The Fix Is In: Election Reflection

I have only one memory of the 2000 election. This may be because I was a senior in high school and the world outside of me didn’t exist. The memory is from the limbo between Election Day and the Supreme Court ruling that finally gave us a president-elect. One of my Jesuit teachers plodded around the hallways of my Buffalo school mumbling, “The fix is in.” Every day. “The fix is in.”

He was talking about the election. I didn’t really know what he meant, until “the fix” turned into the next eight years of life.

I turned 18 on Sept. 11, 2001. It was my second week at college in Washington.

I have three memories from that day. I remember seeing, from the top floor of my dorm room, a spire of black smoke on the horizon. I remember, like everyone else, a blinding blue sky. I remember, at night, watching a man walk on the giant granite world map on the Navy Memorial on Pennsylvania Avenue, where the streetlights went from green to yellow to red to green even though there were no cars. The man flicked on his lighter over New York, then did the same over the Middle East, then sat down in the south of Spain.

The next seven years, for me, were like a prolonged vacation. College was fine. I lived abroad. I spent the best summers of my life at home, with friends, doing theatre. I interned at three fabulous publications before settling at the most fabulous of them all, where I have been gainfully employed with benefits. I have friends and a family who have provided for me. I have, in essence, skipped like a stone over the muck. I have been care-free, careless, as self-involved as I was in high school.

During this time, the country got away from me, from us. I blame myself. But I also blame the political climate in which I came of age. It was fearful, muddled, cynical, backward, conducive to complacency, unresponsive to the needs of the people, predicated on vulnerabilities sprung from a cataclysm. The climate appealed to the worst in us, which made a lot of us remain on the sidelines; who wants to play a game that is rigged from the start? Among all of our breathtaking national failures, the worst is still, I think, the episode of prisoner mistreatment at Abu Ghraib. Invading another country, arresting people, depriving them of due process and humiliating them — all under the guise of spreading a democracy that we ourselves don’t wholly practice — simply invalidates the United States of America as an idea. And without that idea on which we were founded, we don’t have much. How did Abu Ghraib happen? Complacency. We do what we want, consequences be damned.

It doesn’t make sense to blame one person. Sure, George W. Bush can be faulted for allowing corruption to smother him and his country. His was a poor example. But he was not the lone actor. Everyone who stood and watched can be faulted too. The United States of America has grown rich enough to allow many of its citizens to create their own self-sufficient worlds, cut off from circumstance. Wrapped in these cocoons, we have ignored those who need our help, our power and our voice. We have ignored ourselves. We let government get away with things because we thought it wouldn’t affect our own lives.

I became an adult on Sept. 11, but almost immediately I reverted back to the pupa stage, which is where I’ve remained. Until, I think, now. A prolonged war and an imminent depression has snapped me out of it. We created a savior when we needed one, and Barack Obama has gamely played the part. There appears to be, to our great luck, a good deal of substance behind his spectacle.

If I wasn’t a pseudo-journalist, I would express the elation of witnessing the election of a new president after being slowly and systematically beaten down by the current political climate. I would express the thundering wonder of watching a nation of PEOPLE — not inherited wealth or age-old political machines — launch a candidate to the the land’s highest office. I would express the admiration for a man who, if nothing else, appeals to the best of us. And that's a great start.

When the election was called last night at 11 p.m., I was at 14th and U streets, ground zero of the 1968 race riots of Washington. Forty years after buildings were burned, an entire city took to the streets with unchecked jubilation to celebrate the election of a biracial president. A drum circle on the corner reached a fever pitch, and passersby swarmed. Inside bars and restaurants, patrons pounded against the windows at the those watching the TVs from outside. Any object available to stand on was stood on, and the blare of car horns almost drowned out the repeated shouts of "Oh my God!" as strangers high-fived each other and fell into embraces. I have never seen or felt anything like it. I will keep three memories from yesterday: the sound of the car horns, the smell of damp pavement, and the sight of “Barack Obama Elected President” first sweeping onto the TV screen and sending a giant tremor up and down the street.

After absorbing the scene, I cabbed back to the Post to write three sentences of copy that wouldn’t be used. The frantic newsroom paused to watch Obama’s midnight speech at Grant Park and then resumed the work of stilling history into words and images.

Then I went to the White House, where hundreds pressed toward the gates. The mansion was dark both inside and out. Versailles was finally surrounded. The people have acted to protect themselves. A crowd of young people sang “God Bless America” toward the White House. The last time I witnessed a similar scene, it was 2001, days after 9/11, when the city converged on the Mall to mourn. Eight years later, something is finally worth celebrating. Most of the crowd appeared college-aged. How nice to become an adult on a promising note. Let’s not squander that promise.

In spite of the stunning errors of the current government, this election was not really about the issues. A president cannot solve a problem with a scribble of his pen. This election has always been about empowerment. Barack Obama won the presidency because he recognizes that a nation operates best when entrusted to the industry, altruism and vision of its citizens. And we needed to be reminded of that.

We worked together on these past eight years. We made them miserable for ourselves. Maybe it was necessary to our evolution. Maybe the first decade of the 21st century was equal to a young person’s adolescence, when bad decisions are made from a position of intense self-involvement. Everyone is forced to grow up sooner or later.

I said before that it doesn’t make sense to blame one person for a nation’s ills. It also does not make sense to invest hope in one person. Chants of “Yes We Can” turned to “Yes We Did” last night, and that made me nervous. The reparation of the country is not over. It has barely started: California voters, led chiefly by minorities, defeated same-sex marriage yesterday. Separate-but-equal. Still. Even on this momentous day. This further proves the election of a president is, at the start, an inspirational formality. Obama may be a great leader, but the country will not meet that standard unless its citizens do.

Perhaps today is a first step toward national adulthood, but it must be a collective step. The American people have proven they can send a man to the White House against all odds. Now, we must realize our powers do not stop there. The fix is in, but the fixing is ours to accomplish.

Why do motorcades upset me?

On my way back to work from a midday walk, I found cop cars blocking each cross street of 16th Street, which is a north-south boulevard leading to the front of the White House. Auto and pedestrian traffic was halted in all directions. Sixteenth Street was eerily barren, with people tapping their feet on the sidelines. The president, you see, was returning to his house. The parade, in order of appearance:

9 motorcycles in a row, spaced 100 feet apart
3 black SUVs
1 armored conversion van
2 black limousines (one presumably carrying POTUS or his deputy)
1 ambulance
1 helicopter
3 black SUVs
3 police cars

This list does not include several police cars that zoomed down side streets, as if to flank the president in case of an attack from the side.

Whenever I see a motorcade, I'm left with the same thoughts: Is this really necessary? What does this accomplish, other than making a spectacle? If the president really wanted to be protected, wouldn't he travel in a single, quiet, nondescript, armored car rather than in a blaring Macy's Day parade? The president might as well be waving from the limo's sunroof. And shutting down a major urban thoroughfare for 10 minutes seems like an intensely irreponsible thing to do. It's very Triumph of the Will-ish, except the citizens lining the motorcade are grumpy, not ecstatic.

L'avventura

Earlier this year, I left Blog for 40 days not to wander in the desert but to voyage the high seas as part of a crypto-cultural fellowship program thing. Since some of you have been asking (and since I promised to write about it), here are the vague highlights of what I did, with movie commentary where appropriate:

1. Sang karaoke in Tokyo. "A Whole New World" and "Hit Me with Your Best Shot," among others. It was archetypal, and cinematic. Sofia Coppola-ish. But much more high-energy than Bob Harris.
2. Bathed in a hot spring in the Zao Mountains in the north of Honshu. There is no appropriately corresponding cinema for this episode.
3. Spent 30-plus days at sea on an ocean liner. Threw up zero times. During some meals, the kitchen staff would frequently play not only "My Heart Will Go On" but also the parts of the Titanic score that accompany the sinking. The ship might as well have been vertical during those meals.
4. Had a stranger spirit me into the Gulf of Oman on his speedboat. It was very Antonioni. Shirtless, leaning against the bow of a boat with my sunglasses on, hurtling over small waves to some rocky deserted isle. I did not disappear, however.
5. Got ankle-deep in poverty in Chennai, India, the first third-world country I've visited. I'm woefully undereducated when it comes to Indian movies, but suffice to say the experience was not Bollywoodish.
6. Made it from a southern harbor in Singapore to Johor Bahru in Malaysia (and back) in four hours.
7. Memorized and performed the first half of the climactic dance in "Dirty Dancing" (up to and including Swayze's stage jump), with the movie projected behind me and my dance partner. I'm not joking about this. It was perhaps the most fun I've had on stage ever.
8. Acquired a surprising and valuable perspective on myself and my country. Can't really tell you what that is, though, other than we're like the oldest brother of the world behaving like the youngest.
9. Developed a severe affection for Finns, Costa Ricans, Brazilians, Omanis, Spaniards, Bahrainis, Kiwis and Solomon Islanders.
10. Truly realized, for the first time, how expansive the world is, humanistically, despite globalization. The world is a big-ass place. I'm hoping this is just the overture to the adventure.

I will write about your book, sir; just you wait

Every two to three hours, I develop an urge to consume chocolate. This urge often outweighs all else. If I don't get chocolate, I become sullen.

In the vending machine at work, the Snickers and the 3 Musketeers cost the same ($1), yet the 3 Musketeers is an inch longer and 3.7 grams heavier. I doubt the candies have different widths, so nougat alone must be cheaper than the combination of nougat, caramel and peanuts. Both bars are made by Mars, Incorporated. The question is: Even though 3 Musketeers has greater surface area, is the chocolate shell thinner than Snickers to keep the price the same? Or are caramel and peanuts that much more expensive? Of course, I'd prefer a Milky Way or Whatchamacallit, but these are not options at present.

Shortly after settling on 3 Musketeers, I went to the mail room. An author sent me a copy of his book today in the hopes I'd find some way to write about it. Included in the package was a Ghirardelli chocolate bar. Mint Bliss Intense Dark. 60 percent cacao. Thirty-five more grams than 3 Musketeers and the retail price is almost four times as much. But it didn't cost me a dime. Now I can put the 3 Musketeers in my desk drawer for emergency use.

(Excuse me one f*cking second)

Same-sex relationships — like nuclear arms proliferation and environmental pollution — constitute "an objective obstacle on the road to peace," wrote Pope Benedict XVI in a statement released by the Vatican yesterday.

This from the man who wears Gucci sunglasses and red Prada loafers. Did I mention he's also calling for an "equitable distribution of wealth" throughout the world?

Your Holiness:

Surely you've already sold your couture wardrobe and given the proceeds to the poor, so let's not waste time on that. As someone who was raised Catholic, I must politely register my displeasure over the first part of your statement. You are in a remarkable position; a great number of people listen closely to and follow what you say. You advocate peace, but you do so at the expense of a vast sector of society that includes not only the GLBT community but also the straight people who stand with it. You, as the leader of a religion that calls for loving one's neighbor as one's self, have the power to very bravely say, "Love manifests itself in many forms, and its power or worth does not diminish as it shape-shifts. We are finished with senseless discrimination and effrontery. It is beneath us. We welcome all people who choose to believe that life is better lived with and for others rather than above and apart. A love for God and the espousal of the altruistic tenets of Jesus Christ are all we ask for — we do not care about your race, sexual orientation or any other personal aspect over which you have no control. We only care about the part you can control: the manner in which you conduct your life. Conduct it peacefully, with an open heart."

Instead of leading us into the future, Your Holiness, you have chosen to remain rigidly anchored to dusty, antiquated prejudice. You have chosen to inculcate intolerance. You are tilling the soil of society so it remains fertile for the seeds of hate. I look forward to the day when you realize your mistake — your sin — and I pray that time comes soon, on this Earth, rather than in the afterlife, when your god will no doubt purse his lips, shake his head and break the news that you were very, very wrong.

With love and in hope,
J.J.