Dear Mr. President,
Tonight Rasmussen released another poll showing Dino Rossi pulling ahead. I'm pretty much in a state of panic, even as I continue to console myself with the frequent inaccuracy of Rasmussen's polls. Paul Krugman's Op-ed isn't making me much calmer. I'm terrified of the results we'll find on election day, and even more so of the resulting legislative agenda. Keith Olbermann's recent comment on the Tea Party articulated the fears that many of us on the left are experiencing this year.
But polls and pundit comments aside, this midterm should have people scared. Every election, about this time, I start marveling at the very idea of undecided voters. I feel so strongly about politics that I can't even date Republicans; and I may not be able to stand them, but I at least respect the passion that I see in my friends on the right. It is undecided voters, swing voters, people who seem to change their entire value system (or not understand how that value system is represented by their vote) every 2-4 years who confuse me. It baffles me. How can a voter who clearly understood the problems with the Bush administration (and the candidates who wanted to continue them) just two years ago suddenly be confused about who to vote for? It seems to me that the center has long been controlled by the most willfully disengaged, and the fact that they're the ones who get to decide so many elections frustrates me to no end.
I don't think that congressional Democrats are entirely blameless. Between the cowardly ones who are now running away from the party's agenda in their ads, and the cowardly ones who never had the guts to defend that agenda in the first place, it is really difficult to see why Democrats are a viable alternative to the bad ideas of Republicans. While I don't think that a disillusionment with Democrats justifies a vote for Republicans, unfortunately the two-party system (and the increasing similarity in the way the parties take money from corporations) leaves many voters feeling that this is the best solution.
Personally, I've been proud to be a Democrat lately. Watching you and Senator Murray and Governor Gregoire speak, meeting President Carter, watching you make such a compelling case for your administration's accomplishments on The Daily Show last night, all of it has restored the pride I thought I'd lost in my party. I hope that the predictions and the polls are wrong. I hope that Democrats get two more years to prove that we're not completely spineless. Because, as much as they confuse me, we're probably going to need those undecided voters in 2012.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Showing posts with label Christine Gregoire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christine Gregoire. Show all posts
Thursday, October 28, 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
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Day 37 Demon Sheep
Dear Mr. President,
Do you think Carly Fiorina's Demon Sheep ad was only approved for the attention it would generate? I truly hope it does not succeed in actually electing her. This reminds me of the ads Senator McCain ran against you in 2008- the Paris Hilton ad, and, (my personal favorite,) the "Barack Obama is the Anti-Christ" ad that featured your campaign's winged logo rising from the red sea.
Television has taken political sensationalism to a whole new level. In my own state of Washington, groups opposing Christine Gregoire ran an ad featuring a man with a can of gasoline igniting a pile of money. This ad continued to run, even after an employee at my college, the University of Washington, doused himself in gasoline and lit himself on fire in front of hundreds of students in the middle of campus.
What is the acceptable threshold? I understand that political ads are the unfortunate by-product of the first amendment, and that the people running the ads have every right to be as distasteful as they wish. Neither John McCain nor Governor Gregoire's opponent, Dino Rossi, were successful in their campaigns. Their ads may or may not have been a factor in their defeat, but I doubt very much that architects of political ads to come will see these failures as a reason for caution or even dignity. Fiorina's campaign certainly didn't. Maybe Television isn't the place to look for an increase in the level of political discourse in this country, but, as it is where most campaign money is spent and, supposedly, most voters are reached, maybe it isn't an unreasonable place to start.
I hope that, in the midterms this fall and in campaigns to come, Democrats air ads that are reasonable, measured, and respectful in tone. I hope that, as the leader of the Democratic Party, you encourage them to follow your campaign's example. This isn't to say I think all campaigns should be exclusively positive, or that attack ads don't have their place, but insulting the intelligence of one's audience with frightening music or demon sheep is probably something both parties should be above. (I'll probably need to be reminded of this if Sarah Palin succeeds in securing the GOP nomination.)
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Do you think Carly Fiorina's Demon Sheep ad was only approved for the attention it would generate? I truly hope it does not succeed in actually electing her. This reminds me of the ads Senator McCain ran against you in 2008- the Paris Hilton ad, and, (my personal favorite,) the "Barack Obama is the Anti-Christ" ad that featured your campaign's winged logo rising from the red sea.
Television has taken political sensationalism to a whole new level. In my own state of Washington, groups opposing Christine Gregoire ran an ad featuring a man with a can of gasoline igniting a pile of money. This ad continued to run, even after an employee at my college, the University of Washington, doused himself in gasoline and lit himself on fire in front of hundreds of students in the middle of campus.
What is the acceptable threshold? I understand that political ads are the unfortunate by-product of the first amendment, and that the people running the ads have every right to be as distasteful as they wish. Neither John McCain nor Governor Gregoire's opponent, Dino Rossi, were successful in their campaigns. Their ads may or may not have been a factor in their defeat, but I doubt very much that architects of political ads to come will see these failures as a reason for caution or even dignity. Fiorina's campaign certainly didn't. Maybe Television isn't the place to look for an increase in the level of political discourse in this country, but, as it is where most campaign money is spent and, supposedly, most voters are reached, maybe it isn't an unreasonable place to start.
I hope that, in the midterms this fall and in campaigns to come, Democrats air ads that are reasonable, measured, and respectful in tone. I hope that, as the leader of the Democratic Party, you encourage them to follow your campaign's example. This isn't to say I think all campaigns should be exclusively positive, or that attack ads don't have their place, but insulting the intelligence of one's audience with frightening music or demon sheep is probably something both parties should be above. (I'll probably need to be reminded of this if Sarah Palin succeeds in securing the GOP nomination.)
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
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