Nostalgia (part 1)

Autumn has the distinction of being the season of nostalgia, a sensual time when memories carry us to winter's dark embrace. We're moving into a strange, exciting, and terrifying election season to determine the fate of the world, and the cooler air is reminding me of campaigns past, more luminous times when I had hope that the world wanted peace and was prepared to do anything to achieve it.

When I was in sixth grade, our school held a mock presidential election, complete with voting booths and poll workers. Of course, the purpose was to teach students about voting (I wonder if today's schools would be allowed to conduct a similar election or if that would be deemed "too political.") I remember dressing in red, white, and blue that morning, as if I were going to cheer on my favorite sports team. I laugh when I think of how I "voted" for George H. W. Bush, though a part of me still harbors a secret horror at the thought. How was I to know? I was 12, and I was a member of the myriad of American families of Reagan worshippers.

Everything was different in 1992, however, when I was a sophomore in high school and wore my Clinton/Gore button proudly. I recall debates with other students in the halls among the clamor of lockers and idle chatter. I scoured the newspapers for articles on the campaign in those pre-internet days and watched every television program that came on, including the debates, where Clinton wiped the floor with his opponents. I was 15, my mind already forming independent thoughts, however ignorant. I laugh at that ignorance, but a part of me is horrified that at age 15 I was more informed than many of today's voters.

He stood tall and proud, eyes glistening with the light of hope, the tinge of gray in his hair distinguished and demanding respect even from his older opponents. He made the old man with the Texas twang and the business mogel who talked like a cartoon look like fools. His voice cracked in all the right places, his words were educated and inspiring, and that thing he did with his hand, well, it was a half open fist, passive yet threatening.

I fell in love with this man for many reasons, above all his background. He was the antithesis of the elitism we see in today's network of powermongering bastards who flaunt their silver spoons and spit venom at anyone who dares to hold the American Dream. Even as a naive 15 year old I understood what this man represented. He told me I could be anything I wanted. He told me there was a reason to hope, that there was nothing to fear in the world. He was the son of an alcoholic, abusive father and a mother whose name was different than his own, a poor kid who wanted to be the leader of the world and to fix the problems of the nation so others would not have to suffer through a childhood like his. I will always love him because of this, despite his flaws, for he is the epitome of the promise of our forefathers - that all men are created equal.

My senior year of high school is most characterized by my government class, and specifically, the teacher, Steve Weadock. It wasn't until much later that I realized many of my teachers were not only Democrats, but active members of the party. One of Clinton's electors was a government teacher at my school, though I never had him as a teacher. Did my teachers influence my political persuasion? No. Did they help me understand why I felt an inclination towards the left side of the political spectrum? Most definitely yes.

To be continued...