It's been an historic two weeks. As I write this entry, I am witness to the birth of a new political paradigm. In the nominations of
Barack Obama and
Sarah Palin, I see an America that is finally ready to reconsider itself; an America that chooses to rise to its best ideals of inclusion and equality, and turn away from the silent-but-popular prejudices that had always pushed only white men into the White House. These nominations stand as a profound sunset on old thinking, and old fears, and on the history of exclusion they tacitly supported. They signal the recreation of American
presidential politics, a structure that had long promised equality and opportunity that the electorate couldn't support. They are the next, most significant events in America's 21st century. And they are events with double resonance, because the first most significant American event this century was the attack of 9/11. Inasmuch as that event defined this new century as one of war, hate, and terror, these events — the nominations and their offspring election — have already redefined it as a century of change and hope. These nominations make me proud and thankful.
But there's something rotten underneath; something that taints my pride and hope, and makes it ironically difficult to embrace a change that energizes me. That rotten thing is the common public voice of the Democratic Party.
Now, just to be clear: I'm a registered Democrat, and have been since I was old enough to vote. I'm also a
centrist. That means that even though Democratic Party doctrine is a good match for my ideas, I'm rarely radicalized — even on critical issues. I'm pulled instead towards a moderate viewpoint, and unlikely to vilify the other side for being the other side. I'm a free thinker, and don't feel blindly compelled to walk the party line; I believe good ideas come from both sides of the political fence. More and more, this is an idea that divides me from my party. And it was never more apparent than during this year's primary race.
As a Democrat, I'm mostly concerned with and affected by what happens on our side of the aisle. Even as I remain aware of what happens in the Republican seats, I have a vested interest in my own party. I want to field the best candidate: I want a leader who speaks to my needs and hopes; whose ideas most closely align with my ideals; whose notions of governance jibe with my rights as a citizen. And I love that I'm able to participate meaningfully in the election process. I feel the weight of history and the onus of our future to live up to my sacred role as a voter. So, I watch, I listen, I consider and debate. When the time comes, I vote. And I do all this with respect for the process, and respect for all my fellow voters — regardless of what they believe. Until this election year, I thought a majority of Democrats did the same. And in fact, if history views the nomination process through a lens that focuses solely on four days of nominating votes and acceptance speeches, then history will only see the positive results I mentioned at the beginning of this post. History will see a unified party, looking hopefully at a brave new future, and poised to change the course of our country. But I am not history. I am not a lens that focuses so deliberately and so finitely. As I stood witness to Obama's elevation, so too did I stand witness to a season of political turmoil that left me feeling defeated and more than a little devoid of hope. As I sit in the glow of new political promise, I find myself somewhat lamenting my party affiliation, and doubting my ultimate kinship with my fellow Democrats.
Campaigning and the Politics of Attack: For the People, By the People
Politics has always been a difficult lover and friend. Its exercise is at once humbling and elating, harsh and uplifting, cruel and hopeful — it is a unifier
and a divider. It underscores our differences, and creates the ultimate dichotomy of beliefs. Its effects are almost always profound, and it only serves us if we are diligent, thoughtful, and aware. It betrays us if we are complacent or ignorant. And so it begs our keenest attention and respect.
The same is true of political commentary, and any kind of activism. The moment you choose a side and speak your mind, you enter a public forum with very few written rules. There, we are bound only by social contract — the expectations placed on us as participants in a civil society. There are no prohibitions against bombastic rhetoric, cutting insults, or bold displays of hypocrisy and stupidity, but there are guidelines we're all supposed to understand. They stand out like pleas from the gestalt, begging us to foster substantive, meaningful, and respectful dialogue, no matter the time, place, or topic. This is never more true than when the exercise of democracy — and the future of our country, world, and individuality — is on the line. That's where my party let me down. They forgot how to be civil.
I entered the 2008 primary season with fresh eyes and excitement. I sensed history in the making, and was eager to be a part of it, even if I was limited to a single vote. I examined the candidates and the issues, questioned my goals and ideals, and discussed Democratic dogma with anyone willing to engage. When the time came, I picked a candidate, cast my ballot, and sat back to see who'd win. I had always been transfixed by the simple beauty of the political process, and the power of a single vote. So I'd always watched it unfold with respect and a little awe. In 2008, the awe was replaced by embarrassment.
I'm not naive — I've studied history enough to know the dark, nasty side of politics. I expect politicians to do everything in their power to connect with voters, energize their party, and take home the prize. By extension, I expect dirty politicking. But I don't blame the politicians. Indeed, I blame the voters. Politicians fight so hard to win because we
demand it. They fight dirty because we
allow it. We don't vote for the polite, upstanding guy. We don't vote for the gentle idealist. We vote for the one who makes the most enticing promises; the one who fights the best, and lasts the longest. We buck a little when the campaign waters get murky, but at the end of the race, we still confer the title of party champion to one of those dirty fighters. In effect, we give tacit approval for bad behavior — and what makes it oddest, is that we're probably right to.
What politician can be successful — as a campaigner or a leader — without the drive to win at almost any cost? This is especially true in a primary race, where there's little to distinguish Candidate X from Candidates Y and Z. The outcomes of those nasty little skirmishes are often what sets the campaigners apart. It's what breaks the stalemate, and leads one candidate to the realized dream of public service and leadership, and the rest to the bad dream of political footnote notoriety.
But none of this excuses what I saw from my brother and sister Democrats. Yes, I expect some bad behavior from the campaign managers, political advisers, and press secretaries, and from the candidates themselves. I don't expect it from the party members. That's why I'm embarrassed.
Instead of inviting spirited debates and showing strident-but-civil support for their candidates, I saw people — supposedly united behind a single cause and a single doctrine — lashing out at each other. I saw hate, name-calling, bullying, and threats. I saw my constituency degenerate into an shameful parody of itself, its most vocal supporters amounting to a heckling, stone-throwing, lynch mob. I saw people standing up for their candidates by spewing vileness and cruelty — not only at the opposing candidate, but at his or her supporters. I saw my brothers and sisters become hateful and divisive, and those echoes haven't faded behind the historic noise of the last two weeks.
My Party, My Shame (Or: Bad Behavior, Thy Name is Democrat)
As I mentioned above, I had always known politics to be a great divider. I knew that people played it with passion. But the stark reality of this passion was displayed on the world stage in new ways. Instead of conviction and hope, I saw ugliness. I saw people who forgot everything good that the process was meant to be. There was no debate, no polite disagreement. There was only an assault on anyone who made a different choice. It broke my heart. How could Democrats become so mean-spirited and cruel? How did they lose sight of the critical process? How could any of them think it acceptable to try to bully others away from their candidates? Or to try to abort the sacrosanct voting/nominating process? How did it become acceptable to denigrate and belittle fellow Democrats, or to try to invalidate their right to select their own champions and vote their hearts?
In the end, the party was divided not by the politicians or the platforms, or even the dirty campaigning, but by the hateful voices of the constituency. It continued — it even worsened — when the field narrowed to two candidates, both historically significant: one for his race, and one for her sex. It continued even as we stood on the brink of history: no matter which way the party voted, a new type of government was poised to be born — one that doesn't just preach equality, but that enacts it.
Yet, on the bleeding edge of this amazing possibility, hate was suddenly the watchword. And ironically, it was Obama's supporters who were the worst. They were first out of the gate, and the most hateful. They tore down Hillary Clinton, and anyone who liked her. I was dismayed by the swiftness and cruelty of the attacks. They were merciless, and personal. And they didn't stop with the candidate and her supporters — the attacks even targeted Bill Clinton. That was the pitiful hallmark of their hatred: they attacked the last and only Democratic president of the last 30 years — the one who created the prosperity and international reputation that the Democrats so lament losing under George W. Bush. It was a pinnacle moment of hypocracy, selfishness, and stupidty: half of my party pushed our last champion down the stairs on the way to the polls; then countered the cries of disaffection that mewled out of their trampled rivals with charges of racism and party disloyalty. What a spectacle. What a shame.
The Final Dilemma
As I sit and contemplate these two historic nominations, I'm not sure who to vote for. As a Democrat, I've been longing for a strong Democratic candidate; someone who can actually deliver the country, and rule with vision, wisdom, and goodness. As a centrist and a rational adult, I need to vote for the candidate that embodies my vision of America. In any other race, I'd be able to look at issues and platforms, and vote my heart, and head, and conscience. And I could be satisfied that my vote counted, and the process worked. Moreover, if I voted the party line, I'd know that I was in good company — rational, compassionate people who treasured things like personal freedom and enlightenment. But when I look at what has transpired, I confront a very different reality. We've picked a candidate, and he might be the right guy. But he's been chosen by the worst people: self-appointed strongarms and hypocrites who deliberately trampled their rivals; people who fail — spectacularly — to personify Obama's messages and methods, even as they rally behind him. How can I support him, without seeming to support them? And how can I support a party that doesn't admonish its own bad behavior?
That's my final dilemma.
