Crooks, Civics, and Poli-Sighs

My mom didn’t think much of politicians. “They’re all crooks” was her blanket assessment—a mantra she repeated often. At first, I took her seriously; I was an impressionable child. I’m sure this dismissal and pronouncement of dishonesty is why I had no interest in Poli-Sci, once I got to college. However, I do credit my first Political Science class with helping me figure out why she felt that way. After all, we lived in Chicago during the heyday of the first Mayor Daley’s political machine. Our city’s gangster legacy didn’t help, either—Al Capone, the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, thugs and Mafiosi. I used to wear this wacky button to the polls every year. I got it when I subscribed to the now defunct Chicagophile newsletter, a nostalgic publication for former residents of the Windy City. It said, “Two ballots for me—I’m from Chicago.”

Despite these seedy influences in the party that ran the show in My Kind of Town, I am a dyed in the wool Democrat. I can barely remember the times I have crossed party lines and voted Republican, Independent, or Green. The first time I voted was in the 1968 Presidential election. The Wikipedia article linked here aptly called it “a wrenching national experience” following the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy, the violence at the Democratic National Convention that year, and demonstrations against the Viet Nam war. As a voter, I was off to quite a start from these slanted beginnings—the influences of parents, my local culture as I grew up, and the volatile times during which I cast my first ballot.

You might say that, for me, politics smacked of violence and unfair influence. My same mom who didn’t mind bad-mouthing her duly elected “crooks” was not beyond wrangling a parking ticket fix or whatever else she could buy for the right “contribution.” I knew this was wrong—she was a hypocrite—but she was my mother and I loved her, warts, inconsistencies and all.

Still, it is hard for me to deal with the simple responsibilities of being an informed voter. This realm of life give me the creeps—sometimes a little too literally. It’s like pulling teeth for me to analyze the issues, I am so acutely aware that there are few unbiased sources of information. I rely heavily on the League of Women Voters and political satire shows like Real Time with Bill Maher, the Daley Show with Jon Stewart, and the Colbert Report. In case you’re wondering why a politi-phobe watches this stuff, my husband is addicted to these kinds of programs, and I learn more through wit and outrage than any other way. Besides, I can’t resist being nearby and to hear his loud belly laughs.

During each election, including California’s February 5th primary, I labor over my election materials. I take my one small vote seriously, despite all the psych-out of my personal political history. I vote Democratic for the most part, only because this party’s platform and candidates usually reflect my own positions more closely than those of Republicans. Still, I’m open-minded. I voted for Arnold for Governor, and I’d do it again. How bad can a guy be who sleeps with a Democrat and is a part of the Kennedy clan? His bipartisan household makes him a natural bridge builder, a role I admire and take on myself, whenever I can.

I believe our best hope for outstanding leadership—a better country, economy, and a world at peace—is to eliminate the two-party system and vote for candidates on their merits. I’d even settle for a three-party system, if the third party were for real and not a wannabe that can’t get past the resources and influence of the big boys to play seriously. That means finding a way to level the playing field. Let’s hear it for throwing out the Electoral College, too, while we’re at it, or at least rethinking it. In 2008, I’m pleased that when it comes to the Democratic choices, it is not a matter of the usual lesser of two evils; rather, I could live with any of the major contenders as President. That’s a first in my voting lifetime. Things are looking up.

Good citizenship is hard in these laborious decisions of who merits our support and how much to get involved. We are beginning to see the power of the people via the Internet to influence elections and decisions by elected officials. I encourage everyone to list the issues you care about strongly and to decide which ones are important enough for you to take the time for an email, call, or volunteer stint. After all, we boomers aren’t getting any younger, and there’s nothing better we can do with some of our “spare” time after retirement than to help make the world a better place—or at least our little corner of it.

I don’t do enough to make change or influence it, at least in the political arena. This year we were brave enough to wear our stance about a local proposition on a lawn sign in our front yard. At least it’s a start. Meanwhile, I will continue to make the best decisions on my ballot, based on unbiased information—or at least biased information from both sides plus a run through my own intuition (read internal lie detector).

I have the privilege of knowing several recent immigrants. Their pride and honor in becoming citizens of this country is inspiring …

… and they have inspired me to ponder what it means to be a “becoming” citizen.

Not So Silent Night

1968: I’m home for Christmas break from the University of Wisconsin, spending another big holiday with my family. We celebrate big because we are blessed with two precious little ones—actually, one and a half. My nephew, Mikey, is a toddler. My niece, April, is nearly five months from birth—so tiny in her mom’s tummy, there’s no visible sign of her yet. This is the last time she’ll ever be subtle.

The previous year, we all survived the horrendous Chicago snowstorm of 1967. That, in and of itself, is some kind of miracle. It gave us monumental family bonding time. The entire metropolitan area was snowed in solid. We couldn’t leave the house for a week except to walk to the corner store and carry home necessities by sled. I can still hear my mother swearing about the SOBs who jacked up their prices, taking advantage of people during a crisis.

“Those jackasses! Bleeding money out of mothers that need milk for their babies…” These loud outbursts of cursing and carrying on and protectiveness of all mothers occurred at least three or four times a day—not only after my cousin Tony brought back what we needed on my classic flyer sled, but each time she heard these atrocities reported on the news.

By comparison, winter 1968 was a contrast in calm. Our family tradition is to celebrate on Christmas Eve—big dinner, presents, then Midnight Mass. Christmas Day is more of an aftermath for us—a time for the kids to play with toys and the grown-ups to veg in front of the TV, watching holiday specials. In this case, after the hoopla and snowla of ’67, we were looking forward to our first winter celebration since then and a more Norman Rockwell Silent Night.

Instead of doing Christmas at my parents’ in the suburbs, as usual, my brother Nick insisted on hosting us at his large apartment in Chicago. Nick was flamboyant. He loved anything new and different, so surely, this would not be an ordinary Christmas. He had only recently learned that he was going to be a father, and I think the gleam in his eye threw off his vision a bit.

Dinner seemed to start backwards. Nick spent an inordinate amount of time doing—and redoing—dessert.

“These ^&*^*()!! cream puffs! This is the third time I’ve done these damn things. I just can’t get ‘em right.”

Frustrated, Nick called Cousin Ginny. He had gotten the recipe from her. Lots of long pauses on his end of the conversation.

“Well, thanks a lot, Virginia,” he said, oozing sarcasm like cream in the supposed puffs that were flat as pancakes.

“What’s wrong?” Ma asked.

“She forgot to give me the magic ingredient—baking soda. That’s why they wouldn’t rise.”

Maybe his pregnant wife had him fixated on puffy things, but to his credit, Nick did not give up and whipped up one more batch of cream puffs while he roasted the chestnuts.

Since he didn’t have a fireplace, Nick, being creative, just stuck them in the oven.

Nick figured we should start eating while the nuts roasted, which were just a snack, anyway, given the built-in delays of his stubborn dessert. My mother’s Italian custom was a meatless Christmas Eve dinner, including spaghetti Aglio E Olio —pasta sautéed in garlic and olive oil. This was a side dish to baked fish and usually a green veggie like broccoli. Being an all-American meat-and-potatoes family, I can’t say any of us particularly loved this meal, but with dessert and presents to follow, we could stand once a year to have our taste buds under whelmed—except for maybe the garlic.

Mom was twisting spaghetti artfully around her fork, despite being a little tipsy from the wine at dinner. Rina, my sister-in-law, took breaks from stuffing her face due to prenatal indigestion.

The conversation was muffled, even quiet for us. It was a relief that everyone was giving “shop talk” a rest—discussing the family beauty shop business. Mom, Nick, Rina, and my sister Chris all worked there. I even worked there as a receptionist one summer vacation, till my prima donna brother with his hot temper let the F-word fly at me. Insulted, I quit on the spot. By now, this fact is hilarious, considering it was the ‘60s and every college kid, including me, found it to be the most versatile term of self-expression in the English language.

It was actually during a lull in the conversation—a rarity for the Mason family—that we were nearly blown out of our chairs by a loud explosion. It was coming from the direction of the oven.

Nick raced to the scene of the disaster, grabbing potholders en route. His version of chestnuts roasting on an open fire turned out to be chestnuts exploding in a closed oven. Smoke billowed and the inside the oven was beyond description.

“I think you’re supposed to pierce them with a knife first,” Mom said, between giggles. “It reduces the pressure.”

The rest of us had exploded into gales of laughter, leaving mirth on the walls like Oscar Madison’s linguine in The Odd Couple. It was hard to stop laughing long enough to go to Midnight Mass a couple hours later, especially lubed by the wine. I thought we’d have to have the bomb squad out. What a mess Nick had to clean up! Although he was hardly religious, he opted for Mass not mess, which he probably hoped Santa’s elves would clean up for him when they dropped by at midnight while we were at church.

Later, my sisters and I bunked out on blankets and mattresses on the floor and had a big family pajama party. Nick served Grasshoppers (he was incapable of anything simple), and I was looped by the time: the packages were torn open, we were sprinkled with holy water, and the instant replays of exploding chestnuts and flat cream puffs finally died down.

I am sure I dreamt my own unique Visions of Sugar Plums. I was on a sugar high on the sweetness of my wacky family, and how the greatest gift of all is the laughter we shared at our own human foibles.

Silent nights have their place, but so do memories with loud laughter.

Happy Holidays.