Vote for Humanity

Politics are my least favorite subject. That may actually be a massive understatement. I have not a shred of interest in politics. Maybe that’s wrong, and maybe I ‘should’, and maybe the world is judging me right now, but I’m owning it. I have always felt that there’s not much I can do to be impactful in the politics of this country, and politically driven conversations seem fruitless. I understand voting is a privilege, and therefore I always cast my vote during any election. But, if I’m being honest, voting feels like an annual, routine visit to the doctor. You even get a cute sticker after you vote, just like the pediatrician. I believe in voting, I’m just not so sure I believe in politics.

When selecting my leaders, women’s issues make my non-political ears perk up. Perhaps it’s because I am the descendant of a lineage of strong, independent women. My chest puffs as I type that sentence. A string of women from past generations lived outside the box society created for them. My mother’s grandmother was widowed at 29, and lived with her youngest sister, Celia, in Brooklyn for 40 years. Celia never married but she broke barriers with her successful jewelry business specializing in seed pearls and jade from China. In fact, in the late 1940’s she travelled alone, by airplane to China. I pause and think about that. A single woman. Alone. On a plane to China in 1945. My breath hastens just thinking about the exhilaration she must have felt paving her way in a man’s world. Also on my mother’s side, my great uncle’s wife owned and operated an exclusive, high fashion boutique in New York City. She designed dresses for wealthy clients, and I remember her perfectly knotted scarves, and ruby lipstick. Her wrap slung perfectly over her shoulder tickled my nose as she kissed me hello. I’m thankful that I have three daughters of my own. The strength of women has swirled around me since I’m a child, and it has influenced my vote. It reminded me each of our life experiences shapes how we vote, and what causes resonate with us.

Four years ago, on election night, I sat in a dark cafe in downtown Manhattan with my writing group. We gravitated towards one another during a writing class, and began meeting to develop our work further. This group filled my lungs with oxygen when I thought I was going to drown. Nikay, one of the members, dubbed us “The Rainbow Writers.” Somehow, our rainbow colors had slipped by my attention, but it was only one of the many beautiful qualities this group possessed. Our focus was writing, and sharing our intimate lives, we were vulnerable as writers and as friends. Our little group unintentionally represented the melting pot of New York City and America. Anthony is an Italian from Queens, Nikay from Jamaica, not the borough, the Island, Sapna’s is Hindu, her family is from India, Sonia is of Hispanic descent, originally from Philadelphia and transplanted to the Bronx. And me. White, Jewish suburban mother of 3. This team saved my spirit and launched my belief that I could in fact be a writer. When we arrived in the first class in January of 2016 I was writing my first novel. I had always dreamed of writing a novel and it lived in my head for years. At the time I was married, and my ex -husband grumbled at my late Wednesday nights out, but any opportunity to advance my writing was worth the backlash. Four years ago may as well have been a lifetime ago.

All the amazing differences between The Rainbow Writers melted away as our relationships tightened. We all shared in many similar life experiences such as love, loss, navigating family relationships, career triumphs and struggles. I find myself thinking about my writing group as I watch the rift between parties, colors and genders grow across this country. It seems Americans are unable to celebrate our differences anymore. No one seems to be bragging about our melting pot, and a country of immigrants following the American dream. It could be in a casual conversation, or a post on social media, but tolerance for opposing viewpoints seems to have disappeared. The diversity that this country is known for, is now being smothered by pressure to conform by all sides. Why have personal opinions become so controversial? Why do we feel the need to convince others to share our viewpoint? When did it become taboo to agree to disagree? The cultural differences in this country provide a dynamic society, yet today we are asked to conform to ideals for acceptance. Maria Shriver has spoken of a need for a ‘purple party.’ The blue is now midnight blue and the red is fiery. Why can’t there be some ombre within the political spectrum? I always feel horrible about my vote because I feel forced into a candidate I feel lukewarm about. I long to feel 100% convicted about any candidate. Many politicians change their minds and their campaigns don’t necessarily represent what they support throughout their political term. At the end of the day, I don’t have faith or trust in politicians or politics.

In 2016, as we sat in the cafe munching on snacks and watching the one silent television, the election was the only topic of conversation. The media had led us to believe Hillary would surely triumph. “There’s no way Trump will win right?” asked Sonia. We exchanged solemn glances. How could the man who bellowed “You’re fired!” on reality television be the leader of the free world? Cracks of doubt spread through everyone’s mind. As the hours passed, the cafe emptied and the air grew heavy across the city. The reality of Trump’s unexpected win became apparent. The entire city’s mouth gaped open in shock. I must admit, as a woman, I salivated at the thought of an accomplished, smart, deserving woman running this country. The myriad of controversies surrounding Hillary poked at my conscience, but elections have been a choice of the lesser of two evils for me. I’ve never been exuberant about my ballot.

Now, here we are, and it’s time to vote again. In four years my life has changed dramatically. I visualize the years in phases of change. Phase one, fighting to save my marriage. Phase two entrenched in a severely acrimonious divorce. Within those four years, my oldest daughter received her drivers license and is off at college. My middle daughter is now driving and applying to college, and my baby girl will soon celebrate her sweet 16. I’ve gone from two to three dogs,I’ve moved homes, and I’ve become a single mom in an all estrogen house. I’ve learned how to turn off my sprinklers for the season, open a garage door when the power goes out, change the propane tank on the grill, taught myself to cook, loved and lost, been broken hearted and broke hearts, traveled to India and Ecuador, healed my brain, healed my heart, lived through a pandemic, and most importantly I made writing part of my daily life. One thing I did not do during those four years was pay much attention to politics.

By January 2017, the political news altered my mood to the point that I refused to watch television. I’m not writing this as an outlet for political views, but rather a plea for tolerance, empathy and acceptance whatever your political beliefs may be. I’m suggesting you make your belief for humanity. A belief that respecting others views even though we may not agree is equally as important as having a strong opinion. I’d like to think we all have the capacity to open our ears and truly listen to opposing views and try to understand that view. We all come to our beliefs from different life experiences which mold us. If we take a moment to talk to our neighbors and try to understand their viewpoint, we can grow, and more importantly have empathy for their beliefs. Today, I’m going to continue my belief in voting, and look for humanity throughout this very tense day. I have a Zoom call with my writing group this evening, because they remind me,despite our different backgrounds, and life experiences, a human connection is what impacts our lives.