe. I have barely slept, I have homework due in less than 12 hours, and I can't afford to miss another class all quarter long. Casi has another 100-mile drive home.
And all we can keep saying to each other, to any one who asks, to ourselves is the same thing; it was worth it. I'd do it again. Let's do it tomorrow. Tangle traffic on Montlake and bring the commute to a halt. Re-assemble the metal detectors and get the secret service dogs back on their leads. I would do it all over again, to hear you speak. Even just to hear, again, the same old car metaphor, with the ditch and the mud and the keys. When you want to go forward, you put it in D.
I might be crazy and half-dead with joy and exhaustion, but you will have my ballot and you will have my vote and if I can help it, you and Senator Murray will have six more years and Seattle will have more happy floods in the streets.
Six more years sounds great to me.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
My throat hurts and I haven't slept for more than fifteen minutes in a row in almost two days. At 4:30 this morning my friend Casi and I boarded a city bus toward the U-district and gleefully informed the driver we were going to see the President. He laughed and told every passenger that he picked up after us that we'd be the first girls in line.
We were not the first in line. Defying cold and campus security, several dozen others were already waiting when we arrived. We huddled together and tried to sleep on the cold sidewalk but we were shivering too hard. We talked to one another, to the strangers ahead of us and behind us in line, about the rules, about the cold, about nothing coherent at all. We became B-roll. We were joined by other friends, we waited in the only open cafe for warm drinks paid for and abandoned before we could drink them when, unexpectedly, the line began to move forward. We waited longer, bemoaning the lost beverages and looking enviously at the the red-ticketed VIP line and, yes, even the ADA line. It was cold. We were tired. We had driven all night long to get back in time.
FInally the line moved inside. By the thousands we came inside, to the heat, to the light, to the comfortable seats. Volunteers herded us, heedless of our desire to sit together, asking only "can you stand for 4 hours?" We exchanged looks. On a good day? No problem. On no sleep in aching feet and still shivering? We took our seats in the stands, happy to settle in an unobstructed view of the podium. I folded myself in half, curling into a stadium seat to try and sleep a few more minutes. No such luck. The choice between making the whole exhausted row stand up to leave through the non-VIP exit to the bathroom or arguing with the indignant volunteers at the VIP door seemed hard at first, and then, no choice at all. A gospel choir took the task of warming up the cold, exhausted crowd. God Bless America. Beautiful words and voices made up for my usual discomfort with religion. We sang, we started the wave and the enthusiasm rolled around the crowd for more laps than any baseball game.
On stage, a series of successively more powerful leaders took to the podium and said the same things. Excessive references to Husky football victories (stretching back decades to justify the pluralization) made me wonder if Congressman Inslee believes college kids think of the whole world as a football game or if he does. Gradually, our governor and senior senator restored the gravitas we expected, reminding us how far women in our country have come and how well women in our state have done by comparison. The secret service took the stage to check the podium, their earpieces identical to the one I wear for work. We knew what came next.
My voice was already sore, but you took the stage and we didn't stop screaming for seven minutes. I've never been in the same room as the a President, before, and there you were, walking across the stage with Senator Murray's head bobbing just below your shoulder despite the help of 3-inch heels. I have written you every day for 293 days and, though you do not know that one of the fifteen-thousand voices is mine, I believe that when you look my way and wave, you see me. Every one in the auditorium believes that they are seen. You are seeing one shimmering swell of enthusiasm that will bridge any gap. It does not matter that we waited in the cold, or that attendance meant skipping the third day of classes in a row for some of us (classes we can by no means afford to miss; the price of free admission.) We are points of light too small for you to perceive the distances between us, the gaps that define us and make us individual bulbs. We are one bright shine, a stadium full of sound and waiving hands and the consuming emotion of the moment.
They said we can't elect a black man with a funny name. You shouted.
Oh, yes, we can. We shouted back.
And we kept our feet, we kept our voices raised and our hands clapping until my palms were purple and my throat was raw with the damage of sheer sound. Cameras flashed, hands of the lucky red-ticketed VIP were shaken, and, delirious with joy, I wanted to hug Reggie as he collected letters and gifts of goodwill. Elated, we tumble outside, a crowd no longer, and walk home, walking that path from the University to Capitol Hill, the same streets we flooded on election night two years ago, the same joy, the same calls from neighbors and perfect strangers asking for our account of your words.
A shift at work later, still sleepless, I am sobered by exhaustion and the return to my routine. Check in on my secret-service earpiece with the rest of the team. Blend in. Be quiet. Look for thieves. One foot in front of the other; tech center, fiction, main floor, basement. Repeat another staircase with the help of another Americano. It hurts to speak. It hurts to breathe. I have barely slept, I have homework due in less than 12 hours, and I can't afford to miss another class all quarter long. Casi has another 100-mile drive home.
And all we can keep saying to each other, to any one who asks, to ourselves is the same thing; it was worth it. I'd do it again. Let's do it tomorrow. Tangle traffic on Montlake and bring the commute to a halt. Re-assemble the metal detectors and get the secret service dogs back on their leads. I would do it all over again, to hear you speak. Even just to hear, again, the same old car metaphor, with the ditch and the mud and the keys. When you want to go forward, you put it in D.
I might be crazy and half-dead with joy and exhaustion, but you will have my ballot and you will have my vote and if I can help it, you and Senator Murray will have six more years and Seattle will have more happy floods in the streets.
Six more years sounds great to me.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Monday, August 16, 2010
Day 228- Net Neutrality, or how I wax poetic about the Internet
For those who don't read my facebook and want a good laugh check out these comments from yesterday and Day 205. I'm gettin' schooled by a "real American"
OFA seems really concerned that I might not vote. For the record, even if I think this pledge is absurd, I encourage all of my readers to vote in every election, and I will be voting in 2010. If only OFA could provide some decently progressive candidates for me to vote for....
Dear Mr. President,
The amount of information we put out about ourselves on the internet makes it possible to feel like the people online might actually understand who we are. I often make the mistake of forgetting how easily I can be misunderstood, or how easily I can be found by those I would rather not find me. What we post on the internet feels anonymous, even as we risk exposure we cannot control. Angry, thoughtless words, outrageous opinions, even revealing photos all sent out for public consumption, haunting us when we least expect it. I believe these risks are the price I pay for whatever small role I play in the great abyss of the online community. For my connection to that unimaginably immense world. As your campaign continues to demonstrate, the internet can also be a powerful tool to organize, to bring people together. It's ability to empower individuals even when they are isolated physically to connect with others, to teach and learn from one another, has forever altered the way we approach the world.
Whatever the internet is or represents, its neutrality should not be threatened. The internet should not be governed by corporations, access should not be dictated by money or influence. Defending net neutrality was an important promise of your campaign and one you cannot afford to break. Congressman Jay Inslee has come out strongly in defense of net neutrality while discussing the recent Google/Verizon deal:
The internet is complex and challenging and maybe the most important technology of our time. Whatever it is, and whatever it will be, its power and beauty is a direct reflection of humanity's diverse and complicated nature, the unique strength, talent and genius that every person has to contribute. Keeping access to innovation and information free and equal is essential to keeping all of us free and equal. I have almost lost hope that we can wrest even this small part of our lives away from complete corporate exploitation; that money and power can't control the truth. If we trade away this freedom piece by piece to the highest bidder we will never get it back. We elected you to make sure this doesn't happen, and I hope that you don't let us down.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
OFA seems really concerned that I might not vote. For the record, even if I think this pledge is absurd, I encourage all of my readers to vote in every election, and I will be voting in 2010. If only OFA could provide some decently progressive candidates for me to vote for....
Dear Mr. President,
The amount of information we put out about ourselves on the internet makes it possible to feel like the people online might actually understand who we are. I often make the mistake of forgetting how easily I can be misunderstood, or how easily I can be found by those I would rather not find me. What we post on the internet feels anonymous, even as we risk exposure we cannot control. Angry, thoughtless words, outrageous opinions, even revealing photos all sent out for public consumption, haunting us when we least expect it. I believe these risks are the price I pay for whatever small role I play in the great abyss of the online community. For my connection to that unimaginably immense world. As your campaign continues to demonstrate, the internet can also be a powerful tool to organize, to bring people together. It's ability to empower individuals even when they are isolated physically to connect with others, to teach and learn from one another, has forever altered the way we approach the world.
Whatever the internet is or represents, its neutrality should not be threatened. The internet should not be governed by corporations, access should not be dictated by money or influence. Defending net neutrality was an important promise of your campaign and one you cannot afford to break. Congressman Jay Inslee has come out strongly in defense of net neutrality while discussing the recent Google/Verizon deal:
Google and Verizon are businesses trying to make a buck -- I guess that's their job. But it's now time members of Congress stand with me and tell the FCC to do its job.Mr. Inslee is right- private companies have to tend to their profits, not to the interests of the people. The internet is too personal to be manipulated this way. This is a topic that has been explored far more eloquently by several (better-informed) writers than myself, and I hope that you are paying attention to them, and to laymen like me who just want to add our voices to the demand that our access continue without manipulation. As I'm sure you know, this isn't just the right thing to do; a grassroots group like Organizing for America couldn't capitalize on the power of individuals connecting and organizing online if corporations are allowed to bid for the best access to that power. Net neutrality is essential to a modern and free America- and I'm sure you know that re-election in 2012 will not be possible for you without it.
The internet is complex and challenging and maybe the most important technology of our time. Whatever it is, and whatever it will be, its power and beauty is a direct reflection of humanity's diverse and complicated nature, the unique strength, talent and genius that every person has to contribute. Keeping access to innovation and information free and equal is essential to keeping all of us free and equal. I have almost lost hope that we can wrest even this small part of our lives away from complete corporate exploitation; that money and power can't control the truth. If we trade away this freedom piece by piece to the highest bidder we will never get it back. We elected you to make sure this doesn't happen, and I hope that you don't let us down.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
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