This Fourth of July
Huckleberry wouldn’t understand voting. He would vote for everybody.
I am celebrating this Fourth of July vicariously through my brother, who recently announced his candidacy for New Hampshire state representative. I can’t vote for him, or contribute to his campaign because I don’t live in his district (although my wife and I have volunteered to stuff envelopes). But, really, is there a better way to celebrate our independence than to run for office? Voting is a close second—definitely easier—but turnout, especially for state and local elections, is so poor it never makes me feel particularly good about our democratic stewardship. You may feel the same. I have an idea, though, which is that to get a seat on the lawn to watch fireworks every year you have to present a sticker they give you at the polls saying you voted. Maybe a sticker like the one on your windshield for the dump. Thus-stickered, you can use the beach, park downtown, and enjoy the local recreation facilities. Forget about being recognized as a resident taxpayer. Did you vote? No sticker, no pickleball.
I like that idea, even as one who would have been deprived of a parking space some years. I’ve missed plenty of elections along the way. I always travel with my bag of excuses, but there is nothing in it for failing to vote. I harbor some worry that if I get to the gates of heaven, St. Peter may say, “It says here you lived in the United States of America. Nice. Did you vote?”
Anyway, my brother is running for state rep, and we were at his launch event last week. It was a crystal clear day, seasonably warm, and the gardens of the person hosting the occasion were splendid enough to be a distraction. There was lemonade, iced tea, and cookies, and other provisions set up in the barn and under a tent. White, plastic, folding chairs were arrayed on the lawn for, I’m guessing, fifty or sixty people, with many more standing behind.
I took many pictures (of course), and tried to shoot a video of my brother’s pitch-perfect speech (of course), showing everyone paying careful attention, not spilling their lemonade. Making my exit, saying goodbye, I searched for my brother, who I spotted at a table, under a tree, listening intently, one-on-one, to a gray-haired gentleman wearing a baseball cap, gesturing slightly with his hands, as if enumerating his points—just as my father used to do around the kitchen table: “First, you’re going to clean up the mess in the basement. Second, you’re going to go to your room and give me 250 words on personal responsibility. Third, you may come back down here for dessert.”
I was moved to take a picture of that conference, my brother leaning slightly across the table with the goal of conveying his commitment to hearing that person’s point of view. I wish I could share it with you. (If you haven’t noticed, I don’t generally use names or faces in these postcards in deference to people’s privacy.) Understand that there was quite a buzz of people mingling around them as the kick-off was breaking up. Plenty of schmoozing and chattering, shaking of hands and slapping of backs, campaign-style. All good. But in the center of the frame was my brother across from a potential constituent, who had obviously sought this audience, and it said everything about the task ahead of him as a candidate—the many audiences, points of view, and arguments for and against that he will encounter on the way to the polls in November (he is running as an Independent, which is the kind of person he’s been as the third child since age six. So no primary).
The task is to listen, and it is the same task all of us confront every Fourth of July since the signing of the Declaration of Independence—which was revised repeatedly to address the concerns of various states. Pennsylvania and South Carolina voted against the Declaration on the first pass. New York also because its delegates had instructions to continue pursuing reconciliation. South Carolina agreed on a second pass in exchange for language more accommodating to slavery—a concession with terrible consequences—but which allowed the Declaration to survive as our manifesto. It changed the world. Today, it perseveres in changing us.
What good thing isn’t like that? What good thing fails to persevere against our will? What good thing can even be recognized as good except in contrast to our will?
But every Fourth of July, at least, we confront the goodness of the Declaration and our shortcomings compared to it. Be glad it’s only once a year. Every day I confront my shortcomings in relation to my dog—unreservedly loving, eager, nonjudgmental, thankful for whatever goes into his bowl. Huckleberry wouldn’t understand voting. He would vote for everybody.
Happy Fourth of July.