Yes, I've Been Watching The West Wing
I want to be back in Iowa.
It's not just the delightful weather that's calling me home, of course (did anyone not smile when they saw "Des Moines airport snowed in" as a headline). I suppose I don't really miss the campaign commercials, though I have yet to see a single one out here, my television provided by stations from MM.
Every day, now, NPR reports on some bit of Iowa arcana. They mention the tiny towns that are drive-bys on I-80, sometime stop and chat at places like a Maid-Rite or the Iowa Machine Shed (It's a shame I'm not hyperliking, isn't it?). I get homesick for places I'd never set foot in, never will eat in.
I'm still on the fence, still trying to decide. The surveys and the web polls have me in a firm 3-way,after I enter my positions--Clinton, Obama, or Kucinich? If I were going to a caucus, I'd be gathering all of my materials. I'd go down to every HQ and get information, stopping at each formerly-empty storefront in the Old Capitol mall (unless that's no longer Democratic headquarters, since the U bought up the second floor for classrooms?). When I got to the caucus, we all know why I wouldn't go Kucinich, but I'd keep my options open for as long as possible.
I want to be as important as an Iowa voter. Here, I'll be one of hundreds in line at the polling place (for how long, I wonder? Should I vote before work or after?). I'll be one of the few registered Democrat. I'll deliberate silently, not really alone in my little 'cubicle' (my elementary school was a polling place, complete with those red-and-white-striped curtains on the booth. It sort of hurts that I never got to vote in one of those). It's very much voting for the 'burbs, and I'll come out feeling like my voice doesn't really matter. No one can hear me, or anyone else, over the whine of the highway and the walls that separate neighbor from neighbor. I wonder how many of us listen to ourselves.
I want to go back to Iowa, where the caucus doesn't matter (those jealous New Hampshire types say) but everyone's voice is heard. I want a handwritten number on an index card to seem like a ticket to the future. Our nation can be fixed inside of a noisy elementary school gym (hey--where did the Republicans choose their man? Four years, and I'd never thought of that), a room barely big enough for basketball. The paint might peel a little and there's a small rip in the top mat on the stack in the corner, but everyone shifts around so the man with a cane can have a seat in Kerry's corner. I want to believe like I did back then (and maybe I will) and I want to believe that I am making a difference just by tripping through a cold January night.
I also want a blanket of snow, though I'm pretty fond of the way the power grid is working out here. Mostly, though, I want to wrap myself around with this idea that neighbors and strangers can become my allies, if just for a night, that we can come together to celebrate what we're sure is imminent change. I want to throw my coffee bean in a different cup each time I visit the Hamburg Inn (I also want sweet potato pancakes, but my motives there are less pure). I sound like the theme from Cheers, but it's very real and works on many levels. I want to go back to where so many people mattered. I want to go back home.
It's not just the delightful weather that's calling me home, of course (did anyone not smile when they saw "Des Moines airport snowed in" as a headline). I suppose I don't really miss the campaign commercials, though I have yet to see a single one out here, my television provided by stations from MM.
Every day, now, NPR reports on some bit of Iowa arcana. They mention the tiny towns that are drive-bys on I-80, sometime stop and chat at places like a Maid-Rite or the Iowa Machine Shed (It's a shame I'm not hyperliking, isn't it?). I get homesick for places I'd never set foot in, never will eat in.
I'm still on the fence, still trying to decide. The surveys and the web polls have me in a firm 3-way,after I enter my positions--Clinton, Obama, or Kucinich? If I were going to a caucus, I'd be gathering all of my materials. I'd go down to every HQ and get information, stopping at each formerly-empty storefront in the Old Capitol mall (unless that's no longer Democratic headquarters, since the U bought up the second floor for classrooms?). When I got to the caucus, we all know why I wouldn't go Kucinich, but I'd keep my options open for as long as possible.
I want to be as important as an Iowa voter. Here, I'll be one of hundreds in line at the polling place (for how long, I wonder? Should I vote before work or after?). I'll be one of the few registered Democrat. I'll deliberate silently, not really alone in my little 'cubicle' (my elementary school was a polling place, complete with those red-and-white-striped curtains on the booth. It sort of hurts that I never got to vote in one of those). It's very much voting for the 'burbs, and I'll come out feeling like my voice doesn't really matter. No one can hear me, or anyone else, over the whine of the highway and the walls that separate neighbor from neighbor. I wonder how many of us listen to ourselves.
I want to go back to Iowa, where the caucus doesn't matter (those jealous New Hampshire types say) but everyone's voice is heard. I want a handwritten number on an index card to seem like a ticket to the future. Our nation can be fixed inside of a noisy elementary school gym (hey--where did the Republicans choose their man? Four years, and I'd never thought of that), a room barely big enough for basketball. The paint might peel a little and there's a small rip in the top mat on the stack in the corner, but everyone shifts around so the man with a cane can have a seat in Kerry's corner. I want to believe like I did back then (and maybe I will) and I want to believe that I am making a difference just by tripping through a cold January night.
I also want a blanket of snow, though I'm pretty fond of the way the power grid is working out here. Mostly, though, I want to wrap myself around with this idea that neighbors and strangers can become my allies, if just for a night, that we can come together to celebrate what we're sure is imminent change. I want to throw my coffee bean in a different cup each time I visit the Hamburg Inn (I also want sweet potato pancakes, but my motives there are less pure). I sound like the theme from Cheers, but it's very real and works on many levels. I want to go back to where so many people mattered. I want to go back home.