Political Reflexes

In the center of my family in DC, 1956

I wouldn't have anyone believe I don't reflect on my own views, I do, sometimes painfully.

There's this "stew" I make several times every winter. Each time it's a slightly different variation on a French Provincial stew. That because it invariably has garlic and onions, tomatoes and red wine. But each time it's a little different from the last, depending on mood and what is at hand. My politics are similar. In essence they have remained the same over the years, though my positions and issue advocacy might vary.

This year, I have decided to go up to Denver and be a part of the audience for Obama's acceptance speech. For me, it's an extravagance, a gift to myself. It's been a long, long time since I have had an iota of hope for our national politics, and I want to celebrate before it dissipates.


The last time I participated in a political convention was during the 1960 convention in Los Angeles. You know, the one that nominated Kennedy. Looking this up on Google I found some interesting notes on conventions and the political process by Eleanor Roosevelt, whom I was honored to meet at that event. The thought still brings chills to my spine.Chapter Forty-two, "The Democratic Convention of 1960" of The Autobiography of Eleanor Roosevelt by Eleanor Roosevelt.



My mother was State Women's Chairman of the Democratic Party in California at that time, and I was 12. Within the year my mother died of a botched hysterectomy, when a young surgeon decided to remove her healthy appendix just because he had her open. This convention was formative for me because it was the last time I got to be with my mother when she was acting in her public role.


Her courage,her principles, and her rhetorical skills impressed me at the time, and have stuck with me throughout my life. She was a "knock 'em dead" speaker who honed her skills by listening to radio broadcasts of Amee Semple McPherson (would you believe?).

My mother had been sitting on the committee that selected the California delegates to the convention, and had slyly injected many ardent Stevenson supporters into the California delegation. She admired Stevenson for his eloquence and commitment to grassroots politics and international diplomacy. She felt that it was finally "his time," and that the Democratic party owed him a real shot at the Presidency.

One night during the convention my family was seated at a table in the bar of the Biltmore Hotel, which at the time was the grand old hotel of LA, when Jessie Unruh, then running for Speaker of the House in California and a major player in "old style" politics, dropped by our table to inform my mother that she had "slit her political throat." With an aplomb that I have always cherished my mother replied, "Jessie, I don't think you understand why I am involved in politics."

Ironic, isn't it, for someone to be involved in politics, without compensation, for years, just because they were dedicated to making the world a better place? All through my growing up years, I was abashed and disheartened to learn that most people thought "politics" was a dirty word. I retain this naive prejudice proudly, that politics should be the arena of leadership and change for the better, as do the old ladies I work with in the Raging Grannies. Grassroots politics.

As I wrote in the early nineties:

If my father had not given me
Visions of progress and plenty,
Icing from the cake of his own baking
Made from scratch, created to satisfy the omnivorous
appetite of a child of immigrants for a place to call home:
His vagabond sense of rootedness, in his country,
This earth, its people and his time,

If my mother had not suckled me,
Nor rocked me as she sang
Of love's sweet pain, of endurance,
Of connection, of protection
Of solidarity and wit.
If she had been a quieter woman,
With less juice.
A dry woman with less comfort in her fleshy breast.
A cautious woman?
A worn-out woman?

If they had not given me these
Gifts of significance,
Each new year would not come with
These expectations, this sense of flailing arms against
A fierce and grinding tide.

In my last blog, I wrote about felons working to register voters. Afterwards, I mused on why I feel so strongly about the plight of felons, and about second chances. Once again, my reflexes are part of the very warp of my life.

My "dad," who was actually my stepfather, was a handful. He always had been a species of “wild man,” recklessly passionate and stubborn by turns. He had a lifelong penchant, fueled by alcohol, for throwing himself upon the world with his tender parts exposed. He was also, in his younger years, a bootlegger and a bookmaker.

This man, who found a way to support his family during the depression by taking bets on the ponies, was so much more than a lawbreaker and a drunk. In his youth he jumped trains across the country, and shared a lot of the sentiments of the late U. Utah Philipps. As a boy, he had been a devout Catholic, but with the outbreak of WWI, when the pope could not prevent French and German Catholics from slaughtering each other, he lost respect for the Church, but he always thought of Christ as "Jerusalem Slim," a people's Messiah. He was self educated, read newspapers voraciously, and taught me to read before I even started school by reading news articles out loud, with me on his lap, as his finger traced the printed words.

He was a great Dad, when sober. Running home from school in tears in the fifties, where for some reason I will never fathom, they had just done a presentation on bomb shelters -- shoot, I must have been nine or so, I sought him out first. He was always the most available emotional resource for us as kids. His response to my panic and distress was simple and comforting. "Remember, the Russians have kids too!"

In his forties, he started a new life in the central valley as a farmer. The old timers scratched their heads and doubtless whispered amongst themselves that this "new kid" next door would fail when he ruthlessly chopped the tops off his Valencias (he knew, because he studied the market, that California Valencias would never be a good cash crop again, because Florida was getting into the massive planting of juice oranges), and recreated his Valencias as lemons, via grafting. Within ten years the old timers were begging him to sit on the Boards of the local packing houses, because he understood the market. They were aping his innovations in farming, from drilling lateral water wells, to developing new varietals of avocadoes. They admired him as much for his ability to listen and understand as to produce results as a farmer.

He "would have been" the politician in the family, perhaps, he certainly was obsessed with political thinking. Then again, my mother was damned good at it! But he taught me to look beyond the letter of the law, to consider justice and compassion before self-righteousness.

Between the two of them, they gave me a belief system that informs me to this day. "Don't be afraid" to engage, to think, to learn, to grow. "Live fully and passionately." Be a part of your time!

So, I act, and sing, and remember, and look forward as fearlessly as I can manage. With passion and hope, despite setbacks and aging.

On aging: my great friend Rhi recently was babysitting her Mom in Cleveland, and she sent me this snippet of an email I found too amusing not to share....

The apartments mom is in are Wesleyan Village - which is run by the Methodists. I've been blessed, prayed to, and treated to more choruses than I can count of more songs than I can list extolling the virtues of Jesus. Not counting, of course, public grace at all meals. I've played old-lady bingo, done old-lady exercises and eaten old-lady chow. Yes, I think it IS made by Purina.

I console myself with my own mental pictures of what these places are gonna be like in another 20 years.

Instead of baked chicken, spaghetti and stuffed cabbage on the menu, they'll have to be serving Pad Thai, Sushi, and Veggie Burgers. Instead of "Michael Row Your Boat Ashore" and "Red River Valley" we'll all be singing "Cocaine" and "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds". Bring on Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix and 80's Hair Bands. Instead of helping us put our clip-on earring on just right, some poor aid is gonna be helping us adjust our genital piercings. Blue hair? I don't think so! How about pink, green, or purple! And instead of playing pass the beanbag, we'll be playing pass the bong. Milk and cookies my ass, croissants and wine, or deep-fried candy bars and Budweiser.

Keep on Truckin'!