CULTIVATING LIBERALISM
FOR ALL CLIMATES
SINCE 1759
 
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Ides of ’48
Down and Up With Democrats

They thought they had it in the bag, too

Word has it that regardless of remaining primary results, the Democrats have already lost the presidential election. Until the Texas and Ohio primaries on March 4, Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama sounded like equally qualified presidential contenders with every reason to keep battling. They were refining their issues seriously and entertainingly and making mush of old sexist and racist barriers despite attempts by debate “moderators,” as the television networks’ agent provocateurs brand themselves, to entrap them in the mud-pits of white-male king-making.

What a transformation, though. Since March 4, Clinton and Obama have become uninteresting. They’ve abandoned issues for triggers. Their pandering to voters who cling to guns, gods and prejudice as badges of virtue reminds you of Republican primary contests or country music acts. Their greater purpose is lost to the egomaniacal compulsion to annihilate each other, and with them the party they presume to represent.

A few weeks ago it did seem like the Democrats would lose, but not because of self-destruction. Clinton or Obama are a gift to the Republicans’ well-honed machinery of character assassination based on gender, race, guilt by association (Rev. Jeremiah Wright and William Ayers for Obama, Bill Clinton for Hillary) and, when useful, invented religions (Obama’s Islamic past, Clinton’s health-care heresies).

 

And for all its enlightened presumptions, today’s median American voter — old, white, fearful and reactionary — can still muster a little nostalgia for rancid assumptions. When we assume we’re being polite by saying that “ America isn’t ready to elect a woman or a black person,” what we’re really saying is that America is still as bigoted and misogynist as ever if, in the 21 st century, the very notion of a candidate’s skin color or sex is capable of its own of raising questions of electability.

Lucky for Clinton and Obama, the inherent weakness of John McCain’s doddering candidacy and the equally doddering economy he’s promising to steer with his predecessor’s walker should’ve been Clinton-Obama’s opportunity to vault over voters’ prejudices. Instead, the two have chosen to work for the McCain campaign. The attacks they’re leveling at each other will be the Republican camp’s script against whichever candidate prevails by summer.

For all that, it’d be foolish to write off the Democrats no matter how much longer they wrangle and no matter who ends up their nominee. Conservatives, who hate it when Iraq is compared to Vietnam, love making comparisons between the Democrats’ 1968 election, when they supposedly self-destructed, and 2008. But despite the Democrats’ infighting that summer, Hubert Humphrey lost to Richard Nixon by barely 500,000 votes, while the Republican victory was aided mostly by an assassination — Robert Kennedy’s that June. Kennedy was heavily favored to win the Democratic nomination and would have likely clobbered Nixon in the general election. Nor is it a footnote to remember that Democrats lost to a crook who even then had amassed a growing record of lies and frauds that would culminate in his and the presidency’s disgrace. There are similarities there, to be sure, but only with the current administration. And the unpopular war shadowing the election this time is of Republican make, with McCain the co-architect of its most recent frauds (the “surge”’s imaginary successes, Iran’s and al-Qaida’s influence).

If history is to be a guide at all, the more instructive comparison — for both sides — is the 1948 election. By then Democrats had held the White House 16 years. The nation really was tired of them. Republicans seemed to have a dream ticket in Thomas Dewey and Earl Warren, the hugely popular governors of New York and California (Dwight Eisenhower would name Warren chief justice five years later). Democrats seemed hopelessly fractured. South Carolina’s Strom Thurmond, a Democrat in a torrid love affair with Jim Crow at the time, was angry at Truman for desegregating the military. He challenged him as a Dixiecrat. Henry Wallace, once Franklin Roosevelt’s vice president, challenged Truman as a progressive (and correctly predicted that Truman’s national security state would usher in a “century of fear”). Dewey, Warren, pollsters and newspaper editors took a GOP win for granted, running a leisurely campaign that almost sneered at the Democrats’ perceived debacles. Truman won with more than 2 million votes to spare. He even claimed New York State.

Today, it isn’t Bush fatigue that’s playing Democrats’ favor, but Republican fatigue: The party’s religious and reactionary puppeteers have so disgusted the nation that the only candidate even GOP voters could stomach is a man who several times mulled a switch to the Democratic party and considered being John Kerry’s vice president four years ago. The Democrats have every reason to be overconfident. But that, and whatever novel slanders the GOP electoral machine has in store for them, is the only thing they have to worry about, whoever their nominee may be.


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As One Put Naked Into a Cigarette Boat

Continue chiding, since it's part of the new aesthetic,
and parcel to our coming home, as if
we'd disappeared into the burning bush
that calls to those who sit vacantly in parlors
awaiting a fate freighted with song and dance.
I stroll while staring and raging
with difficulty at the stubborn sky.

On my honor I step a little distance
from behind the curtain, only to disappear
the moment no birds sing, which occurs frequently.
Leaves dustier than furniture, the sound
of sleeping grating through the cosmos,
my footstool, my only talisman.
It's been real, arguing on your behalf.
Gray cobweb shadow, falling, floundering,
finding a place to not be shy and think
boldly about the oldness of beauty, a place
to rest its weary insubstantial head.

It may be that I stand on the threshold
of the checkout line, unsure of what
to be impulsive about, which momentous emptiness
to spontaneously identify my alienation with,
what kind of languor to slide into

before being reduced to grubbing for credentials,
locked in that tumid late-afternoon skin,
effervescing in its sea of dreams.
And all the things hearkening back to it,
the boat ride to breaker beach
there at the end of one world
where it paid to rage at the stammering waves
that kicked and screamed solely for my benefit,
staged objections to the inexorable fact of me.

Look: I've installed a turnstile in my kitchen,
so your picture-postcard of desolation has no power over me.
In this doggy-dog world land is made motionless
and the broads are standing on the wharves
with some of that sipping whisky on those silver trays,
which we'd be a bear to pass up. You speak
of the old gods who've washed up on shore,
but I don't see them, don't hear their hue and cry,
though their maze awaits us, will amaze us.
Here, let me get this little rock out of my damn shoe.
Then we can talk about paddling off to parts unknown.

 
Van Foreman
 
 

 


 

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