The Field from the Bench
For me and many of my peers, 2019 so far is the same conversation on repeat. It goes something like this:
“Who are you backing for 2020?”
Answer: “I’m open, it’s early yet, I want to see some debates, I want to see who breaks out of the field, I just want to beat him, so really, I’m open to anyone electable.”
(Side note, cue: inane discourse about electability that pretty instantly morphs into code to defend misogyny and racism.)
Friends and strangers on the internet: What the actual fuck are we doing? Don’t we care about who the nominee is? I mean, sure, hell yes, kick the ass of a man who didn’t win fair and square and is ruining our nation. But don’t we careenough about any of these fine, capable or completely untested, intriguing and potentially capable, eager, possibly incredibly egotistical candidates enough to pick a lane — or at least a candidate? Didn’t we have all these people who “couldn’t stand Hillary” or “decided to sit it out” in 2016? How did that go? (You know how that went.) Seriously? What’s our problem?
The more the media covers Joe Biden — after flirtations with Beto and Buttigieg and of course eyes on Bernie — the more rage nears boiling inside my white, middle-aged, cis-female body. The one that’s losing sleep because the mere notion that two old white men going head to head is some preordained destiny for a country that should not be giving Donald Trump the time of day, let alone the nuclear button and the GOP coffers is so fucking alarming to me. That two old white men ranting at one another is going to solve this problem is beyond my fathom.
Had Uncle Joe meaningfully apologized to Anita Hill, personally and then on national television repeatedly maybe I would back down. (Will I vote for him if he’s the nominee? You bet, and I’ll remember all the good things about him, too, of which there are plenty).
Maybe twenty-plus candidates require some effort to speed date each one. But I’m not backing a straight white man in the primaries, so I can whittle my research down by north of ten, easy-peasy. I don’t think this pretend pragmatism has to do with laziness — it’s not that hard to read about inspiring people and their sound ideas, especially when our country seems destined for a better day or even more greatness the likes of which only a very few xenophobic, wealthy, white men will enjoy. Sure, you could save yourself some effort and wait out the campaigns inevitably too small or underfunded to succeed.
But really? I think the problem — at least my problem — is rooted in my trauma over November 8, 2016 — or more accurately the wee hours of November 9th.
Like so many millions (more than wanted Trump), I wanted Hillary to win — and trusted we were headed for ear-piercing jubilation of the glass ceiling’s shattering, her hilarious laugh for four years and First Grandbabies, but we know how that went and whenever I need to put salt in that wound, I just replay Kate McKinnon singing “Hallelujah.” Remember how we told ourselves it wouldn’t be that bad/would be the end of the world? (Spoiler: it’s the second). Yeah, me too.
Sticking to my growing ire, there are few moves that would help. One: cover the six women running for the Democratic nomination. (Edited to note that Elizabeth Warren made the cover of Time, which is a step, not Vanity Fair photographed by Annie Lebovitz, but good). My current rage feels anything but pragmatic or useful; it feels like a runaway train loaded with dangerous chemicals that might spill out the windows and doors at high speed, cascading my anger across this land. What would be pragmatic is to acknowledge both how upset I am and how deeply I want this country to do and feel better. Then, I could take the obvious next step, once I’ve taken a very, very deep, cooling breath — and find my candidate. The second move: knowing we (Democrats) will win, but you can’t be certain, as we well know.
Here’s the truth: sure, I’m pragmatic, and that means I want to beat Trump. I could shift to the next candidate if mine isn’t the nominee or even if mine leaves the primary race before the final stretch. But I want to want someone. I want to go to the mat for someone and leave it all there. That’s how the process is designed. Apathy doesn’t lead to good outcomes, and measured, tepid pragmatism veers awfully close, if we’re not super careful about over-caution and overthinking to the place where we worried our passion right out of existence. We can’t win in 2020 solely in “resistance” mode, however enraged, however principled, however correct. We must reach for our future, and to do that, we have to dive in. I’m getting off the sidelines. I’m going in. How about you?”
