I decided not to vote.
Lofty promises were tossed around
for months. Rhetoric and mythos used to sum up humanity’s problems like a
beautiful mist veiling intentions. I believed in the words and their meaning,
but I always somehow snapped out of my reverie.
The fact that someone directly addressed something sensible
and humane tipped me off. All I saw was a parent making empty promises to a
child. The child will go with it, imagine infinite possibilities, and then
forget them. Or even worse, the child will remember and remind the parent who will
simply reply, “That’s life, kid.” And continue to barrage the child with their
ambivalent terms like, Hope and Change.
I hope the president understands his promised children. And
I hope the children don’t forget his promises.
Nine o’clock came rolling around and I didn’t even have to
turn on my TV. You could hear the sounds of cheering and exhilaration coming up
Broadway like a tidal wave. A
crescendo of sound enveloping you with joy.
In that moment, I felt sure I was wrong about everything. I
wanted so badly to be. Please let me be a cynical bitter bitch who is proven
wrong. I was overwhelmed. Millions upon millions of us were in this city and we
could all agree. Yes! No more war!
Please. Keep your promises.
Cars began an impromptu parade down Broadway. Tenants with
kazoos or horned instruments wailed out into the streets.
I decided to go down to the street. See what was happening.
It was just after 10. As soon as I stepped out I found that all the celebrating
was on the balconies and roofs. The streets, at least on 151 and Broadway were
eerily quiet. I walked just to my street corner to the bodega.
I passed a twenty-something kid, expecting to say some
niceties but he shot me a vehement look. The clerk from the bodega came out, a
goofy Yemenese guy named, Mo, he came out cheering, “Yes! Yes! We won.” The kid
pounced on this,
“What
you mean, we?
You
from fuckin, Yemen, Mo.” The clerk
seemed to already know the boy and laughed himself nervously back in the
bodega.
“Yeah,” the kid said, “Obama’s bringin our brothas back from
Afghanistan.” He was looking at me poignantly. His tone made it sound like a
bad thing.
I could see the kid was mad, but he didn’t know why. Like
me, he was poised for negativity. For a riot. He was used to bad news all the
time.
How could either of us, in Harlem, be angry or suspicious on
this symbolic night of all nights?
I returned to my apartment feeling dejected of relief,
suspicions returning.
All of this effort, to vote. Of all things, to vote. To pick
a person based on the town they grew up in, and the color of their skin. To
vote on things that the candidate has no control over, desirous that he we will
control them. To ask this one man to do it all. For us. Why?
The sheer force of the energy that night was so powerful.
Proof to me that all of our energies are being misdirected. I could only wonder
what we could do for ourselves if we didn’t rely on a system.
