We’re very excited to welcome guest blogger Honorée Fanonne Jeffers. Honorée is an award-winning poet and fiction writer who’s been blogging on culture since 2009. Her most recent book of poetry is Red Clay Suite.

Usually, my blog posts deal with African American community or political issues, and I talk as one cultural insider to another cultural insider.

However, I’ve realized that sometimes, well-meaning, really nice White people (of which there are many, by the way) want Black folks to talk to them in non-angry, non-confrontational, and patient ways about Black cultural issues they don’t understand.

So I wondered if it might be useful for me to write blog posts that break racial things down for good White folks who mean no harm—and who either have Black friends or are in the midst of acquiring friendships with Black people—and are just trying to navigate these racial waters that ironically (and to me, bewilderingly) have become far more treacherous since the election of our first Black president.

Sidebar: I use “race” as a shorthand because that word usually means “Black” or “People of Color” to White people. But really, “race” is not a real, like, biological thing. It does not exist except in people’s minds. What I actually mean when I say “race” is “culture.”

I hadn’t even planned to post again this week, but I’ve noticed the online furor on Black social media concerning Governor Jan Brewer’s pointing her finger very close to President Barack Obama’s face. The response from White folks? Some are upset, but I get the impression they don’t really understand why we African Americans are so troubled. Some of us are even enraged.

So I thought that it might be time to write a Teachable Racial Moment post.

Ok, here goes: If you are wise, you will not ever put your finger–or your whole hand– in a Black person’s face, unless you know you want to immediately engage in a knock down, drag out, fight-to-the-concrete physical brawl. It’s actually a well-known signal for “let’s fight right this moment” in the Black community. When I say “ever” I mean not in this present lifetime, or even after death, if you encounter another Black angel in Heaven. Because that angel is still liable to get into it with you and risk being de-winged.

I don’t know when the finger point in the face became such a grave insult to Black folks, but it has been for at least 50 years. And what does the gesture mean anyway? It means derision. It means disrespect. And above all, it means power to the pointer.

Sidebar: Have you ever seen a mother (of any cultural background) in the mall with her disobedient toddler? She finally gets exasperated and leans down and begins to scold the child—by pointing her finger in his or her face. And what happens? The toddler starts crying, and then gets it together and starts behaving better. Thus, the finger point in the face is not a gesture between equals. She who does the pointing is establishing herself as a superior to the person being pointed at.

Okay, and now, I’m about to reveal a Racial Secret. Are you ready? I’m going to put this in italics so you really get it.
Because the finger point gesture establishes superiority, the gesture is even worse if a White person does it to a Black person, due to the history in this country of White supremacist violence and cultural demeaning of Black folks.

Nice Non-Racist White folks, this may seem silly to y’all. And I get that. Right now, you may be saying, “Dang, Black folks got too many rules! It’s so hard to keep up with y’all!” That’s true. I won’t deny it. So many rules, even I have a hard time keeping up.

But consider that, individually, we all have rules that help create a space in which we are happy.

For example, I despise egg whites. (No racial pun intended here, I promise.) I will eat whole scrambled eggs willingly, or baked into cookies, cakes, etcetera, but if given a boiled egg, I will only eat the yolk. The thought of an egg white omelet is one that moves me almost to physical pain. It’s so slimy and disgusting.

So one day, I was visiting my mama and she was making potato salad. And she was chopping up boiled egg whites to mix into the potato salad. Now I live to eat my mama’s potato salad. Nobody makes it better. So I was watching her chop up those egg whites and I felt tears come to my eyes, because I knew I wasn’t going to eat that potato salad with those egg whites in it. I was so disappointed and I felt really betrayed, too.

Mama looked up and saw my face and said quietly, “Honi, you know I already made your potato salad without the whites, darling. It’s sitting in the refrigerator right now.”

That’s what I mean.

Mama could have said, “Look, get over it. I’m not making two separate potato salads to please your rusty grown behind. What am I, your personal chef?” But she didn’t. And just like she knows I won’t eat egg whites, I know she despises the dark meat of chicken and I’d never try to serve a chicken thigh to her. It’s these little things that lead to understanding between two people.

And this leads us back to Governor Jan Brewer. After she pointed her finger in President Obama’s face she followed up in a media interview by saying she “felt threatened” by him. But remember when I said above that the finger point in the face was both an aggressive act and one attempting to establish superiority?

If anyone felt threatened, it would be President Obama, threatened by Governor Brewer’s attempt to not only belittle him, but also because he probably suspected that later, she’d try to flip the racial script on him. Which she most certainly did.

Here’s that flipped script: she, the Little Helpless White Lady, felt afraid of him, a Big Ole Scary Black Man. (Refer to the film, Birth of a Nation if you aren’t familiar with this tired script. It’s only a bit more tired–and dangerous–than the Big-Breasted Loving Black Mammy Who Lives To Take Care of White Folks Kids With No Pay script in Gone With The Wind.)

So, let me get this straight.

Governor Brewer felt afraid of President Obama. She felt threatened by him. After she poked her finger in his face and attempted to humiliate him. And let’s not forget this was going on in front of cameras.

Yeah, okay. I completely believe her.

This flipped racial script of Governor Brewer is very old, and has several versions, but it has proven useful throughout the years for the shell game of White supremacy, as when a Black man was lynched whenever a White woman accused him of looking at her funny.

I’m not playing here mentioning the funny look. It was the unofficial law of “reckless eyeballing” created by White southerners, and many a southern Black man swung at the end of a rope for committing that supposed crime. The case of Emmett Till was a variation of “reckless eyeballing,” because he whistled at a White woman and ended up murdered.

Just because President Obama doesn’t talk about that racial script doesn’t mean he isn’t well aware of our nation’s troubled history concerning White women and Black men, which is why he walked away from Governor Brewer. I’m pretty sure that, as a Black man, he was angered by her culturally transgressive act, but he had the presence of mind to get himself together before he broke all the way fool on the tarmac with that lady and not only ended up in jail, but went down in history as 1) the first Black president and 2) the first president who physically assaulted a woman in public.

But he saved himself, because President Obama is an Old School Brother. And it is never acceptable for an Old School Brother to hit a woman, whether or not she has committed an act of aggression. And let me tell you that you don’t really want to know what would have happened if Governor Brewer had pointed her finger in the face of another Black man—not an Old School Brother but one of these Young Knuckleheads With No Sense.

Eh, Lord, it would have been so ugly. And that’s all I’m going to say.

Polite, kind, respectful, self-controlled, and full of common sense: that’s how Old School Brothers get down. And by the way, that’s why I really adore them. And that’s why, despite the fact that President Obama hasn’t been a perfect leader (at least in my opinion), as a Sister, I feel extremely proud of him. And I bet Mrs. Obama does, too.

Read more of Honoree’s blog posts here.

Prudence digs deep into an ocean of insight

In 1998, if you hadn’t seen The Titanic by week two of its release, you were in danger becoming marginalized; a social misfit unable to contribute to the main topic of conversation du jour—a shipwreck from 86 years before. Sheesh.

This brings me to chair number 18 at Umberto, a Beverly Hills über-salon where—for the right price—even nobodies like me can rub foiled locks with B-list celebrities.

David, my stylist and a dog show aficionado who could have walked straight (so to speak) out of Best in Show, was trying to ignore overtures from a buff young man in a tight black t-shirt sweeping up shorn locks from Umberto’s imported Italian marble floors.

But Muscles McSixpack said the magic word, “Titanic,” and conversation between the two men ramped up as if I weren’t there. I tried to signal my displeasure with various eyebrow moves, which is a near-impossible feat when peering out from under an awning of tin-foil shingles.

David was just dropping one of those behind-the-scenes tidbits (that he no doubt read in People magazine) when Muscles pursed his lips and covered his ears, “Ooo! Don’t tell me what happens in the end; I want to be surprised!”

David’s hands fluttered to a stop in midair over my head and he shot me a look in the mirror—a look that said, “You may be cute, Muscles, but you are a dunce.”

Who knew that 14 years later, and on the hundredth anniversary of the Titanic’s sinking, the Costa Concordia, an Italian luxury liner (if that’s what we can call a floating monstrosity jam-packed with tourists and low-paid help from former Iron Curtain countries), is listing; half-sunken after striking rocks just off the coast of Tuscany. What a bizarre homage.

It may be a reach to say that the Costa Concordia’s demise is in any way, shape or form connected to the Titanic disaster, but the all-too human habit of looking for patterns, especially those linked to anniversaries, is one we embrace. Stating that “today is the anniversary of…” or “150 years ago today, such-and-such happened” gives us a superficial grasp of issues and allows us to fill our Facebook pages and tabloids as well as our TV and radio talk shows with issues we don’t so much explore as exploit for their shock value.

But these snapshots of historical coincidences and frightening statistics do not serve to build an enlightened society any more than historical novels or feature films do justice to real human, legal and organic issues of former times. We must dig deeper.

If we held close the lessons of history, if we—everyday people as well as leaders—looked for patterns to help us predict—and thus avoid—disasters, couldn’t we have avoided the chain of events that has emblazoned the past 100 years with mass murder, mayhem and unprecedented environmental degradation?

What could have been a seminal century, a 100-year span that married the industrial revolution to the information age spawning enlightenment and the spread of knowledge, has instead degraded into the Bermuda Triangle Century.

The material lessons that should have abided seem to have disappeared into some mysterious ether that swallows facts and spits out feelings; feelings that can be used to manipulate the masses whose ability to access authentic reality (vs. reality TV) is an increasingly difficult task.

I don’t blame Muscles McSixpack for not knowing the Titanic sank to the bottom of a frigid sea. In 1998, he probably could have waxed eloquent on headline-grabbing Monica Lewinsky or shared juicy behind-the-scenes tidbits on the murder of comedian Phil Hartmann, both now forgotten players in the melodrama of the late ‘90s.

Meanwhile, what really mattered—the systematic dismantling of the U.S. Justice system, the purposeful disruption of the Clinton presidency by his opponents, the beginning of an unprecedented pick-pocketing of the middle- and working-classes by wealthy bankers and insurance corporations—lurked under the fog of inconsequentialities that has only thickened with players such as the Kardashians, the not-so-real reality shows, and opinion shows masquerading as news.

I’ve been alive for more than half of this past century, and I am not optimistic that we can turn this around. I hear Republican presidential hopefuls beat the war drums as they eye Iran; I listen to the belligerent crowds cheering vile, racist rhetoric at so-called Christian gatherings; I witness unparalleled hatred of the media, of the poor and the disenfranchised. What, I ask you, can come of this?

I think I’ll purse my lips and cover my ears. Don’t tell me where we’re headed. I want to be surprised.

Prudence’s personal story provides a morality tale for America today

This is a story about a baby I call Jesus. No, not that Jesus—the other one, pronounced “Hey, Zeus.”

I admit this may not be his name and he may not be a he; I don’t know. All I know is that somewhere out there in the world is a teenager I call Jesus and his birth certificate is almost identical to my son’s. And what better time to have a Jesus story than now—on the eve of the holiday season that culminates with the birthday celebration of a man so many Americans claim to know personally, the other Jesus, Jesus Christ.

Jesus (the Hey Zeus one) was born April 6, 1995, at Good Samaritan Hospital in Los Angeles—the same hospital, the same day, the same hour as my second and last child, Casey. The reason I know about Jesus is that my labor and delivery nurse helped bring him into this world.

Jesus’ Spanish-speaking mother (let’s just call her Maria for the sake of simplicity) arrived at Good Samaritan a few hours after I did, but instead of proceeding directly to the 6th floor maternity ward, she came into the hospital’s emergency room entrance seven floors below.

Maria arrived in what is termed “full fetal distress,” her baby’s cord wrapped around its neck. The E.R. appealed to the maternity ward to send a nurse stat to assist. My nurse entered the room, gave me a critical once over and announced, “You’re not having this baby anytime soon, so I think I’ll go help.” It wasn’t a question. And besides, my husband was there—albeit asleep in the corner—and my oldest sister, but never mind her as she soon chose to leave as well. My nurse then disappeared for 45 minutes to the E.R. to help Maria.

A lot can happen in three quarters of an hour. A life can change, irrevocably and unspeakably, pulling every other life, however tenuously connected, in the same uncharted direction.

My child’s birth date was planned long in advance. Because of complications following my first birthing experience, I was under close supervision. My OB decided, and I agreed, to squeeze Casey’s birth into a Thursday morning slot so she could depart L.A. the next morning for a long weekend away. “We’ll crank up the pitocin,” she smiled, reassuring me that, because Thursday was the baby’s hypothetical due date, he should—according to medical science—come barreling down the vaginal canal just moments afterwards.

My husband, bedraggled after a night of editing his first feature film, slumbered peacefully in a green vinyl armchair; his head tilted back with his mouth closed in a tight line. Nearby, his glasses perched on top of It’s a Mad, Mad World, the video I had brought as a distraction, but that now lay on the table, still shiny in shrink-wrap. Feeling no pain thanks to Fentanyl and numb from the waist down, I was content to listen to the fetal heart monitor’s hypnotic ker-thump, ker-thump, ker-thump and watch dangling tubes and wires quiver gently overhead. The tracking devices that delivered information about my baby and me to the nurses’ station whirred and beeped. Feeling at peace, I lapsed into a trancelike state.

Only when the ker-thump stuttered did I startle from my torpor. All moisture evaporated from my mouth and throat as I realized the green line that had gone up with every ker and down with every thump was now flat.

“Honey,” I croaked in a whisper composed of only hot breath. My husband slumbered on. “Tim! Tim!” I shrieked in a cracked voice I didn’t recognize as mine. He awoke in a panic, knocking his glasses to the floor. While he scrambled frantically around trying to locate them, my eyes lighted on a big red button marked “Emergency” on the far side of my bed.

“Hit the button!” I gestured so frantically that the embedded IV needle tore the flesh of my forearm.

“What button?” he shouted back, putting on his glasses, unable to grasp what had transpired.

The baby’s heart monitor was silent yet my ears filled with the rushing roar of water. The room slipped into a timeless place where Tim, my bed and all the objects nearby seemed suspended in some kind of thick ether that muffled all emotion and softened edges so that one three-dimensional object blended into the next; a shadowy continuum devoid of emotion but filled with acute, aching awareness. Moments became hours if not lifetimes. Angels danced on the heads of pins, a thousand lotus petals opened, empires rose and fell as Tim—in slow motion—fought his way through the tangle of wires and the tubes, trying to reach that button, which seemed forever unreachable.

This is the story of a baby I call Jesus, who was born in a hospital fifteen and a half years ago. And another baby who struggled to be born, but was instead revived. My baby is the second one, pulled back from that light-filled tunnel by a roaring vacuum that sucked his still little body from mine; the little body that had grown weary from pushing and waiting for his mother’s body to respond by pushing back.

This is also the story of two mothers, one who had access to healthcare and another who didn’t. One who took home a healthy child and never knew about the woman seven floors up, the woman whose life was forever altered, as were the lives of all around her, by the birth of a child with disabilities, disabilities caused by lack of access to appropriate healthcare for Maria, who for lack of proper neo-natal care, wound up in the emergency room of the aptly named Good Samaritan Hospital at the exact same time my baby was slated to be born.

As painful as it is to relive this incident, I share it as a morality tale for those Americans who are Christian in name only. For all those high-minded moralists who are salivating at the possible repeal of the new federal law they sneeringly call Obamacare, I ask them if they would want this heartache in their family. Would they want to spend the first five years of their child or grandchild’s life frantically searching for the right therapy that will fix what cannot be fixed; scrambling for the cash to cover what insurance companies refuse to cover; and trying to keep a family together that is torn asunder by worry, pain, regrets and recriminations?

In October, The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services announced grants of $727 million for 143 low-cost community health centers across the nation, funded by the Affordable Care Act. This will increase access to care for the working poor, for communities of immigrants and others who crowd our emergency rooms for no other reason other than there is no place else for them to go.

My child’s future and my family’s peace of mind were sacrificed for lack of healthcare in a community of people whose presence is tolerated as long as they clean our homes, mow our lawns, diaper our children, spread blacktop and wash our cars. But the true cost of having them here is our nation’s unspoken shame.

On the eve of what should be a time of gratitude, forgiveness and remembrance of a man who spent his life dispensing care to the poor, of counseling and giving hope to the wretched and the unwanted, do we want our legislators to take aim at a law that clearly and for all intents and purposes, would have the endorsement of Jesus?

(I leave it up to you to figure out which Jesus I’m talking about.)

Connie reflects on recent tragedy, ongoing hate and hypocrisy

I just turned 59. I was going to write some funny thing moaning about being mooned by 60, but instead, I need to talk about how grateful I am. I’m grateful for something I have no right to be grateful for, and that is the status of my own birth.

Oh, I suppose I could have had it easier. I could have been born smarter, taller, thinner, blonder, male, but in conforming to a standard of acceptance, I guess I’ll be grateful to have been born white, blue-eyed, American, and straight in the society we are living in right now, oh, and Christian. That condition, happily, I have recovered from. Everything else just is what it is.

I am deeply troubled, shaken, and heartsick over the recent suicide of 18-year-old Tyler Clementi who jumped off the George Washington Bridge after being cruelly and publicly humiliated by fellow students, Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei. Those two miscreants are being charged with invasion of privacy and possibly for hate crimes and will do 5-10 years in prison if they are found guilty. So this evil “prank”, if you can call it that, (though I would love to know how that conversation went), cost the life of a beautiful, talented young man, the grief of friends and family, and the shame of a nation that cannot seem to wrap it’s head around HOMOSEXUALITY.

I simply cannot fathom why our nation is wrestling with this non-issue. Recently, Republican candidate for New York State Governor, Carl Paladino, gave a speech denouncing homosexuals as “pornographers and perverts” and said that “children ought not to be brainwashed into thinking that homosexuality was acceptable.” (Really? Oh, just come out, Carl). The GOP has once again blocked the repeal of that ridiculous policy, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and Democrats made only a feint at advancing that bill. Why not deny all people born with green eyes, or freckles, or a cleft chin, the opportunity to serve their country or to serve their God? It’s that arbitrary. Gay and lesbians are being denied the right to serve as soldiers, pastors, deacons, and heads of clergy—but not Catholic priests, apparently. I don’t even want to address the damage wreaked in that deep closet.

How many lives must be ruined and hearts broken by fear and self-loathing? How many families have been destroyed because we will not allow our gay and lesbian citizens to simply be who they are? How many more times must we watch, aghast, as another closeted gay politician is publicly outed while his devoted wife stands by, stoically watching, as the foundation of her life crumbles beneath her? How many more amazing, complex young human beings must be sacrificed, murdered, denied their civil rights, made to feel as if they’ve committed a crime against humanity, simply because of the way they were born to express their sexuality. Our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters no more chose to be gay than I chose to be short. It is the way we perfectly came into this world. I don’t know who said it, but it’s a good quote—“homosexuality is not a choice, but homophobia is.”

Our society must decide to let go of this backward, hateful, very un-“Christian” impulse to judge and shun and punish. We must decide that we can do better. We must reassess our values and vow to never again allow a tender heart, a young mind, to be ruined by ignorance and an unwillingness to change. We must have the courage to admit that we are deadly wrong on this issue. Enough.

Photo above by Davina Pardo, from the documentary Ask Not, a Vassar student protests the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy outside a U.S. Army recruiting center in Times Square

I’d rather be in Stalinist Russia, drinking human blood at Satan’s ball than be in Obama’s shoes. It’s been a year and a half since he inherited an America that is only turned on by extremes, sensationalism and exaggeration, along with a people crippled by fear and impatience. Even I, one of his most ardent fans, found myself screaming at the radio during his Oval Office address on the oil spill.

“Say it!” I shouted, “Say it!” I wanted a bold retraction of his previously announced (and obviously dunderheaded) plan to open some offshore waters to oil drilling. I was so disappointed. And then the next day, I heard someone on NPR saying that Obama’s six-month moratorium on deep water drilling was affecting some 50,000 people’s jobs in the already devastated Gulf. Pass the blood, please.

According to the polls, the prez is as popular as IRS agents investigating low income people and parking meter attendants. No one invites him to their parties, and all the girls say he has a small dick. I did my own poll a couple of weeks ago. Four liberals sitting around on my back deck gave him two Cs, one C+ and one B- (he owes me for that B-). No need to ask any conservatives. They decided he was an utter failure when he won the election. They say Independents are leaning toward a D-.

I admit to being very upset with Obama for not performing exactly as I wish on a whole host of issues—kind of like when I wanted him to bring his baseball bat and beat John McCain senseless on live television during the debates—but I’m still giving him his four years. I continue to pay through the nose for bullshit insurance coverage and medical care; however, I love, love, love him for banishing the shameful and disgraceful insurance industry practices known as “pre-existing conditions” and policy cancellations of sick people. This was only the first step, people. We had to start somewhere! Did we think doctors, hospitals, insurers and Americans were going to magically decide that healthcare should not be driven by profits? Before you go calling me a Communist, I believe in profit wholeheartedly, just not as a religion.

Healthcare reform is but one mind-numbing problem on the nefarious laundry list of ills plaguing this country and this administration; and although I confess to wanting to kick some Taliban ass in a baad way; Afghanistan is another. No need to inventory all the issues Obama has willingly taken on to mixed reviews. Who knows why Obama thinks and acts the way he does? Composed, slow-moving and thoughtful as opposed to bold and dramatic, when the times seem to be begging for both; I certainly don’t know, but I call for giving him a break even as we continue to voice our views and objections on the issues we care about. He may not always do what I want but he’s done plenty that I like a lot. He may not be warm and cuddly or stupid (apparently a huge issue for the masses), but if a president’s success is measured, in part, by whether or not people feel like they want to hang with him, having beers at a bar, let me say it loud and clear to the really, really smart guy in the White House, What do you say to an ice cold, extra dry martini, straight up?

From “Bigotgate” to shades of Kennedy/Nixon, Christie Healey gives the play-by-play on the recent UK elections

As I sat eating my breakfast this morning, I thought of Mr. Brown. Gordon Brown, a man whose brilliant background in accountancy could not save him from miscalculation of the odds. I imagined him at the 10 Downing Street breakfast table last Friday, the eviction notice hovering in his mind. He must have thought, “Where did I go wrong? He waited years for this gig, suffering in silence while Tony bounced all over the world like Tigger only to be given the old heave ho at the first opportunity.

The last two weeks of the adorably short UK general election campaign have been nothing less than stunning. The changes for Mr. Brown were foretold upon England’s foray into that most American of primetime shows, “The Debates”. Our brusque-toned dour Scot was pitted against the Liberal Democrats’ youthful and articulate leader, Nick Clegg, who puffed deep breaths of fresh air into the stale clichés of British politics. Even the Conservatives’ front man, an urbane and typically toffee-nosed type, managed to look like one of the stars of Mad Men compared to the rumpled, haggard Mr. B.

More modern communication curses were heaped upon Brown’s brow when he learned first hand that an open mic is also deadly weapon. The press-op teatime with Mrs. Duffy, loyal Labour Party housewife, seemed to start out pleasantly, but seizing her righteous 15 minutes she launched into a racist rant against immigrants. Mr. B tried to soothe her with mumbled purrs of campaign speak. On the way back to the car, the real Gordy emerged and he entered into a rant of his own, calling Mrs. Duffy a bigoted woman and heaping scorn upon his handlers, with the mic still clipped to his lapel in the “on” position. The listening press corps experienced mass spontaneous orgasm over “Bigotgate”.

The election resulted in a hung parliament because the magic number of seats that any party has to attain is 326. Despite the expected resurgence of the Conservatives they only got 306, Labour squeaked out 258, the LibDems have 57. Which means that Labour and the Conservatives must woo the LibDems to reach the winning number. Whoever gets to first base with Nick Clegg will be Prime Minister in a coalition government. The LibDems are usually more attracted to the brawny workers of the Labour Party, but that cunning little minx leader of theirs decided to go all the way with Conservative David Cameron who has just become England’s youngest Prime Minister. This is getting more and more like an episode of Mad Men!

In England we say we elect the party, not the person. If you believe that, then I have some amazing old Houses on the banks of the Thames to sell you. Judging from the press reports, no one was prepared for how Kennedy/Nixon the debates were destined to become. Obviously, we do now care very much about the person. Not that an Armani suit, a good haircut and some subtle face-lifting would have saved our single-malt Scot. His fate was sealed with his belief that he was entitled to the job. Note to John McCain: call Gordon, he needs you.

Britain has turned a corner in its political history. There may even be a change in the “first past the post” system to proportional representation. But, if the British political movie-of-the-week becomes an American long-running series, the British public may demand cancellation of the show. By the way, the election may have to be held again later this year and I can’t wait for the new season of Britain’s Got Political Talent. Maybe Simon Cowell will preside over the contestants as they primp and charm their way to victory and who knows, the Labour Party version of Susan Boyle may appear on our screens.

Follow the adventures of Connie Stetson, candidate’s wife, as she heads out on the campaign trail, once again…

Hi there. The lovely Mrs. Stetson here, and just returned from an event in one of our more charming off-the-beaten-path communities, El Portal. It was the annual Spring Fling in EP. A day of music, BBQ, beer, crafts, flea market, activists of all stripes, (GO No-Way Subway!!!), and the usual round-up of old friends, neighbors, conservationists, kids and dogs, and of course, the opportunity for a little campaigning, glad-handing, and baby kissing. Yes, dear readers, Lee is running for office again and I just can’t wait to dust off my pillbox hat and pearl button gloves.

A couple of weeks ago we had the dubious honor of attending the Republican Central Committee’s “Meet the Candidate Night” where we were regaled with each conservative candidate’s personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Why bother to call yourselves Republicans anymore? How about re-branding you as Christi-cans, or Republica-mentalists? It was fascinating, in a “can’t take your eyes off a train wreck” sort of way, to watch as each candidate for the Republican nomination for the 19th congressional seat vied for the title of the most conservative conservative, or the original conservative, or the most racist conservative, or the biggest sexual deviant freak conservative.

Why, I could have listened for hours, if only I didn’t have to heave up my rubber chicken dinner. No one talked about any real issues, or discussed real solutions to our state and national challenges, save for the one guy who said about health care, “Repeal it, repeal it, repeal it, shoot it, and repeal it again.” But Jesus was in the house, so let Him handle the issues.

Lee and the lovely Mrs. were also seen attending the Democratic Club’s gala Jefferson Dinner where thankfully no one prayed but someone definitely farted, loudly, and in the middle of a passionate speech by a labor union activist. I can’t prove it, but I believe it was an undercover conservative trying to be “silent-but-deadly”, and failing.

Today we’ll doll up and trot over to our wonderful neighbors, George and Angie, who are generously hosting a fundraiser afternoon tea, they are NOT tea-baggers, mind you, and Angela is a BRIT, OK? This I’m very much looking forward to, because we love them, they’re right up the street, and Angie knows me well enough to pour scotch into that Spode. It should be a delightful soiree.

The upcoming calendar is a mixed bag of campaigning opportunities. A cocktail party, a debate night, and a get-out-the-vote push, these are all chances for the candidate to get out there and mingle, listen, and share ideas about the issues that most concern the folks who live and work in this incredible, unique place we call home.

I am proud of my husband for being willing to take on local politics, “pothole politics” if you will—but remember the adage that all politics is local. So the next time you’re at a political fundraiser and see a lovely woman standing aside, smiling and nodding, who’s eyes appear glazed over, don’t just stand there and pity her. Offer her a drink, for Christ sake, and write her husband a check. Her feet hurt. She’d like to go home and wash her face, brush her teeth, put on her jammies, get into bed, and watch Dancing With the Stars.

Thank you for your support,

The Lovely Mrs. Stetson

The above post is solely the opinion of its writer and is not endorsed by any political party or candidate on any planet in the known or unknown universe.