And Breathe

It comes out as a sigh, that first release of the breath I’ve been holding.

By the time I look up, it’s 4:30 on a Friday, the dead zone for releasing information, let alone sitting down to write.

But here I am, my breath caught at last, caught in the comfort of an easy rhythm — in, out; in, out — as I allow myself to relax, to try to remember what it was like to live a day out of dread.

This is the way now.

A madman’s tiny hands no longer hold the reins of power, and while much remains to be done, much has already improved, just in the space of time it takes a minute hand to move.

The moment, the striking of noon on Wednesday, resonates. Though the bell tones pealed twelve times just like every day before, and every day to come, I heard them differently then.

I heard hope in those bells, and I hear it still: a tinnitus of optimism.

Over this I hear cries from voices that would drown the moment, if only they could grip it and wrestle it beneath the waves of their own rage and dismay.

Not today, not today.

And for the days ahead I shall push through, focusing on the sounds that matter, repeating the good things I hear, and endeavoring to let the dark voices fade into history by ringing those bells again, and again.

Betting on a Lame Horse

VALERIE: Bye-bye, boys!

MIRACLE MAX: Have fun storming the castle!

VALERIE: Think it’ll work?

MIRACLE MAX: It would take a miracle.

— dialogue from The Princess Bride

Recently, I wrote a post slagging on the Electoral College.

Now, when I wrote that, it was mostly just a way of venting, of expressing frustration with our quaintly antiquated (but enshrined in the Constitution so 100% applicable) system of electing presidents. 

In the intro, I wrote, “I know who won the election based on the rules in place and agreed upon prior to voting. I am not advancing protest, vote contesting, ‘he’s not my president’ talk, etc. No do-overs.”

I wanted to get that bit out of the way so I could proceed to my point, which was to express frustration while making a few horses jokes along the way. 

I purposefully didn’t go into some of the worse aspects of the Electoral College, such as its association with slavery and the Three-Fifths Compromise. (If you don’t know that history, hit Google, or start here. I warn you, it’s depressing reading.)

Upon reflection, I would now like to shift focus to “the rules in place and agreed upon” rather than “not advancing protest, vote contesting.” 

Turns out there is a way to fight the result.
It’s incredibly unlikely to succeed, but I don’t believe the odds against success should stop us from doing what is right, nor from advocating others with the opportunity do the same.

As I write this, the election’s popular vote totals have Clinton ahead by ~575,000 votes.

But those are just people, and all we care about is the Electoral College, and Trump won that.
Only he didn’t. 
Well, more accurately, he hasn’t won the vote yet … because it has not yet occurred.

Although we’re accustomed to tallying the electoral votes based on the how the states voted and considering that the end of it, the members of the Electoral College do have to actually meet and cast ballots of their own. Those are the ones that really count. This happens December 19.

At that time, if tradition is followed, each state’s electors will all vote for the presidential candidate who won their state’s popular vote.*

But the thing is, they don’t have to. 

Most states don’t bind their electors to vote for their popular vote winner, and even those that do seem to only punish with fines. (Frankly, if a fine would be a barrier to performing the act of conscience I’m about to describe, that person would never listen anyway.)

So, how to change the result of a projected Electoral College outcome where the winner is not the same as the popular vote winner? Easy, ask the electors to follow the will of the people and vote for the popular vote winner instead.

Crazy, right?

Yes. Quite.

About as crazy as betting on a lame horse with a history of never leaving the stall when the race starts.

Each party selects electors with loyalty to the candidate as the prime (only?) consideration, so these aren’t exactly people likely to change their minds, and we need at least 21 to turn from Trump to Clinton in order for this to work.** 

There have only been a handful of “faithless electors” across the entire history of presidential elections in this country, and most of those were either accidents or minor acts of protest.
But even those few occurrences demonstrate that the Electoral College vote is not sacrosanct. It can change, if the will is there, if the case is made, if the stakes matter enough. 
If you are an elector in one of the states pledged to Trump, you can vote Clinton instead.
The rest of us can ask, nicely, persistently, that those folks do just that. 
Sign here

* Well, except for those in Nebraska and Maine, who vote on other criteria. I know, I know. Shut up. This is complicated enough. Stop with the details. (Turns out, you can job this motherfucker all sorts of ways, and most states just haven’t decided to do so. But that’s a topic for another day.) 
**That number is based on projections as I write this (T 290, C 228). Those could change, but I’m not getting into recounts and other issues; one faint hope is all I can manage in this post.


Here’s a story I’ve not told before.

Eight years ago, the day after Election Day, I walked alone down the stairs to the train platform at my local MARTA station. As I reached the bottom and walked toward the far end, I passed an older African-American man, maybe mid-60s.

Just the night before, our country had, by a respectable margin, elected Barack Obama president. As I passed this man, I could see aspects of wonder, disbelief, and joy mixed upon his face. I passed right by him, but I don’t think he noticed me.

He was in another world, a dream world that had just become his reality, and while I was certainly happy with the election outcome, I knew in that moment I could never appreciate it even remotely the same way this man could. As a young, white man I could certainly be happy for the outcome, for having done my small part to elect President Obama. I could rejoice that we shared policy priorities and visions for our nation’s future, yet I knew the election outcome could not come close to having the same significance for me that it had for this man, or millions like him, and tens of millions before, who fought, bled, and died, for just the right to vote, let alone see one of their own elected into our nation’s highest political office.

As I said, I haven’t told this story before.

I’ve thought about it a lot, though. At every election, certainly. And often at random, at that MARTA station, or elsewhere when my mind turned to thoughts of — paraphrasing Dr. King — the long arc of the moral universe and its journey toward justice.

It was a private moment, something I was not party of, but rather witness to.

As a middle class, hetero white male I can only begin to empathize. I can only try to understand. I can only be an ally, strive for change, hope for better, ply the few words left to me in service to progress for all.

I tell this story now so you will understand when I say I do not look forward to the expressions I expect to see upon any non-hetero, non-white, non-male faces I encounter at that same train station a few hours from now.

But I will look.

And if any of them can see through their pain, anguish, uncertainty, and fear to register my pale countenance, I hope they find there only a reflection of those same emotions.

The next four years do not bode well, and I don’t for a moment pretend they will be as hard on hetero white male me as they are on my allies.

They stand to lose so much, and I can only offer empathy, understanding, hope.

I can only promise to never look away, nor run.

Autumnal Equinox 2016

As autumn arrives, I sigh at surviving another summer.

I get that seasonal affective disorder is a thing, and this is the time of year when it starts to kick in for some people.

I get it, yet I am utterly, completely wired the other way.

Reaching the end of summer for me is like coming up for air — cool, damp air with just a hint of decaying plant matter.

And while the mere change of a season is unlikely to make much difference in the greater scheme of life — especially as I seem to be living in a version of the United States that is damned and determined to replay the worst hits of the 1960s, day by day diving ever deeper into divisiveness — I cannot help feeling a little better now the longest days are behind us.