Archive for November 3rd, 2008

‘A Song Every Day’

Monday, November 3rd, 2008

I love this column, from Judith Warner. It ran as a short ”op-extra” in Sunday’s Times. It’s a sort of reflective moment, from perhaps the Queen Bee of neurotic democrats.

Here’s the nut:

Aversion to joyful anticipation is a feeling I know very well, and not just in relation to politics. Anticipating the worst – from birthdays, other holidays, vacations – is kind of my modus vivendi.

It is a habit of mind so natural and ingrained – and seemingly self-protective – that I’ve never thought to change it. Until this week, when a friend pointed out that, if one were to think like a realist instead of a knee-jerk pessimist, enjoying the moments in life when good things might be about to happen makes sense.

“You may as well enjoy the anticipation,” she said, “Because it may be all that you’ll get.”

I would never describe myself as a “pessimist.” I don’t always think that the worst is going to happen. I just know that it can, so I think that it might. And, so, when I allow myself to go there — wherever “there” might be: the election, my kids’ health, my ability to ever again write another decent short story — I sometimes get this sort of niggling feeling. It might be in my stomach. More likely, it’s a tightness in my chest. That’s the feeling that puts the “neurotic” in the Democrat.

I’ve always thought of it as a Jewish thing. If ever there was a people conditioned to know that things might go wrong, it’s us.

Fortunately, the neurotic-ness always goes away. Only once or twice have I ever actually had to breathe into a paper bag.

Here’s the thing. If you ask me whether I am hopeful for the future — the future of my kids and my family; the future of my country; even the future of Israel and the Jewish people — the fact is that I am. We live at a time when we are less threatened by disease than ever in human history (sure, that might change); there’s no military draft (not yet, at least); fascist, imperialist governments are not on the march across the globe (threats of a second cold war, notwithstanding).

We live at a time when there is a Jewish state.

We stand perhaps (perhaps) 33 hours from electing a black man president of the United States.

And me? What do I have, personally, to be so hopeful about?

For starters, I married my best friend, greatest advocate, and perfect life partner, and I’m more in love with her today than the day we stood under the chuppah. I’ve got two kids who I love in a way that is almost heartbreaking. I close my eyes and see Heshel, his sweet face, the way he sometimes — for no apparent reason — widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows, as if to say: Did you see that? and Hark! Who goes there? and I’m something else, aren’t I!, all at the same time. I think of Meyer who, the other day, when I was reading his Star Wars book to him, stopped me to ask: “Daddy, what does ‘dispatched’ mean?” I replied: “It means ‘to send out.’” He paused for a moment, reformulating the sentence I’d just read, and then said: “So, the clone trooper sent the rest of the spider droids out?”

Yeah, kid. You got it. Exactly that.

I have the greatest family, and extended family, in Ohio, New Jersey, and beyond. I love, adore, and respect my two kid sisters. I have the most amazing, supportive friends in the world, all over this country — from Washington, DC, to San Francisco, to New York and back. In a few weeks, I’m going back to Highland Park, NJ, for my 20th high school reunion, where I will see two guys I’ve been friends with my whole life — one now lives in Chicago, one in Charlotte, NC – and I still call them my best friends.

I get up every morning and write fiction, and work on nonprofit boards for causes that I think will make this a better world. I’ve put on a few pounds since this election started — I’ve been eating pretty badly — and I’m tired as hell. My knees sometimes bother me. But I’m otherwise healthy. Thank God, my family is, too.

We have a great house in Akron with plenty of room for the kids, and my office window looks out on a maple tree that is just now so brimming with red leaves, it almost hurts to see.

“This is one of the rewards of being human,” Abraham Joshua Heschel writes. “Quiet exaltation, capability for celebration. It is expressed in a phrase which Rabbi Akiba offered to his disciples: A song every day, A song every day.”

Which is to say — the point I’m trying to make here — is that I’m blessed.

I’m not just saying this because Obama’s up a few points in the polls.

No matter what happens on Election Day — I know I’m truly, truly lucky.

Sometimes, amidst all the poll watching, it’s easy to forget that.

Sometimes I think, like Judith Warner, that all this “anticipation of the worst” is self-protection. As if thinking the worst might happen cushions the blow when it does.

It doesn’t, of course. If Obama loses tomorrow, I’ll be devastated, along with just about everyone I know. After all I’ve invested, physically and emotionally, it will be one of the most bitter defeats of my life.

But Warner’s friend makes an excellent point. If you think like a realist, instead of a knee-jerk pessimist, you at least get to enjoy the anticipation.

If I think like a realist, I think Obama is going to win. I’ve looked at the polls up and down, and I’m fairly well convinced of it. I’ve been to his rallies, and felt a spirit unlike anything I’ve felt in politics before. In fact, thinking like a realist, there’s a decent chance he could have a convincing margin in the popular vote, along with an electoral landslide. Sue me. That’s just what I think.

It’s taken, what? Nearly a year? Remember when we were all obsessing about how Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama were surely destroying each other in the primary?

Here is my promise to myself: For the next 33 hours, I’m going to think like a realist.

We have thirty-three hours to savor this thing. Thirty-three hours to imagine waking up Wednesday morning with a new day, dawned.

And why not?

Yesterday, at a brunch with friends, Meyer spotted me across the room, and just started running. I caught him on a flat-out fly, lifted him up over my head, and started spinning him, like rotor blades, until both of us were dizzy – and the Meyercopter was born. The Heshelcopter was not far behind.

This will be my 98th blog post since my first one, “The End is Near,” on August 19th. I began that post, 78 days before Election Day: “I have been feeling a certain dread about Barack Obama’s political prospects …”

Which is to say, I’ve wasted too much time already. We have thirty-three hours to think: Yes, actually, we can. 

If you’ll excuse me, I need to get started.

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My Obama Minute: I Voted

Monday, November 3rd, 2008

Okay. So it was more like my Obama 80 minutes.

My wife and I got to the Job Center in Akron shortly after it opened this morning, and, already, the line was out the door and down the block.

Hundreds and hundreds of people, mostly black, but, also, ethnically diverse. Many, many students and twenty-somethings. But, also, a good number of elderly voters. Plenty of moms with babies in strollers. There was just this overwhelming sense of excitement. You had the idea that people wanted to vote, and, moreover, they wanted to talk about who they were voting for.

The woman in line in front of us was barely standing. She’s a nurse, a white woman, and had just gotten off the night shift at an elder care home. “This is cutting into my sleeping time,” she said.

She all but told us she was voting for Obama. “We need a change,” she said. She told me that if the politicians saw what she sees every day in the health care industry, they would understand that, too.

She was still sitting and waiting a little over an hour after we arrived when they called my name — my ballot was finally ready. She sat slumped over with her head in her hands, about ready to pass out.

When all was said and done, I voted for two Republicans — Greg Bachman, for county engineer, and Drew Alexander, for sheriff — both of whom came highly recommended. I voted to fund the Clean Ohio program. I voted (after a fantastic and still ongoing back and forth on my post, “Ohio State-wide Ballot Initiatives,” below) to cap the interest rate on payday loans. I voted against the casino. I voted for the sewers-to-scholarships program.

Oh. I voted for Barack Obama for president, and Joe Biden for vice president. I have a strong sense I’m not the only one.

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My Obama Minute: Barack & the Boss

Monday, November 3rd, 2008

For a brief time this afternoon, I felt like I was in college again.

We left from Akron just after 2 p.m. for the Bruce Springsteen/Barack Obama rally in Cleveland, travelling in three cars, road-trip style. My wife and I, five friends, and a whole litter of kids. We parked in Ohio City and took the Light Rail into Cleveland. Arrived before 4 p.m.

When I’m 64, I probably won’t remember Bruce Springsteen’s set list.

When I’m 64, I doubt I’ll remember the specifics of Barack Obama’s speech.

I might not remember exactly where we stood, or what we spoke about.

But I will remember stepping out of Tower City Mall into the bright sunshine, and Meyer, our almost-four year-old, looking up and instantly spotting the Goodyear Blimp, hovering high above the Cleveland Browns football game.

I’ll remember holding Meyer’s hand, as he held his friend Sophie’s hand, and walking across the square toward the field, lagging behind, the buildings of the city rising up on both sides.

When I’m 64, I’ll remember how we spread the two blankets out on the concrete, near the veteran’s memorial — a mile or so from the stage, but near enough to a giant video screen — and surrounded by people wearing pins and shirts and hats, holding signs, eagerly awaiting a new tomorrow.

I’ll remember Meyer and Sophie and Seth and Martha playing Legos on the blankets, and eating Goldfish, as we shifted from foot to foot, waiting for the show to start. I’ll remember Baby Maren and Baby Jason, totally chill as the evening sky grew dim.

When I’m 64, I probably won’t remember exactly where the polls stood on this day, two days before the election.

But I’ll always remember the moment Bruce came out — “Hello, Cleveland!” — and how we picked our kids up and put them on our shoulders.

We wanted them to see. Whatever they could. Just a little bit farther.

I’ll remember holding Meyer’s ankles. I’ll think about how he flew his Lego airplane through the sky over my head, as Springsteen’s hand came down, and, at long last, he began to sing.

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