The Furious Spinner

Monday night, as part of my ongoing goal to be part of the problem—I mean part of the process—I attended the monthly Democratic meeting in our county courthouse annex along with twenty other people.

In many ways, going to a meeting is worse than going to the dentist. It’s more painful, it takes longer, and when it’s over, all my teeth hurt. But I had participated in the caucuses, and that had been inspiring. Perhaps this meeting would be equally as interesting.

We crowded around two long tables. I sat next to Ira, my retired 80-something friend who had come with his wife Rhoda who was the chief organizer of our peace rally this upcoming Saturday. Keith, the 40-something vice-chair of the group, sat on the other side of me. As we waited to get started, we talked about the media and ways to get Bush out of office. Everyone seemed friendly and like-minded.

Ira leaned over and told Keith and me a joke about a group of women skinny-dipping, a farmer, and a crocodile. I laughed. We tried to tell each other jokes whenever we saw one another. The peace work we did together was often depressing, so we were determined to make each other laugh despite everything. I adored Ira and Rhoda and was happy to go anywhere they were: even to a meeting.

Then I glanced at the agenda. The first thing we were scheduled to do was recite the Pledge of Allegiance. I pointed this out to Keith. “We’re pledging allegiance to the flag?” I asked. He shrugged. I turned to Ira and asked the same thing. Ira wondered where the flag was.

“I’m not pledging allegiance to a flag,” I said. “I haven’t done that since I was a kid.”

Nevertheless, everyone stood, faced the south where a small flag hung, and said the Pledge of Allegiance. I stood quietly with my arms crossed, wondering where this particular ritual had originated. I appreciated meaningful ceremony and ritual, but saying the Pledge had always been a rote exercise performed by children who did not know any better.

I later learned that the Pledge of Allegiance had been written in 1892 by Frank Bellamy, a young socialist, to help commemorate Columbus Day. In 1954, Congress and President Eisenhower added the phrase “under God,” apparently at the behest of the Knights of Columbus. The U.S. was only one of two nations that had a pledge to its flag; the other country was the Philippines who created its pledge in imitation of the U.S.

After we sat down again, the chair talked about old agenda items. A few “regulars” went back and forth about party business. I’m not certain what they said. I heard something like, “We’ve got to send in the PDL ASAP or PD-quick we will be xyzed.” Or maybe they said ZZ Top was coming to town. Who knows?

As they discussed a problem with our primaries, I started to comprehend a few things. I vaguely remembered the federal courts had outlawed Washington’s blanket primaries which had allowed people to vote for Democrats and Republicans on the same ballot. Now the state had to decide whether they would use the modified Montana system or the Cajun system.

In the Cajun system, the top two candidates advanced to the general election regardless of party. Those in the know around our table shuddered as they talked about the Cajun system. It was especially dangerous in areas where one party was stronger than the other, they said, because that would most likely mean the top two candidates would be from the same party. We wouldn’t be able to chose between a Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, or Green party candidate; we might only be able to chose between a Republican and a Republican. No one spoke positively about the Cajun primaries.

“Damn Cajuns,” I murmured to Ira. He chuckled. I wondered if he remembered I had been born in Louisiana.

Which way to go with the primaries was complicated, obviously, and I was once again flabbergasted at my ignorance about my own system of government. I wasn’t sure if I was more reassured or distressed that most people in the room seemed as confused as I was about the issue.

We then talked about the upcoming county convention in April where we would elect delegates for the state convention and vote on our county platform to send to the congressional convention. The chair held up a sheaf of papers and said we had to follow strict guidelines sent to us by the state Democratic party mucky mucks. My eyes began to glaze over. I thought about the dinner my husband Mario was preparing at home. The chair asked for volunteers to help with the convention.

Be part of the process, I told myself. So I said, “I’ll help.”

“We really need someone to make coffee,” the secretary said.

Coffee? This was how Democracy worked? It wasn’t pretty, but it was necessary.

“I don’t know how to make coffee,” I remembered. Really. I don't drink coffee.

“We need signs painted,” someone else suggested.

No, couldn’t do that. Paint fumes.

Several other suggestions were made. I finally said, “I can help set up before the convention.”

“That would be great,” the secretary said. “I’ll be there about 8:00.”

“In the morning?” I asked.

Yep. 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I glanced at Ira. He smiled.

“OK,” I agreed. I immediately tried to think of ways I could get out of it. It was times like these when I wished I had had children. Having to take one of the little tykes to soccer or baseball or something would have been a perfect excuse. Ah well, I guess I would have to do my civic duty.

The meeting went on. It was dinnertime. I leaned over to Rhoda to make certain she was going to mention the peace rally to the group; then I got up, patted Ira on the back, and went into the cool night.

The stars were out. I breathed deeply. I would pledge allegiance to this: the stars, trees, wind. I unlocked my car and got in. As I drove slowly home, I smiled, remembering Ira’s joke. I would pledge allegiance to Ira and Rhoda, maybe even to the other people I had left back in that room, and to Mario who was at home making dinner. Yes, those were the things I would pledge allegiance to. With liberty and justice for all.
0 comments

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.