A single handmade sign twirling above the heads of the thousands gathered in Grant Park aroused my deepest political fears:
Fuck McCain
Simple. Direct. Unabashed. To me, horrifying. And not just because it seemed a directive to engage in sexual intercourse with the 72-year-old senator (the thought alone will haunt you for weeks). No, the sign scared me because it exemplified a belligerent partisanship I’ve come to abhor. Granted, this was the Obama rally. Partisanship was the event’s driving force, the ethanol which filled its energy-efficient tank, the arugula which adorned its tofu-Gorgonzola salad. And yes, I had voted for Obama. I even voted to re-elect Dennis Kucinich as my Congressman. The fiercely liberal crowds at Grant Park undoubtedly were my people. Yet somehow I felt detached, and this “Fuck McCain” sign only widened the chasm between the rally and me.
Waves of celebration and ire swept back and forth across the park as Wolf Blitzer rattled off the freshest results from his futuristic holographic projection-infected Star Trekkian beard-enhancing awkward Situation Room. Obama wins Vermont. Yeah! New York. Woo! Pennsylvania. Hells yeah! McCain wins Texas. What the hell/boo/I hate old dudes/etc.
A friend of mine had stepped away from the crowd to take a phone call. “How are we doing?” he asked as he returned.
Eyes fixated on the massive television screen, another replied, “Great! We just won Wisconsin!”
We? How did Barack Obama become we? Nobody voted for me! Nobody voted for any of us here. And yet, Barack and his supporters had apparently become locked on a course of mutual destiny. His fate was our fate. To me, it made little sense. Were McCain voters they? Was this entire election just an arena in which ordinary citizens could despise each other vicariously through their candidates? Isn’t there a Pink Floyd song about this? I didn’t understand how anyone could so casually alienate almost half the country. It was the equivalent of the McCain campaign’s division of the nation into “real” and presumably “fake” halves.
I just was not able to jive with the people around me. I liked Obama, but it was hard to believe in Change and Hope. I considered them political ploys, strategically vague ideas marketed to a disgruntled hodgepodge of people eager to project their own dreams onto a shrewd and cautious politico. “Yes we can” was a cute bit of self-affirmation coined by Bob the Builder (Can we built it? Yes we can!). Ultimately, Obama’s thoughtfulness and temperament—not his catchphrases—won my vote.
The night rolled on, time itself accelerating as it careened towards a substantial victory for the Democrats. The crowd eyed the jumbotrons in quiet anticipation. With each blue-state victory they exploded into applause before silencing themselves to hear the next results. I seemed to be the only one uncomfortable with the growing Democratic majority in Congress. Beginning to contemplate heresy, I thought: one-party rule has the potential for unwanted long-term consequences. It sure would be nice to have just a few more Republicans in office to maintain some balance.
But Republicans would be luckless and sad today. The thrusting heaves of Democratic victories continued inexorably until their orgasmic finale: Barack Obama’s election as president. This was a moment of triumph, of explosive celebration, of immense historical significance. It was also (least importantly) a moment to challenge the trepidations of a confirmed cynic.
I’ll confess. I was excited. When CNN flashed the words “Barack Obama Elected President” across the screen, it was impossible not to scream like a lunatic. Thousands all around me were doing it. There was plenty to be excited for. We had elected our first black president. He had promised, in no uncertain terms, to conduct his administration differently than had George W. Bush. There vote count was not ambiguous as in the past two presidential elections. The historicity, potential, and certainty of Obama’s win were enough to turn any doubter into a raving partisan (if only for a few minutes).
Then the crowd began chanting “Yes we can!”, that friendly refrain which in just two years of presidential campaigning had somehow become, according to Obama, a “timeless creed.” I respectfully declined to participate. The moment jarred me out of my euphoric Obamania with a sharp reminder that this event was still unequivocally (though understandably) one-sided. Slogans were currency here, and homemade banners hurled curse words at aging Republican senators. The “Fuck McCain” sign still troubled me.
I don’t plan to fuck McCain any time soon, nor would I encourage my neighbors to. Blind partisanship is never constructive, especially when espoused in support of a man claiming to bring an end to blind partisanship. No one can justifiably treat every election as a battle between noble-minded saviors and America-hating vote-thieves. Over the next few years of Democratic hegemony, I’d like to see thoughtful moderation replace seething vindictiveness in both national and Northwestern political dialogues.
So what would my sign say? It would have to reflect a reasonable, pragmatic worldview. It couldn’t rely on brief provocative statements. No combination of two or three words could possibly summarize a comprehensive political philosophy. How about: “Obama’s a great guy and I hope he’ll be great president, but it would be silly to assume that the only way to solve our problems is to throw a bunch of Democrats into office and allow their supposedly natural messianic urges to clean up the nation. Addressing the USA’s current predicaments will require the hard work of all Americans in a spirit of cooperation. Unfettered nastiness won’t help.” Maybe that’s why I don’t bring signs to rallies.