Family Matters

This afternoon one of my sisters sent me an unsolicited text, asking me to explain how farmers, teachers, and rural Iowans could possibly vote for Trump, given his history (and promise) of tariffs. The last line of her text read "What is the thinking of the men who seldom talk, but vote Republican?"

This sister and I share space on the same end of the political spectrum, yet she riles me with such messages. (This is not her first.) It seems as if she wants me to explain--and justify--tariffs and subsidies and all things agri-politcal.

Her line about "men who seldom talk" is code for my husband Dan, a reserved man who--until 2016--voted Republican. 

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Two weeks ago I sent a text to Dan's brother, asking if we could post a Harris sign at the mailbox of his property. He lives out of state and is on his Iowa farm a few days a month. He responded saying he'd prefer we don't. "We try our best to seem politically agnostic...I'd rather stay off the radar of the nut jobs." I responded with "Gotcha," but I felt betrayed by his unwillingness to take this small stand.

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In both of these examples, the upcoming election incites family tension--even when we (basically) agree. Many families feel such fissures break into crevasses, polarizing dear ones, freezing out once-warm relationships. 

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I'm thinking back to learning about the Civil War in Mrs. Housman's room. "Brothers fighting against brothers" was a possibility my fifth-grade brain could not accept. I could not mesh war with family into a cohesive narrative.

I lived another 55 years before I began to see the hairline cracks.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

On Staying Above the Fray

I've taught George Orwell's Animal Farm to freshmen for the past several years. If you haven't read it recently, it deserves a re-read. As an allegory for the Russian Revolution and Stalin's rise, the story is unflinching in showing how those in power, repeating lies and hoarding resources, bring the masses into submission.

There is complicity enough to go around (the church, the press, the enablers, the "allies") as the pigs in power benefit from the other animals' loss of freedoms. 

But the character I've been thinking about today is Benjamin, the donkey.

Benjamin is an aloof, crotchety beast. He can read, a sign of his intelligence, but he doesn't use this trait as leadership or speak out against what he clearly sees unfolding. Instead, he says "Donkeys live a long time. You've never seen a dead donkey." His cynicism holds him above the fray, where he seems unfazed by the crumbling hope of prosperity for all.

Until. 

Until the climax of the book, when Benjamin's best friend Boxer, the hardest working plowhorse on the farm, is sold to the knacker. As the rendering truck rumbles down the road, Benjamin roars to life, chasing after the knacker and shouting to the other animals: "Fools! Fools! Do you not see what is written on the side of that van?" (It says "Horse Slaughterer and Glue Boiler," although the pigs had told the animals it was an ambulance taking Boxer to the hospital.)

Benjamin's belated spur to action cannot save Boxer. While he rails against the "dumb brutes" who failed to realize what was happening, he himself is not without blame. His failure to speak out, to act, or to use his years of wisdom to speak against tyranny makes him a silent accomplice to the fall of Animal Farm.

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Whew. I didn't mean to rehash the whole book. But I understand Benjamin. He wants to stay above the fray. He wants to ignore the pettiness of politics. To keep his hooves clean, so to speak.

Over the past months and years, I've seen good-hearted people hover above the squalor of political squabbling. Who can blame them? Paying attention is exhausting. And expressing an opinion in this current climate veritably invites a vitriolic response. I myself have deleted social media posts after finding myself on the receiving end of incredibly hateful insults ("Menopause got that ghoul good" one man said when I posted in support of women's reproductive healthcare. It was almost funny, but mostly just cruel, especially if you know menopause "got me" during my breast cancer treatments at age 45.)

So I understand Benjamin's desire to stay quiet. Stay cynical. Stay aloof. It's easier that way.

Until it isn't.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

From Nobelprize.org

Paying Attention

I awoke this morning with a sense of existential dread. But it wasn't a vague dark curtain or a bleak anonymous doom. It had a name: election. It had a date: Nov. 5. 

Last Sunday I knocked on doors for the Iowa Democrats. I have been donating to campaigns, putting up yard signs. I've already voted. But last week's phone scrolling was wrecking me. I needed to do something proactive with the jitters of my pulse. So I joined one of my daughters canvassing.

Our door-knocking was aimed at helping registered Dems make a plan for getting to the polls, so the interactions were positive--joyful even--as we chatted with the sprinkling of like-minded Harris voters in this deep red county. But two of the women we talked to said they were scared. Scared. 

I've knocked on doors for previous elections, but have not heard those words from voters. Both women (two different houses) were over 70. And they were scared. 

So this morning's anxiety was not unexpected. But what had been edginess last week felt like gut-gripping alarm today. Ten more days. 

Until?

That's what I'm realizing. None of us knows what will happen after the election. What I do know is that it will be something. 

When my school shut down for COVID, I came to this space. None of us knew what would happen, what would unfold. But I thought I'd better sit up and take note. This page gave me a place to sort out a chaotic experience. It gave me a needed focus throughout the day: a command to pay attention. The uncertainty, the unknown, the ominous sense that our world is about to shift that I'm feeling today feels a lot like those first days of COVID.

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I didn't knock on doors today because I have somehow strained my back. I visited my neighbor. I read a book. I caught up on the laundry. I tried to stay away from my phone. 

Tonight at supper I asked Dan: Are you scared about the election?

Well, he said, I don't think anyone's going to come shoot us. 

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I'm not writing in this space to push my politics or persuade anyone to adhere to my beliefs. I am here to process what I'm experiencing in rural Oakfield Township, Audubon County, Iowa, in these United States of America.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison