My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Browsing Category Political

Ballots, Lies and Election Fatigue: One Voter’s Journey to Apathy

by on ·General, Political, The Way I See It

As devoted as I am to composing essays, my keyboard refuses to cooperate when my heart isn’t in it. My passion for writing waned since November 6, when pigs flew, hell froze over, and chickens grew lips. It’s bad enough that my creativity gene has gone on an extended vacation to the Bermuda Triangle. Still, worse yet, my muse has packed her bags and retreated to the Himalayas. So, I’m left here staring at a blank page on the monitor screen. But to remain in good standing, I am forcing myself to write this blog post.

As of November 6, I quit my addiction to democracy drama without so much as a 12-step program or a single ‘Hi, my name is…’ meeting. Sure, I’ve threatened divorce from politics before – but this time, the ballot box and I are officially ‘consciously uncoupling.’  My political sails got so deflated during the last election that my level of creativity sunk lower than the Titanic.

I know some of you are thinking, “Yeah, right, we’ve heard this before,” and you’re not wrong. But think about this: It’s been over three weeks since I posted anything on my blog. Surely, at least two of the five of you wondered what happened to me. But fear not, for I have returned to grace you with my brilliantly sarcastic grumbles and grievances.

I’ve stopped watching MSNBC, my formerly favorite political news program. I’ve even given up on viewing local and national news broadcasts. Because – and I’m not exaggerating when I say this – the mere sound of his voice, the sight of his face, or a glimpse of anyone connected to him triggers an intense visceral reaction, leaving me nauseated.

So now, instead of filling my days with constant news narratives, I’ve doubled down on listening to music, reading books, and occasionally watching documentaries or lighthearted movies to escape the hellish reality and anticipation of the next four years or (as Buzz Lightyear, from the Toy Story films, would say it) “… infinity and beyond!”

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m done with voting. I expect to never vote again in what remains of my lifetime. I have lost all faith in the U.S. election system and have decided that, like so many other things purporting to deliver liberty and justice, it’s a farce.

Before you armchair loyalists start quoting me the Book of Voting, let me stop you right there. I’ve been there, done that, and got the “I Voted” stickers to prove it. I’ve preached those “why must you vote” sermons to the choir more times than I can count. But, alas, I’ve hung up my voting robe. I can’t sell a product I’ve lost faith in.

For years, I was the high priestess of the Church of the Polling Place, spreading the good word about voter turnout, like free candy on Halloween. I’ve knocked on more doors than a caffeinated Girl Scout during cookie season, preaching the gospel of “Every Vote Counts” with the zeal of a televangelist who just found out the cameras were rolling.

But alas, I’ve had a political epiphany. I’ve seen the light, and it’s brighter than a disco ball at a retirement party. I’ve decided to excommunicate myself from the religion of the ballot box. So, before you try to exorcise my civic demons with your “Rock the Vote” incantations, know that I’ve already been baptized in the holy waters of political participation. I’ve dipped my foot in that pool so many times; I’ve got prune toes to prove it. But now? Let’s just say I’m hanging up my “Future Voter” onesie and retiring my collection of campaign buttons.

Besides, didn’t you-know-who tell a gathering of Christian conservatives that if they voted for him, “We’ll have it fixed so you’re not going to have to vote again.”

Save your breath and your impassioned speeches about the sanctity of voting and the lives lost. This former voter is on the path of blissful political agnosticism. Besides, if I’m lucky, I may have one or two; three might be a stretch; presidential elections in my future, and anything could happen between now and then.

Hallelujah and amen!

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A Little This ‘n That

by on ·Political, School Days, The Way I See It

“We are not what we know but what we are willing to learn.” Mary Catherine Bateson ***

I spend a lot of time in introspection. (Yes, Muse, I have better things to do, but I’m writing this right now, so hush.) Lately, I’ve been thinking about school days or, as I prefer, the cute title of Spike Lee’s 1988 film, School Daze. Anyway, wordplay aside, I don’t mind admitting that I was not too fond of school, not any level of K through 12. One exception: kindergarten was okay. I had a beloved kindergarten teacher named Ms. Carrott. It’s incredible that I still remember the names of all my grade school teachers.

It wasn’t the learning that fueled my dislike of school; it was the annoying students who enjoyed picking on other kids. If you were skinny, fat, unattractive, or didn’t have a trendy wardrobe, you were a target. Today, those annoying students are called bullies; back in my day, they were just mean (bad-ass) kids.

I wasn’t the brightest student in any of my classes, and because of negative peer pressure, I didn’t want to appear that way, either. Nobody likes the teacher’s pet. However, because I effortlessly made the honor roll a few times during my school years, I knew I wasn’t the dumbest student either.

Although aggregating classmates were less prevalent in high school, most of the subjects I was required to take were as boring as music in a call queue. My least favorite classes were math – primarily algebra and geometry (Hated it! When have I ever used either of those? Someone tell me when?) Running close behind my disdain for math was U.S. History, U.S. Government, and Science. The Science teacher told us on the first day that to earn a passing grade in his class, we’d have to dissect a frog; otherwise, we’d flunk the course. Not in my wildest imagination could I fathom cutting up any animal, not even a dead one, back then. The thought made me sick to my stomach. I took the F.

My English class was more tolerable, and although diagramming sentences and conjugating verbs stressed me out, I enjoyed writing and literature. It probably helped that I had a secret crush on my English teacher, whose hazel eyes made him look much like a young Harrison Ford when I think about it now. I often babysat his and his wife’s five blond-haired, well-behaved children. My mother told me that several months after I graduated, had married, and moved out of town, he called one day to see if I still babysat. Mother said that when she told him I’d gotten married and moved away, he told her that he wished I’d told him and said that he and his wife would love to have attended my wedding if I had invited them. It was a different world back then, during the tumultuous sixties. I didn’t have a single friend who wasn’t black (that was by chance, not choice), and my thoughts at the time were that a white couple, even one who knew me well, wouldn’t care to attend a black girl’s wedding. (My Muse tells me I am disclosing TMI – too much information. Well, it is what it is, or in this case, it was what it was. Over the years, I’ve made friends of various ethnicities and racial groups, some of whom are as close as kinfolk.)

Although I wouldn’t say I liked the course when I studied U.S. Government in high school, it didn’t prevent me from admiring the people who held influential positions like the U.S. President. My adolescent mind told me that any man who won the presidential election had to be the smartest guy in the land. No women were vying for the job during my high school years. However, during the years after I graduated high school, the “Unbought and Unbossed” New York Representative Shirley Chisholm and Lenora Fulani on the New Alliance Party ticket would run for the highest office. I was registered to vote by then, and having sprouted my activist and quasi-feminist wings, I voted for both women.

As I matured and my interest in government and politics grew, I realized that not all Commanders-in-Chief, throughout history, had been playing with a full deck. Just because they held the title didn’t mean they were stable geniuses. And – not to name names – only God (and perhaps some unidentified co-conspirators) know what twist of fate facilitated the election of the 12-shy-of-a-dozen brain cells, morally bankrupt POTUS in 2016.

That same naïve school girl perceived Supreme Court Justices as the country’s most fair and unbiased citizens. She believed they were nothing less than modern-day King Solomons. After all, didn’t they solemnly swear (or affirm) to “administer justice without respect to persons, and do equal right to the poor and the rich,” and blah, blah? Well, so much for idealism. The current court – one woman and six men in black, in particular – that handed immunity to the former joker-in-chief squelched my admiration for SCOTUS.

My school days are decades behind me now. And everybody knows that holding a job title, whether a CEO or POTUS, doesn’t mean you’re incapable of corruption, trickery, and treachery. It doesn’t make you an ethical person, either.

“Learning is not attained by chance; it must be sought for with ardor and diligence.” -Abigail Adams.

 

 

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Reflecting on My Time Spent on Capitol Hill

by on ·Political

My first time going to the Capitol building was in the 1980s. I was charmed by the splendor of the place and was no less enchanted each time I went there after my initial visit. Unlike some of my acquaintances who worked in Capitol Hill offices, I did not, nor was I ever a tourist. And I certainly wasn’t part of a mob of homegrown terrorists like those that swarmed the place on January 6. I was there on official business.

For 13 years, I worked in the K Street corridor as a staff assistant for two different lobbying firms (or as the head honchos prefer to call them Government Affairs offices). For the majority of my ten years with the initial association, our office was located on the same block as what is now known as Black Lives Matter Plaza. In addition to other duties, my gofer responsibilities required periodic trips to the Capitol to deliver official papers or PAC checks, retrieve copies of bills from the Senate or House document rooms, and occasionally attend Congressional committee hearings.

After showing my work ID card to the Capitol Hill police officer and going through the security screening process, I would be allowed inside the building and, if necessary, given directions to the destination office.

Sometimes while walking past the rows of offices in the pristine hallways of the historic building, I’d think about the enslaved blacks who played a significant role in erecting the structure. I took pride in knowing that numerous black legislators, many of who may have been descendants of slaves, were holding positions of power in the Capitol, or they had been there and left their legacy.

During my years of working in the political arena, I embraced some notable lawmakers as my she-roes and heroes: Congresswomen Shirley Chisholm, Barbara Jordan, Bella Abzug, and Diane Feinstein. Representatives William (Bill) Gray, III, Kweisi Mfume, John Lewis, Bobby Rush, and Daniel Moynihan were also on my most admired politicians list. I never had the opportunity to meet any of those previously mentioned except one. When our Governmental Affairs office held its annual legislative reception, I met Moynihan, Senator Ted Kennedy, and others who slip my memory. I would eventually meet Speaker John Boehner, a good friend with one of the firm’s vice presidents.

There was one brilliant and charismatic politician who I admired above all others. Not only did I meet him, he graciously posed for a picture with me. He was the Illinois State Senator who would announce his intention to run for president within months after our meeting. He ran. He won. And I will forever treasure my photo taken with Barack Obama.

Few people know that beneath the seat of government, the legislators have a private subway. The Capitol Subway system connects the Capitol with Senate and House office buildings. I had the opportunity of riding the train a few times back then. Since then, the system has been significantly modernized.

My reflection of better times brings me to the shocking and disgusting event that occurred at the Capitol on Wednesday. I never thought I’d see anything like it in my lifetime, radicals busting through doors, breaking windows, climbing over balconies, hanging on the walls, and trudging devilishly through the galleries.

People worldwide watched the insanity on their televisions as mobs of MAGA cult members and insurgents breached the Capitol building. I could visualize Putin, Kim Jong-un, and Xi Jinping enthusiastically wringing their hands, grinning madly, and chomping at the bit.

I cannot end this post without mentioning something that has occurred to countless people, including me. I have expressed this on my social media page, as have numerous other people. We know, WE KNOW, that if Black Lives Matter or any other black organization had breached the Capitol as the MAGA cult did, the outcome would have been very different. I can imagine the Capitol columns blemished with red splotches and rivers of blood streaming down the steps. Instead of five dead white people, there might have been 500 black corpses scattered all over the property. There wouldn’t be enough body bags in the city to handle the carnage. My opinion on the body count may be extreme, but fair-minded Americans will agree with the premise. Even President-Elect Biden acknowledged as much during his news conference on Thursday.

For the rest of my life, memories of the times I spent on Capitol Hill will be tarnished by the horrific event of January 6 because I cannot erase the scenes from my mind.

My condolences to the family of Capitol Police Officer Brian D. Sicknick who lost his life during the lawlessness and mayhem on January 6, 2021.

 

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Visiting Black Lives Matter Plaza–Part 1 of 2

by on ·Activism, Lifestyle and Culture, Political, Race Matters

Last Sunday, I took a walk through the valley of the shadow of death. OK, I’m being overdramatic. However, the nearly empty roads along the generally bustling Sixteenth Street corridor resembled a scene from the Twilight Zone. Hardly anyone was on the streets.

Until that day, aside from a doctor’s appointment and a couple of outings to the store, I had not wandered outside my home since mid-March. That’s when the COVID pandemic showed up like an uninvited houseguest and drove everybody into isolation.

My first time taking the 6.04 mile walk along Sixteenth Street happened on 911. Planes had flown into the twin towers in New York, and another crashed into the western side of the Pentagon. Reporters broadcast that a hijacked plane, later identified as United Airlines Flight 93, was believed to be heading to the White House or the U.S. Capitol. Subsequently, that aircraft crashed in a field in Somerset County, Pennsylvania. D.C.’s Metro service had been canceled, and everyone was scrambling to move away from the business district ahead of another anticipated terrorist attack. I had no choice but to take the long, solitary walk home.

I had not rewalked that path since retiring a decade ago. Until Sunday, September 13, Grandparent’s Day, this energetic nana decided to challenge herself, to see if I could still go the distance. My purpose was twofold. I had been yearning to visit the area north of Lafayette Square (nicknamed the President’s Park) since June 5, 2020. On that day, hundreds of demonstrators turned out to protest the murder-by-cop of George Floyd. Later, the defiant D.C. mayor renamed the block Black Lives Matter Plaza.

A longtime history buff, I wanted to visit the area and feel the history. To walk the path and stand on the spot where the late Congressman John Lewis made his last public appearance on June 7, five weeks before his death.

So at 7 a.m. Sunday, my daughter and I leave my home and trek over to Carton Baron. From there, we head south. I’ve lived all my life in Chocolate City, and the scenic, tree-lined 16th Street, bordered by nicely manicured lawns, clean sidewalks, and charming houses, has always been my favorite thoroughfare.

Sixteenth Street runs north-to-south in a straight line. If you start at Eastern Avenue in Silver Spring, Maryland, and go south, you’ll pass picturesque homes, the former Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Rock Creek Park, and Carter Baron. Also along the way are several foreign embassies, including the Embassy of the Republics of the Congo, Cambodia, Lithuania, and Angola.

Near the halfway point of our excursion, we stop briefly in Malcolm X Park. I’ve loved that place since I was a teenager and used to visit there occasionally with my friends. Also known as Meridian Hill Park, the property sits across the street from Howard University’s Meridian Hill Hall. The Hall was one of Howard’s dorms until the building was sold in 2016. The developer plans to convert it to rental housing.

Continuing downtown, we pass Scott circle. Mounted in its center is the equestrian statue of Civil War General Winfield Scott. A short distance away, on the right-hand side of the street, the National Geographic Museum stands temporarily closed. Its windows boarded-up since the George Floyd protests. We go a few more blocks and 90 minutes after we started our trip, we cross K Street and arrive at Black Lives Plaza.

At the entrance of the plaza, on the right-hand side at the corner of 16th & K, stands the Regis Hotel. (Decades ago, when I worked in a government affairs office in the building directly across the street, it was called the Sheraton-Carlton.)

As I stand there, reminiscing, I remember spring 1991. I am watching from the fourth-floor window as Queen Elizabeth and her security detail exit the hotel, climb into her motorcade and drive away. How thrilling, I think at the time, I’ve seen the queen. She was in town then, visiting President George H.W. and Barbara Bush. I later learned that the queen also toured some areas of the city with Mayor Sharon Pratt Dixon and other locals.

It was that same window that I rushed to one morning about a year later, after hearing screams coming from outside. I looked down to see a young woman who I later learned worked for Xerox, being dragged beneath the back wheel of a box truck. Pedestrians screaming and gesturing eventually caught the attention of the oblivious driver, and he stopped the truck a few feet beyond the entrance of our building. Paramedics rushed to the scene and extracted the women from beneath the truck. She survived. News reports revealed that the truck driver, who had numerous prior driving violations and was subsequently fired, said he had not seen the woman when she stepped off the curb.

My old workplace building has a new facade and now houses P.J. Clarke’s restaurant. Posted in front of the structure, to the left and right of the double doors, are two large Black Lives Matter signs. Nearly every building on that block and several nearby have signs of assorted shapes and sizes displaying the same persuasive message.

On the same side as the Regis, at the opposite end of the block at H Street, is the historic St. John’s Episcopal Church.

Police cars stationed at both ends of the block restrict vehicles from entering.

There are only about a dozen people in the plaza. In front of the building alongside the Regis, four or five young people are seated in a semi-circle in what appears to be folding lawn chairs. They look as relaxed as if they are socializing in their living room. I wonder if they are some of the numerous activists who participate in the protests that have been ongoing intermittently since the death of George Floyd. (Continued in Part 2)

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Dating Across Political Lines

by on ·Lifestyle and Culture, Political, Politics

“No one will ever win the battle of the sexes; there’s too much fraternizing with the enemy.”

I recently read an article where a guy said that 90 percent of females he encounters in DC are very liberal and seem to view conservative men as walking deal-breakers. When I was in the dating game (nearly 20 years ago before my current relationship), I dated men whose liberal views aligned with mine – except for two who were conservative Republicans.

Back then, I did not discriminate. If I liked a guy who asked me out, I’d date him. My radar has honed over the years, and I am more political than I’ve ever been. In these polarizing and contentious times, for the sake of my peace of mind, if I were still in the game, I would not be inclined to date across party lines. People who date across the political divide can make a relationship work – if they are willing to put in the work. I’m not. It is sometimes difficult enough to maintain a platonic friendship across party lines.

My first Republican flame was a speechwriter for former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger. Kissinger (is one among others) to whom the quote above is ascribed. I began dating the speechwriter on the rebound, following a breakup with my then-boyfriend. After a few dates, I found that I liked the conservative guy. He was a perfect gentleman. He was smart, had a sense of humor, and I enjoyed his company. However, there were a couple of hurdles that intruded in our relationship.

Once, when we were out together, while my date was busy buying tickets I glanced at two black men who were standing about 12 feet away. I guess they were in their late 20s or early 30s. I couldn’t avoid noticing the hateful expression on the face of the one with his arms crossed whose eyes were throwing darts at me. He and the guy who was with him were both wearing black berets. While he was giving me the cold stare-down, I overheard some of his snide comment to the fellow standing beside him. “That sister other there dating a white guy. Ought to be ashamed.” That was in the I’m-black-and-I’m-proud 1970s. Society was moving toward being racially progressive on interracial relationships, but it had not progressed to where it is now. For the next few seconds, I ignored him, until my date and I continued on our way and they went theirs.

Our second tension was more personal. It occurred one evening while we were watching an episode of Roots. The character Kizzy’s master was selling her away from her family for something that she did (I don’t remember what it was) and boyfriend commented that some masters were good to their slaves. Well, Jumping Jehoshaphat! Whether that statement was true or not wasn’t the issue. It was simply the wrong thing said at the right time. Our argument that occurred as a result of that episode wasn’t what led to our break up. We eventually smoothed things over, but I decided to get back with the guy that I broke up with before I got involved with the speechwriter.

The other Republican I dated was black like me. But if you heard him talking smack and couldn’t see him, you wouldn’t know it. He was in the entertainment business and very political. It was difficult enough trying to stomach his political views, but I wholeheartedly resent people who constantly berate members of their own racial group. His arrogance wore me down. It doesn’t matter if the intra-racial bashing is for someone’s job, their political party or because they are blinded by self-hate, in my opinion, constantly stereotyping and denigrating your own racial group does nothing to enhance your image. It makes you look bad. I don’t care whether your viewpoint is due to envy, feelings of superiority or because you think that you are economically and socially better off than other people. Don’t let it go to your head. Life is like a giant sliding board. You can be up at the top one day and down on the ground the next. It doesn’t matter if someone is high on the corporate ladder or picking up trash on the street if a person is out here trying to make an honest living then don’t negate him or her. Actions and deeds aside, as human beings, none of us is better than the other. I strongly dislike seeing black people put other black people down and I view racial animosity with more disdain than partisan animosity. My compassion compass with Republican #2 was not in synch. Thankfully, that pseudo-relationship crashed and burned.

When it comes to mixed-partisan relationships, evidence abounds that Democrats and Republicans have a hard time making relationships work. To the contrary, a high-profile couple, political strategist James Carville and his wife, media personality Mary Matalin are one example of an inter-political relationship that is working. According to USNews.com Martin had this to say about that, “That we disagree on policy was tough, but it’s not one of those deal-breakers. We’re very practical in our local politics, and we’re philosophically opposed on the role and scope of government, but we love each other.”

 

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