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(With thanks to Tom Rinaldo for inspiration)
I am a Wes Clark Democrat. Full of sadness for what should have been, yet full of hope for what can be. I look wistfully at the closet full of memories, yard signs that should now sit proudly in the clean earth of spring, and buttons that should adorn shirts and jackets as we take the message coast to coast. For the first time in a long, long while I, and thousands upon thousands of others, felt like we mattered. The candidate stood outside the locked Beltway door, and was content to stay there, until one by one we signed our names to pieces of paper and asked, in no uncertain terms, if he’d be willing to try and kick the damn thing in.
We tried hard, but the door stayed locked, unwilling to give the password to anyone but the keepers of the flame. It wouldn’t yield to Arkansas, nor would it yield to Vermont. It opened wide for Massachusetts and North Carolina, though, and we watched with disbelief as they whispered the password in cupped hands, so as not to let the secret out.
“Identical,” said the man from MA, and walked in. “Identical,” said the man from NC, and followed close behind. For all our work, and all our time, and all our money, all we got was a first row seat for the 5000th showing of the tried but true Washington classic “Mr. Smith Stays In Washington.”
I speak with no ill will towards these men, able servants to this nation as they are. But I, as a Wes Clark Democrat, wanted more. I wanted fresh air from the west, and I now see before me the same recycled air from the east. It works fine, of course – keeps you alive – but it brings no vision of what could be. In my mind, the fresh air comes as the sea rushes in, finally taking away the sand castles that everyone thought were made of iron. I really thought I might get to see that this time. I was wrong.
So now there are two. They come with nothing to make me believe, so I look for clues. The tired rhetoric of change rings hollow for these men, as they spent their political time maintaining what they now decry. The first is a millionaire who speaks of humble upbringings; yet brings a born to the purple demeanor when it comes to the nations highest office. The pianist who just learned “Greensleeves” wants a Chopin recital at Carnegie Hall, all the while smiling next to the Steinway. The other is a millionaire who trumpets his past while seeming unsure of the present. A litany of Senatorial work trails behind him, designed (purposely, perhaps) to neither wonderfully impresses nor hideously offend. In short, this is the mark of a man whose experience walks the middle of the aisle when prudent, but drives on the left often enough to be comfortable.
I’ve chosen this man to walk behind, not out of passion, but out of duty. From the two, he is the one I feel best able to throw the squatter out of 1600, clean the place up, and make it a respected address once again. I wish I had the chance to drive down Grassroots Boulevard instead of Status Quo Lane, but that will not happen this time. Instead, I will follow the lead of the man so many of us chose to believe in, in the belief that he (and I) will do what needs to be done to rid ourselves of the filth that lies before us.
The thousands of us in divergent camps who believed in a real live change will put those dreams aside, for now, and work for the man the others have chosen. I will root him home with heart, with soul, and with money should the need arise. While he will not inspire passion, he will command respect, in that he is the last hope we have to preserve what has not already been destroyed. As the time passes, perhaps that inspiration will come, but for now another candidate still holds sway.
As we work for the nominee, we shall listen to the man we followed, as he puts into place the plans we knew he would. As he works to help rid the nation of the stench that envelops us now, we will be there, building the dream.
Each time we donate to a Democratic candidate hundreds or thousands of miles from home, the dream lives. Each time we meet on message boards or chat rooms or living rooms, waiting for “orders”, the dream lives. Together as one, we will, over time, kick the damn thing in. Not this time, though. This time, we need to change the leader.
Next time, we need to change the rules.
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