It’s election night. I’m writing this
half-asleep, which explains the typos. And I’d fix them for you, but well, it’s
election night.
In our house the word “election” is
synonymous with “up all night.” This means the TV stays on twenty-four hours
while the votes come in and the states are announced.
And even when it’s over
and the electoral votes are counted, we still stay up because it’s not over.
Surely there will be a miscount. Surely we didn’t hear it right. Surely there’s
more to come. It means someone better have remembered to buy popcorn because
it’s going to be a long night. It means we root for our pick.
Brad and I don’t always agree on “our
pick.” Sometimes we cancel out each other’s votes, although I’m the only
one who knows when this happens. Brad is a party-voter. I’m for the man whoever
that happens to be.
I never tell Brad who I vote for, because
not only would it take the fun out of the election for me, but because
sometimes fessing up causes a reaction from Brad where shoes start to fly in
the direction of the TV, but at least he has yet to throw the cat, and you
can’t buy entertainment like that.
Brad looks forward to election night. And
why not? He’s spent the last year in bed with the commentators. In bed? Yes, I
did say that. With Rachel Maddow. With Chris Matthews. When there’s an
election coming up he stays up night after night in the living room, glued to
the TV until he falls asleep with
the clicker in his hand.
I usually leave him alone. That way the snore drowns
out the roar of the commentators who talk over each other and shout into the
camera as if anyone can hear a thing they say. Chris Matthews is the primary
culprit of whom I speak. I like Chris but my eardrums don’t, which makes me
sorry to say that ear wax can actually be a good thing.
Somewhere along the line I end up dragging my fanny to
the living room and nudging Brad and ordering him to bed (It's a sad day indeed, when reality hits that you have to order someone to bed), until he eventually comes into the bedroom
where it would appear there’s enough of the night left to get some serious
zzz’s, but this lasts 30 seconds or so until he turns the TV on and he gets his
second wind and you can kiss the sand man goodbye.
So I watch the returns and try to learn as
much as I can about swing states and electoral votes until it’s inevitable
that the voice of Chris Matthews is the insomnia filibuster making it mandatory
for me to sneak off to the work room where I can type on my computer which is
what I am doing now.
I’m hiding from the noise and the potential meltdown if my
husband’s candidate doesn’t win which means it will be All over but the
shoutin’ as Rick Bragg says.
All these years I’ve told myself that at
least I have Charley. He’s on my side. He doesn’t scream and holler at the TV. After
all, he’s a Beauty and the Beast buff. A Cher fan. A John Travolta grease
monkey. Election night means Charley and I watch Free Willy.
Until tonight. Tonight he has defected to
the other side.
What does Charley know of politics? Quite a
lot, actually. He knows that voting matters. And this means he matters.
He knows who his pick is. He knows he’s
voting for Obama because he listens to Rush Limbaugh every day on the radio.
When Rush dishes on Obama, and he does this a lot, Charley thinks he’s listening
to Obama.
“See? Bama,” he says, “Dat guy said so.”
He knows that voting is such a big deal that it requires him to have a picture I.D. card. This involved getting an original notarized
birth certificate, two pieces of mail to present with his current address, a
trip to the Dr. to obtain a document that states that he has Down syndrome as
if you can’t tell by looking at his face, a copy of his social security card,
and a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles and Homeland Security to have
his picture taken.
But first, a trip to the barber shop because the beard and
the muscle shirt had to go.
The privilege of having a picture I.D. is a
right of passage, and the right to have an I.D. meant Bye Bye Beardie, Hello Mr. Clean.
The right to vote means standing in line
while holding his tote bag full of CDs with his headphones on, and waiting his turn
with the rest of the voters and knowing that for this one moment, he is one of them. He gets to be in
their club.
We early-bird voted because Brad and I
couldn’t envision Charley waiting for hours just to
push a button.
I can't help thinking though, that voting
is a remarkable thing because its one of the occasions when we are all on equal
ground. And I couldn't help being reminded of all the times when Charley hasn't
had a say.
He didn't get to vote on whether or not he
would have Down syndrome.
He didn't get to vote on all the times he's
wanted to date some girl who might have dated him if only he wasn't different.
And what about the kids in the neighborhood
who wouldn't give him a nod or toss him the basketball because they were afraid
his Downs might rub off on them? He didn't get to vote on that.
He didn't get to vote on where he would
live all these years, every time Brad had to move us from church to church. All
the goodbyes. All the lost toys stacked in boxes in the garage every time we
had to start over. He never had a say in that either.
But this time is different. This time he's old enough to have a say in who he wants as President.
He was so excited at the prospect of
voting, and especially proud of the picture on his first official I.D.
“Look Son, you’ve got your own I.D. Isn’t’
that great? Now all you have to do is show it to us and we’ll know who you
are,” I said.
“Stop it, Mom,” he said. He knew I was
yanking his chain and his lips curled into a Popeye grin.
Soon, it was his turn to approach the table
where he would sign his name.
“See? I got me one,” he said to a lady who
looked at his I.D. and directed him to the voting booth. “Nice picture,” she
said. “Very handsome.”
“Yep, I am,” he said, waving the I.D. in
the air. “I got a girlfwent,” he said to the lady. “I love girls.”
Mayday. Inappropriate comment alert.
“Son, this is a precinct, not a pick-up
joint.”
He shot me a look, like, Knock it off, Mom.
“My girlfwent love me,” he told the lady.
“That’s nice,” she said, pointing to the
booth, smiling at me.
And with that, Brad and Charley stepped
into the booth where Brad would help Charley cast his ballot.
I could hear Brad reading the instructions
to him, and showing Charley how to turn the wheel and which buttons to push for
his choices.
“I done, Mommy,” he said, as he walked away
from the booth. “I boated.”
“We’re proud of you,” Brad said, as we
headed out the door and straight to the Fountain City Diner to celebrate. It is
on these rare four-year occasions when we get to have pie. No one diets on
voting day. Oh the beauty of it.
Well, that’s that. At least I thought that
was that.
Tonight I was at the library and took a
peek at my cell phone. There were three missed calls from Charley, so on my
break I gave him a quick call.
“Hi Mom, gonna win.” He
sounded excited.
“How do you know?” I said. “It’s still too
early to call.”
“Nuh uh,” he said, “I call you.”
“Not that kind of call, honey.”
“See? I got me phone,” he said.
Oh, forget it.
“Are you watching the election returns with
Dad?”
“Yep, I am.”
Traitor.
“Son, we may or may not win, but at least
you got to vote which means you got to have your say,” I said.
“Yep.”
And then, I got to have my say.
“Listen, Son, would you do me a favor?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you hide Dad’s shoes?”
“Huh?”
“Just put them somewhere out of reach.”
“Why?”
“Because I still want a TV that works when
this is all over.”
"Okay, Mom."
"By the way, Charley, I meant to thank you."
"You welcome."
"Well, don't you want to know why?"
"Oh. Yes I do."
"I want to thank you for reminding me that voting matters because it means we all have a say, which means we all matter."
"Dat awesome, Mom."
It certainly is.
