Sunday mornings are sacred. Whether you welcome the week with mass, mimosas or Meet the Press, those first few waking hours are universally recognized to be a precious time, and barring nuclear disaster or a major sporting event, one’s routine should not be disturbed. Last weekend, throwing caution and luxuriously slow-brewed cups of coffee to the wind, I determined that my civic duty to the voters of Montgomery County, Maryland was greater than my ritualistic weekly reading of Date Lab in the Sunday Post.
Determined to sway citizens’ affections toward a certain candidate for change (I’ll leave it to you to guess which one, dear reader), I hopped a cab with a couple of others to Bethesda, Md., a precinct that thousands of upper-middle-class doctors, lawyers, policy wonks and other type-A personalities call home. I spent the next couple of hours knocking on doors, talking to anyone I could about my candidate’s virtues. For the most part, those who opened their doors were receptive listeners, from the old women with canes to the bleary-eyed parents and frazzled pet-owners. There were some exceptions to this rule, including an older gentleman who unleashed a verbal lashing and, just before slamming the door, informed me with a condescending sneer that he had been in politics for forty years and would be voting for the superior candidate, not some wet-behind-the-ears newcomer. Chalking it up to the strains of male-pattern baldness and the high cost of diesel fuel for his shiny sedan, I continued on my merry way, scorning him and the rest of the holier-than-thou big shots.
Back at the campaign headquarters, eating bagels and waiting for the rest of the canvassers to return, we were greeted by a new onslaught of enthusiastic supporters, foot-soldiers ready to pound the pavement distributing flyers. The staffers in charge ushered everyone forward for a quick orientation. One woman, however, breezed in, immediately went to the back of the office and, without introducing herself, demanded maps and campaign literature so she could get on her way. When informed that she could get out as soon as she heard a quick run-through of the plan for the day, the woman imperiously informed the slightly bemused staff that she had campaigned in two states already and was the candidate’s foreign policy advisor. She was a big deal. Her office is probably wood-paneled and contains many leather-bound books.
Hearing that she was a policy expert, one of my fellow canvassers asked Big-Shot a benign question about how to respond to those on the fence about the candidate’s foreign policy experience. With an exasperated look and in a tone usually reserved for second-graders in detention, she replied, “we’ll make this quick,” and after rattling off her points, exited the modest office with hurried and aggravated panache.
There it was. That self-importance I had imagined only the bad guys to possess, coming from the upper echelons of the good guy’s team. Being young and stupid and idealistic, I will continue to support my candidate, just as I will continue to think that Natty Lite is the finest “organic” brew out there and that health care and higher education shouldn’t be reserved solely for those who summer in the Hamptons. But strangely, my run-ins with the nastier side of political elitism led me to ponder Valentine’s Day, of all things.
Officially the Christian feast of St. Valentine, the holiday has become synonymous with rampant commercialism and edible underwear. In these modern times, February 14th is a celebration of what the ancients called Eros, passionate or erotic love. Certainly, the day’s focus on couples makes sense, as Valentine was martyred for marrying lovers in outlawed Christian ceremonies, but the man was no purveyor of Vegas-style quickie unions. Love of God and concern for his fellow man was central to the work of Valentine. This type of rhetoric is thrown around theology classes with the vehemence of beer cans at a Yankees game, and it carries a message that many politicians have picked up on, assigning it the secular label of “populism.” Nearly every candidate in the presidential field has spoken about unifying the country, about helping and respecting all Americans. So much have such words been bandied about, that perhaps the altruistic meaning with which they are imbued has been lost. Certainly, angry politicos and self-important policy advisors have lost their grip on this underlying message of love thy neighbor.
At another crucially important point in American history, Abigail Adams famously advised her husband in words that have been quoted ad nauseum by middle school civics teachers everywhere, “I desire you would remember the ladies.” In this election season, I would desire that the little people—those foot soldiers and foolish idealists—be remembered as well. Candy and underwear may be gobbled up, flowers will wither and die, but populist politics, like true love, is eternal. Vive Valentine.
