I’m apt to loathe politics. It all seems to be happening so far away — in some other time, on some other planet. Mary Scott cannot relate, at least not the Mary Scott I think I am; the sensitive, yet critical, empathetic yet astute artist-in-training. Politics seems phony, frankly, and the investigative reporter in me is dying to bust open the next Watergate scandal. I don’t believe in all the president’s men, but I do believe in the likes of Woodward and Bernstein. I can’t help but be highly suspicious of any human being who wants to represent the ideals of an entire nation. I’d rather side with those who can see through the facade of fairness, right down into the depths of the avaricious human soul.
As I’m writing this, election day is looming. As I reread this article in print and as you read this for the first time, the presidential race of 2012 will be finished, if all goes smoothly. And it won’t really matter that on the afternoon of Nov. 5 a 21-year-old, white, middle-class college girl sat on her bed and wrung her hands because she so loathed politics. It won’t matter that this same girl who usually rolled her eyes at raging liberals and radical conservatives and loony independents was having, for the first time, to sort out all of these different views and platforms and people. It won’t matter that she was conflicted. Because the race will be over.
I’ve always believed that engaging in a conversation with strangers about politics, sex, money or religion was tasteless, silly, a one-way street leading to screaming and accusing and guilt-tripping. Even with friends and loved ones, unless you’re both thick-skinned and well-mannered, it is difficult and often painful to engage in these kinds of conversations that turn so easily to dogmatism. Someone always has to be right. Because, in the end, there is a right and a wrong way, especially with politics. Good versus evil. Sane versus insane. Appropriate versus inappropriate. And people love to pick sides.
I don’t want to be on any side. “I’m socially liberal and fiscally conservative,” I scream silently in my head not really knowing what I’m saying or to whom. “The two-party system is too reductive,” I urge my father and mother as we sit down to dinner. “It insists on binaries and I can’t accept it.” My father tells me that he has no idea what I’m talking about, but he assures me that, for now, I’m allowed to question what it all means. Daddy quotes Churchill, one of his favorites: “If you’re not a liberal at 20 you have no heart,” the first part of the quote reads, and then quickly leaps to what is of course my father’s greater point — “if you’re not a conservative at 40 you have no brain.” My father tells me he understands my leanings, that he’s been there, but he’s not there any more. So, faithful daughter and recalcitrant college kid, where am I supposed to stand? What does it come down to? Does every vote count? Or should we just scoff and leave it all up to the electoral college? Am I a critical element because I am a resident of a swing state? Is anyone a critical element?
Maybe it’s the one-of-many thing that gets to me. I want my voice to be heard! But above the clamor of politics I become not even a whisper. What do I know about foreign policy and the debt ceiling and space exploration? I know I am a woman and that anything to do with decisions concerning my body should not be left up to narrow-minded men in business suits. But can these same men in business suits open up my mind to the world of foreign and domestic issues with which my feeble mind cannot grapple? I’m the authority on my body, but who gets to be the authority on an entire nation’s welfare?
One man? A man surrounded by advisors and lobbyists and members of Congress and the Supreme Court and on and on and on? I suppose I fit in there somewhere, but I certainly don’t want anyone to listen to me. What do I know about someone else’s struggles? I know my father supports one candidate because he tells me it will be better for my family. But I cannot in my heart of hearts support the same candidate who might better serve my family but who will never serve to satisfy my moral compass.
I’m dogmatically undecided. I’ve done my research and I’ve taken quizzes but I’m mired in a gray area. Not mired even, because that would imply that I’m stuck and that I want to escape. Maybe I don’t want to escape. Maybe my indecision will lead me to the right decision, whatever it may be, whatever choice I make behind that curtain in the polling booth. It will be my own. Maybe it will be right or wrong, sane or insane. Maybe it will result in the fall of the nation. Who knows? Whatever the result, I know I won’t be running down the street screaming in joy or rage either way. I’ll accept the winner, be he incumbent or newcomer. And then I’ll keep thinking, because Churchill authored one of my own favorite quotes: “Never, never, never give up.” I’ll never give up my gray, as unpopular as it may be. Maybe no one candidate embodies all that I want; most of us have to compromise in some way when we vote. I’ll never give up, because in the end, I don’t agree with Churchill and my father’s sentiment: I think I’ll keep faithful to both my head and my heart.
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Mary Scott’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached m.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com._
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