While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.

###

“This man is really trying to all-lives-matter my game.”
———Brittney Morris
——--Slay

Kansas City funded artists to create Black Lives Matter murals on the pavement of six streets around town. It was beautiful—the community coming together in hope and excitement. The streets blocked off. Artists, volunteers, and families out on a Saturday celebrating Black lives through art.

One of the murals is painted on the main boulevard running through my white-flight neighborhood. On the section that the mural decorates, left turn arrows, roundabouts, and street lights corral six lanes of traffic. You can turn into an upscale mall, or back onto the highway, or up the hill past million dollar homes with privileged views of the city below.

If I’m stopped at one of the red lights at this complicated intersection, and if there’s no traffic in front of me, I might glimpse a swath of color that looks like paint spilled onto the street. And if I can ignore the SUV grille filling my rearview mirror, I might remember the color swath is a BLM mural.
I might remember that I’m not spilled paint.

I might remember, until the light turns green. Then the other drivers and I grind Black Lives into the concrete, as we rush to destinations that Matter.

2008. On the first night of the Democratic convention, I clicked out of Politico.com, MSNBC.com, and NYTimes.com, turned off the radio’s political analyst, and raced to the den to catch public television’s coverage. I’d been a Yellow Dog Democrat since the autumn we turned playground foursquare into a political forum: pitypat if you said you were for Kennedy, but if you said Nixon, we got you out right away. (Years later John Dean vindicated my early instincts.)

The wife of our nominee––Senator Barack Obama––headlined opening night. The senator personified my party’s big tent ideals, but Michelle Obama … she was something else altogether. She was somebody like me. Hips like mine, almond-shaped eyes like mine, hair straightened with the chemicals that had smoothed my tresses back when I was her age, the acrid odor easily summoned in spite of the intervening years. Her presence on that stage filled me with pride and righteousness. It was personal.

As the convention unfolded over the week, a procession of elected officials lauded the vision of the Democrats and poked fun at the Republicans. I nodded in agreement when they recounted the failures of the current GOP administration. I yelled my approval at their proposals for whipping our government back into shape. Conventioneers, draped in lanyards bearing their credentials, hooted and stabbed the air with placards. We were Democrats, and we knew what the country needed, by God. I remained in front of the television from opening gavel to grand finale, when nominee Obama described the election as a defining moment.

The Republicans gathered the following week. I tuned in to hear what the other side was plotting. When their politicians poked fun at the Democrats, my back stiffened. Their personal attacks went too far. I shook my head as they enumerated the mistakes (or so they called them) of previous Democratic administrations. They claimed those who fell for wrong-headed left-wing propaganda and liberal media bias were either gullible or stupid. What? We Dems possessed well-researched facts; those Republicans held misguided opinions. I jeered at their proposals, while conventioneers, draped in lanyards bearing their credentials, hooted and stabbed the air with placards.

Why did they look so sure of themselves? So … familiar? It didn’t make sense. The conviction I’d felt as a liberal was shining through conservative eyes. My left-wing self-assurance echoed in the cheers of a right-wing mob. My conviction. My self-assurance. How could they be expressing my zeal? Was it possible I felt theirs?

People I’d known to be Wild-Eyed Fanatics were crystallizing into People Like Me.

As conservative politicians took to the stage and denounced my left-wing party, I was dumbfounded. But not because of their beliefs. I was dumbfounded because of mine. Beliefs––that’s all I had. Not knowledge. Beliefs.

Republicans knew we were wrong in exactly the same way I knew we were right.

They railed against crime. I understood. After all, I knew it was no big deal to leave my front door unlocked, in the same way my neighbor knew to triple-bolt hers.

They railed against taxes. I got it. After all, I knew it was fair that everybody pay them, in the same way my accountant knew I should pay nothing.

The cameras panned the audience again.

The members of the Texas delegation sported identical red plaid shirts and white cowboy hats. I waited for my habitual scorn to list their deficiencies, waited for my disdain to restore balance to the world. Waited in vain, because I couldn’t say with certainty the Lone Star State even existed. You’d never see its familiar shape, peer out of an airplane as long or often as you want. Texas was a belief.

Disoriented, I wrapped up in a throw and sank back into the couch. A massage of my temples provided no relief. The political fire in my belly sputtered out. There would be no yard signs, buttons, or tee shirts. They don’t make bumper stickers for Republi-Crats.

A fresh round of applause from the convention floor. A speaker introduced the candidate for the vice presidency: Sarah Palin. Conservative. Charismatic. Controversial. The political blogosphere rumored she supported a party that advocated Alaskan secession from the US.

“Ladies and gentleman, the next vice president of the United States.”

My knees weakened. My palms sweated. Butterflies were fluttering. I wanted to pace, then fought back an urge to rush to the nearest restroom. Symptoms of … stage fright?

Stage fright.

But why me?

“Sarah Palin.” She strode from behind the curtains. The hall erupted in a roaring, foot-stomping ovation, which whiplashed me from Get out of here! to I’m about to obliterate my opponents.

She click-clacked across the stage, waving, grinning, and throwing kisses.

I felt my feet encased in her stiletto peep-toe pumps, and with each step she advanced, the floor pounded against my soles.

Thousands of adoring fans chanted, “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.”

They may as well have shouted, “Dawn, Dawn, Dawn.”

I didn’t understand my visceral response to her. It scared me, but I couldn’t make it stop. Sarah Palin was pushing me off a cliff.

She took her place at the lectern.

My confidence swelled as she read her speech; she and I had prepared for this big moment. She—I—did not step on our applause lines. She delivered our zingers with the timing of Johnny Carson.

Her final “God bless America” set off another wave of thunder from the floor, where new signs had appeared: “Palin Power,” “Hockey Moms 4 Palin.” The presidential candidate joined her on the stage. The crowd roared. The ceiling parted. The balloons dropped. My chest swelled with pride. You go, girl. Work that crowd.

She winked into the camera. At me.

I plummeted into free fall––became this woman who I wanted to dismiss, adored this woman with whom I felt no kinship. She was no Michelle Obama. My adoration transcended pride and righteousness. The physical space between Sarah Palin and me imploded, as a singular humanity displaced the conceit there had ever been two of us.

The Buddha said, “In the seeing, just the seen.” There she stood, seen, she and her Republicans, undistorted by the stories my so-called knowledge had composed. My entire store of information turned out to be a collection of beliefs, which I’d mislabeled facts. The whole idea of knowing fell apart.

The campaign lurched forward, an exercise in democracy equally meaty for political analysts and gossipmongers––God, certainty, and outrage on both sides of every issue. When companions opined about the candidates, I kept silent. No longer saw the GOP as the party of evildoers, no longer viewed the Democrats as white knights. My interest in politics, whether environmental, feminist, or social, became less frantic. I relaxed. The election was a novel––a darn good one, but I could put it down any time.

2012. The presidential race was a political junkie’s dream come true. A dead heat.

The caller on my cell identified herself as a volunteer for the Democratic Party. “Will you be voting?”

“You bet. Never miss an election.”

“We need your help to get the president re-elected.”

Her sales pitch would normally have precipitated my goodbye, but I’d always aspired to work on a political campaign, even though I’d never possessed the nerve to act on the aspiration. It was easier, now in my sixties, to consider her request as opportunity, rather than annoyance. “Like what?”

“Let’s sit down over coffee.”

“Okay. Next week is good.”

We met for breakfast. She wore a blue Obama baseball cap and a white Obama sweatshirt. An Obama tote bag hung from one shoulder, spilling over with papers, bunting, and clipboards. She spread leaflets and pencils on our table before handing me a form.

“Check the things you’d be willing to do.”

I retrieved my glasses from my purse. Let’s see. Phone bank? Call my fellow Democrats and get an earful about the sinister motives of Republicans? No, thanks.

Knock on doors to convince others to vote Democratic? Impossible. Republican opinions were just as valid as mine.

Surely there was something … less … evangelical.

Data entry? Boring.

Voter registration? Yes. That I could do.

She outlined the details, and then raised a Styrofoam cup to her lips. “Girl, after the mess the Republicans got us into …”

I pushed my glasses to the top of my head.

“… disaster if they win.”

I munched on a bagel, imagined her reading to the grandchildren she’d mentioned earlier, rather than holding forth on the subject that now tightened the muscles in her neck.

“… back to the bad old days. You know what’s at stake.” Her voice grew shrill to compete with an espresso machine that shrieked in the background.

Voter registration was anti-climactic. I criss-crossed parking lots, intercepting shoppers as they emerged from big-box stores. Set up shop in deserted student unions at community colleges. Loitered in a high school cafeteria, as disinterested teenagers wolfed down pizza. The isolation heightened the limbo I inhabited: a political landscape with no bogeyman to demonize, no hero to lionize, and no dogma to advertise.

On the evening of the first presidential debate, I clicked out of my gardening website, meandered to the kitchen where I stared into the fridge, hoping dinner would materialize, and then wandered into the den to turn on the television.

It was the president’s wedding anniversary. He directed his opening remarks to the First Lady, who watched from the front row. “I promise we won’t be spending our next anniversary in front of fifty million people.” A half-smile flashed across his face. During the debate, he seldom made eye contact with the camera, and by extension, us––his supporters. His brow was furrowed, his face deeply lined. His hair had grayed over the past four years.

His opponent, Mitt Romney, was energized. He was attentive to the president while waiting to speak. His eyes were bright when he looked into the camera. A businessman, a regular citizen, on stage arguing with POTUS. I puffed up with unexpected pride on his behalf.

I rooted for the president, but worried about him, too. Had he slept well the night before? Did he really want the job? Crises erupting all over the globe … what imminent war had he put on hold to show up for this verbal combat? I rooted for him, partly because I hated the thought of him going home afterward, on his anniversary, feeling like a failure.

And what about his opponent? He put so much into this campaign, dragged his family through a media circus. His look-alike sons out there on the trail for Dad. Assuring us he was just as corny as he came across on the stump. A guy sincerely clueless about his image … well, I found his goofiness irresistible. He believed in his solutions so strongly, you could tell he wasn’t just responding to polls. He knew the country would elect him, because it just made sense, darn it. If he lost, he’d be devastated, sure, but bewildered, too. I hated to imagine him sliding into depression.

Which of them will I vote for? This Yellow Dog Democrat will blacken the circle beside the president’s name, of course.

Which of them will better serve the country? Hmm. Don’t believe I know.

While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.

###

“Something that needed to kill found someone who wouldn’t be missed.”
———Katherine Addison
——--The Angel of the Crows

The YMCA calls it Silver Sneakers Enhance Fitness for Active Older Adults. I call it Dawn pretending to be a Fly Girl. Monday mornings, I look forward to this intense dose of endorphins that lifts my spirit for the entire day.

Before class, I folded my coat into a cubby. A regular walked past, tossing off a cheery “good morning,” then about-faced. Her expression turned earnest. “Do you remember Ruby?” she asked.

My blank look must have telegraphed a no.

“The girl who was escorted to school by U.S. Marshals?”

Mary Janes, white anklets, hair bow.

My shoulders sagged. Intuition screamed Dawn, save yourself, get the hell away, but politeness pinned me.
She continued. “Racism is an adult disease, and we shouldn’t use our children to spread it, and we still have so far to go, and it’s sad that ….”

A white woman’s fleeting discomfort about race needed a black body to land on.