Let's Talk Politics
I distinctly remember the first time I headed to the polls. I was barely 18 and didn't even know I was registered. But my mother did and came into my bedroom one spring primary afternoon to announce I was coming with her to stop some politicians from ruining the country. Sounded good to me. Thus, I duly casted votes for politicians I'd never heard of, that day or thereafter. They all lost.
Some years later, when my mother thought she was dying, she bestowed upon my sisters and me some of her most cherished items. My sisters got jewelry and artwork. I got old photographs and a pile of thank you letters dating back to the Lyndon B. Johnson Administration. They were all short, obligatory missives from legislative aides, lacking any of the conviction in my mother's original letters. There also were a couple of White House reports thrown into the batch from the Nixon years, the kind mass-mailed to voters with addresses on file.
Two things occurred to me as I sifted through the items. 1) Man, did my sisters make out better than me. And 2) Good Lord, my mom's a crankpot. You know, the type that call politicians or reporters, maybe sober and maybe not, at all hours to claim conspiracies or just let someone know this country's going to hell in a handbasket and it's all so-and-so's fault.
Over the years, though, I've come to recognize those papers' worth to my mother, who survived the cancer. She truly thought she was making a difference and that those thank you's were sincere. The lowly paid aides probably thought their letters would quell my mother, but they only spurred her further into action. She's still at it, by the way. Earlier in the year she expressed concern that she was lumped into the wrong group of supporters in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict based on a phone conversation with some dolt working on Capitol Hill.
I think of my mother every election day, because she'd be proud that I continue to exercise my civic right, even if I still pick losers. My children vote now too, eagerly. Which makes me think that those yellowing letters tucked into some cardboard box in the attic will some day be cherished by them too.
Some years later, when my mother thought she was dying, she bestowed upon my sisters and me some of her most cherished items. My sisters got jewelry and artwork. I got old photographs and a pile of thank you letters dating back to the Lyndon B. Johnson Administration. They were all short, obligatory missives from legislative aides, lacking any of the conviction in my mother's original letters. There also were a couple of White House reports thrown into the batch from the Nixon years, the kind mass-mailed to voters with addresses on file.
Two things occurred to me as I sifted through the items. 1) Man, did my sisters make out better than me. And 2) Good Lord, my mom's a crankpot. You know, the type that call politicians or reporters, maybe sober and maybe not, at all hours to claim conspiracies or just let someone know this country's going to hell in a handbasket and it's all so-and-so's fault.
Over the years, though, I've come to recognize those papers' worth to my mother, who survived the cancer. She truly thought she was making a difference and that those thank you's were sincere. The lowly paid aides probably thought their letters would quell my mother, but they only spurred her further into action. She's still at it, by the way. Earlier in the year she expressed concern that she was lumped into the wrong group of supporters in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict based on a phone conversation with some dolt working on Capitol Hill.
I think of my mother every election day, because she'd be proud that I continue to exercise my civic right, even if I still pick losers. My children vote now too, eagerly. Which makes me think that those yellowing letters tucked into some cardboard box in the attic will some day be cherished by them too.
