My Peace City | nonviolence & social change

Another Presidential election year is upon us, and I have just enough time to get ready so I can avoid the pitfalls from my 2004 experience.

This is how it went down. I was standing in line at a post office in Pittsburgh in the Fall of the 2004 when I noticed a woman behind me wearing Kerry-Edwards button. I asked where she got it, and she proceeded to simply hand me an identical button from her purse. She wouldn’t accept payment, so I thanked her and put it on.

I then heard the gentleman behind her say audibly to his companion, “I’d be ashamed to wear that button,” and suddenly I was ashamed – not for the Kerry button, mind you, but for not putting a curling iron to my hair before schlepping off to the post office. With that one comment from that one gentleman, I realized that someone was actually looking at me, and suddenly everything I was wearing and everything I did took on new meaning. In an instant I became, if only in my own mind, the representative of the entire Kerry campaign.

As I walked up to the counter, leaving the label for my overnight letter on the table behind me, I cursed myself. I felt that the whole line was now collectively perceiving me as selfish because I was inconveniencing them with my forgetfulness. I was certain that Mr. I’d-be-ashamed-to-wear-that-button and the others in that silent line were thinking that I was inconsiderate and/or ditsy, ergo- all Democrats are inconsiderate and/or ditsy.

And, of course, as fate would have it, I was mailing my letter by overnight delivery. (Another Democratic extravagance, I was sure they’d be thinking – an indication of poor planning on her part.) I reassured my self that Mr. Kerry, at least, had just announced to the country that if elected, he, indeed, had a plan .

By now I was back at the counter, all labeled up and ready to go. The postal clerk, ever-stoic, (I think they’re trained that way) started adding up my failures at efficiency and my flaws of fiscal irresponsibility. I fumbled to get my credit card out of my purse, which, I was suddenly aware, could have been condemned for breaking some city sanitation ordinance had the proper authorities been present. (I carefully blocked any view of the purse with my body)

As I felt my face blushing for these new sins of credit card usage and deplorable purse hygiene, I suddenly became aware that the cuffs of my pants were covering the heels of my shoes! I found it strange that I had never noticed how long these particular slacks were before, and now, by wearing them to the post office, I was telling the world that Kerry supporters are lazy individuals who don’t even take the time to shorten their clothes.

As I finished up the transaction, I was trying to think of an exit strategy out of this whole stinkin’ mess. I decided I would walk, head down and as unobtrusively as possible, out the door which led me in – the door which might go down in history as the cause of the demise of the entire Democratic Party.

However, as I slung the strap of my purse over the spaghetti sauce stain on my jacket, I couldn’t resist the urge to redeem myself – and the Kerry campaign. Surely if I wasn’t able to impress the line with my appearance, I could at least try to wow them now with my poise and graciousness. So, as I turned, ready to leave, I walked up to the woman who had given me the button. In my loveliest, most kindly and consciously audible voice, I asked, “Are you sure I can’t pay you for the button and reached into my purse?”

“Don’t be silly, dear,” she responded, “my pleasure.”

Yes, we did it! She and I were a team! We had represented the group that represented us with dignity and grace. I walked out of the Pittsburgh post office feeling vindicated and hopeful: after all, there could have been one swing voter in there who would now vote for our guy.

I got into my little white Toyota with the Kerry-Edwards sticker on the back bumper, satisfied with the whole encounter at USPS. Still feeling the power of the button and now the added responsibility of my bumper sticker, I drove very carefully out of the parking lot and onto the street. Before approaching the first stoplight, I diligently put on my blinker well before the intersection. As I waited at the light, I lifted my dog Scooter off my lap high enough into the air to be seen by the people behind me and ceremoniously put him on the passenger side. I resisted the temptation to use my cell phone even though I really wanted to make a call. As the light turned green, I entered the intersection, waiting cautiously to turn left when suddenly, the guy behind me beeped for me to hurry up. In an instant, all the emotion from the last half hour started to surge forth and I could feel it settling right into my middle finger. I was just about to raise that finger to the rear view mirror when it struck me, “My God, what am I doing? I have a button on my shirt and a sticker on my bumper!” In an instant, I lowered my finger, smiled apologetically into the mirror and quickly turned.

I never took that button off my jacket until the election was over that fall, but to tell you the truth, in spite of the outcome, I was just grateful when that darn campaign was over; it was just way too much pressure. And now, here we are in 2008, and the whole button-wearing thing has started all over again. Thank goodness though, I still have a few months to clean my purse and do something about my hair. I might even look for a needle and thread and see if I have time to shorten those slacks.