Please Vote
Here we are, a week away from the 2024 election. I have lots of thoughts on this, as I’m sure you do too. I have felt that slow pulse of anxiety ramping up over the last couple weeks; I have felt my emotions buffeted about by the reporting of the national polls. It all feels so familiar. I am so tired of being this anxious about our political process. I would love it if politics could just get boring again.
We all knew it wasn’t going to be like this, though, didn’t we? As soon as I saw that Donald Trump, a convicted felon, serial sexual abuser, and avowed fascist, was going to be the Republican’s standard bearer in this year’s presidential election, I knew this year was going to be a rocky one. It doesn’t help that I have a kid, my older one, who is particularly attuned to the political headwinds, a scholar of contemporary white supremacist and christofascist movements, and an admitted catastrophist. Hank was ten when Donald Trump was elected president in 2016. He was convinced, despite all my attempts to assuage his fears, that he would win. I have had to talk him down from more than one figurative ledge when he gets cynical about the state of the country. I’m tired of doing that, if I’m honest. I would love it if my registered party’s opposition would stop elevating somebody who inspires this kind of anxiety in our kids to the topmost governing contest in the country. Could you please cut it out? Please?
Despite my own parents’ misgivings about the conservative movement and Republicanism when I was young, they were never so moved as to comfort me with the promise that if things go really bad, they would assess the situation and, sure, even consider leaving the country if need be. That never came up. I’m a practical guy, I think. Pretty level-headed. I’ve long believed in the strength of our democratic institutions — I think it’s something my parents instilled in me. No matter what kind of fuckery the right wing might get up to, there are standards in place. There are failsafes. It feels irresponsible to have these kind of apocalyptic conversations with your kids — it feels fearmonger-y, it feels misleading. As a parent, it can sometimes like it’s our jobs to inculcate a trust in our kids in these grown-up structures and conventions so when they grow up, they can do the same for their kids. And yet here we are. I can’t keep telling my kid that everything is going to be okay. I remember explicitly telling Hank, back in 2016, that there was no way that this country would elect such a grifter, such a demagogue to the highest office in the land. Of course, when we woke up that dark November morning with our new 45th president, Hank was the first person to tell me, “I told you so.”
So I’m out of excuses for this country. If half of the population wants to elect the guy who hosted that hate-filled rally at Madison Square Garden a few days ago, even with all of the evidence of his character at their disposal, I’m seriously at a loss for words. I can only do what I’ve always done: I can vote.
A couple nights ago, Carson, Hank, and I sat at the kitchen table and filled out our ballots. Hank is eighteen now. This is his first election he can participate in. He didn’t feel great about that when he registered and I don’t blame him, I suppose. I think his generation is seeing firsthand what a clusterfuck this country has made of itself and I can’t fault him a little cynicism. But he came around. He was even convinced to vote *most* of the way down the ballot. This was the day that the news had reported that three ballot boxes in our area had been firebombed. I don’t think Hank was aware of that; I didn’t mention that as we sat there and filled in our little squares with blue or black ink. I didn’t want to ruin the moment with some more evidence of the dire state of our electoral process. We filled out our ballots as best we could, only referring to one of the local weeklies’ endorsements when we got too far into the weeds. We are a pretty informed electorate in our household, but we sometimes needs some help. We sealed up our ballots and signed the back of the envelopes. Carson and I drove them to the drop-off box near the local library. We stopped at the grocery store after to get stuff for dinner.
And that’s what we can do. There is so much to make you feel powerless right now, so much, but the best thing is to just do what you *can* do. Voting is a powerful thing; it’s not knocking on doors or phone banking or playing benefits or anything, but it is perhaps the most powerful thing you can do in an election. It also happens to be one of the easiest, particularly if you live in a state that has devoted itself to reducing the friction points to enfranchisement.
How are we going to ride out these next few days? How will we ride out the (inevitable) drama of the following week? I’m not sure. I do know I’m going to be having a lot of difficult conversations with my kids and I’m going to have to figure that out. I don’t feel like there is a ton of precedence to the moment our country is having; there’s a certain amount of parental improvisation going on. But I will at least have the solace that I made my voice heard, I counted myself among the people who participated in this oh-so fragile democratic experiment. That’s worth something.
There’s one more thing I can do, though. I can ask you — sincerely, politely, respectfully — to vote as well. I have this humble platform where I mostly talk about music and books. Politics is really not the thrust of this Substack. It would feel remiss, though, if I didn’t use it, this one time, to ask this favor of you. Please vote. I voted for Kamala Harris for president. I think if you’re a sensible adult, you would do the same. Thanks.
