Wednesday Morning Blues
Another election, another concession speech passed. Once again, the candidates who I supportred suffered not-so-surprising defeats.
It’s official: Andrew Kameka is electoral kryptonite.
I’m the Misfortunate Midas of Midterm Elections; the Plague of Politics. Heaven help any candidate I support for office because he or she is bound to lose. If I voted against Fidel Castro becoming Mayor of Miami, he’d probably win. When the Cuban exile community grabbed their guayaberas and stormed the streets, I would be the only person to blame.
Charlie Crist is governor-elect of Florida and it's all my fault. I voted for Jim Davis and it seems like every time I choose a candidate or cause, selecting his or its name on the voting machine is a digital kiss of death. Look at some of my past victims: Bill McBride, 2002 Florida gubernatorial race; John Kerry, 2004 presidential race; Jim Davis, 2006 Florida gubernatorial race. My support has killed them all.
The Diebold name is eerily poetic now. Almost every state ballot initiative that I’ve ever voted for has been defeated; almost every initiative that I voted against passed. After last night’s election results, the funeral home that I call my voting history is becoming crowded.
Yet, knowing all this, I still got up at 5 a.m. Tuesday morning and started working on a paper for my internship. I deprived my body and mind of much needed rest because I had to complete a few things before I could rush to the polls after work. I still got on a crowded bus and stood next to a man who reeked of a foul scent that mixed a day’s worth of sweat, alcohol, and what could have been only the result of skunk wrestling in the afternoon sun. He was the only man in the world whose body stinks as much as my voting record, but I stood next to him because I had to.
There are times when I truly believe that my vote means nothing and I’m bound to end up on the losing side, but I go through the charade anyway. I endured a three-hour wait in 2004 at the early-voting station because Bush had this country deep in a war in Iraq and people who look like me were the ones dying because of it. I endured the smelly man and long bus ride because even though I can’t pick a winner to save my life, the act of picking might save mines or someone else’s.
I voted Tuesday in my third election and watched a candidate I supported give a concession speech for the third time. But I’ll still be back at the polling station in 2008 ready to go through it all again because of three reasons: the past, future and present – in that order.
The Past
I vote because of my skin tone; because people who share that tone have repeatedly been denied the opportunity to exercise their civil rights. There was a time when a black person having the audacity to approach a polling station was cause for harassment, public beatings or even a heinous killing. The only complaint I’ve ever had at the polling station has been in regards to the amount of time I waited to cast a ballot. Blacks in previous generations complained about the time they had to wait for the right to cast one.
As much as I hate the electoral process, I doubt I could stand the shame that would take hold of me every time I saw an elderly black woman on the bus. Beneath her wrinkled, experienced hands, there could be scars she earned from trying to vote. Giving up my seat for her would be a meaningless gesture if I also gave up the rights that her scars have earned for me. I’ll endure the long line at the polling station for that woman. I’ll endure a much longer one for her and every other black person who worked so hard to allow me to.
The Future
The blissful naivety of children always makes me happy, but the joy they have will one day be dwarfed by the stressful realties of the world we’ve created. Heck, many of the problems we’re dealing with now are rooted in the misdoings or inaction of the generations before us. Now that we’re creating even more problems with social [in]security, global warming and the cost of an oil-dependent society, it’s all but written in stone that America’s youth are going to inherit a screwed-up world. Whatever path they take, it will be socially, environmentally and financially challenging.
So I enter the voting booth every two years hoping that maybe I’ll finally select a winning candidate who will make this country a little bit less of the hell we’re heading towards. And if I’m really feeling optimistic, maybe my vote is actually the bad luck that prevents the wrong candidate from winning. For the sake of the small children still clutching their last few years of innocence, I’ll stand next to that smelly man. I’ll do a lot worse for them.
The Present
I vote because of me. I’m a pessimistic young black male who has lost almost all hope in politics, but I’m not pessimistic enough to ignore it. I vote because maybe the candidate I choose is the one who will protect the Bright Future Scholarship that allows me to attend college. Maybe he or she will crack down on police harassment and brutality so I won’t be so afraid of Miami’s finest.
I have and never will expect any candidate to save my life, but I do expect them to do as much as they can to make it better. Even though it rarely ever happens, a candidate is supposed to make the lives of his constituents less challenging. I’ll deal with having fewer hours of sleep for the off-chance that maybe I’ll elect someone who will make that happen. I’ll deal with much worse for me.
It’s official: Andrew Kameka is electoral kryptonite. I’m the Misfortunate Midas of Midterm Elections; the Plague of Politics. Heaven help any candidate I support for office because he or she is bound to lose. If I voted against Fidel Castro becoming Mayor of Miami, he’d probably win. When the Cuban exile community grabbed their guayaberas and stormed the streets, I would be the only person to blame.
Charlie Crist is governor-elect of Florida and it's all my fault. I voted for Jim Davis and it seems like every time I choose a candidate or cause, selecting his or its name on the voting machine is a digital kiss of death. Look at some of my past victims: Bill McBride, 2002 Florida gubernatorial race; John Kerry, 2004 presidential race; Jim Davis, 2006 Florida gubernatorial race. My support has killed them all.
The Diebold name is eerily poetic now. Almost every state ballot initiative that I’ve ever voted for has been defeated; almost every initiative that I voted against passed. After last night’s election results, the funeral home that I call my voting history is becoming crowded.
Yet, knowing all this, I still got up at 5 a.m. Tuesday morning and started working on a paper for my internship. I deprived my body and mind of much needed rest because I had to complete a few things before I could rush to the polls after work. I still got on a crowded bus and stood next to a man who reeked of a foul scent that mixed a day’s worth of sweat, alcohol, and what could have been only the result of skunk wrestling in the afternoon sun. He was the only man in the world whose body stinks as much as my voting record, but I stood next to him because I had to.
There are times when I truly believe that my vote means nothing and I’m bound to end up on the losing side, but I go through the charade anyway. I endured a three-hour wait in 2004 at the early-voting station because Bush had this country deep in a war in Iraq and people who look like me were the ones dying because of it. I endured the smelly man and long bus ride because even though I can’t pick a winner to save my life, the act of picking might save mines or someone else’s.
I voted Tuesday in my third election and watched a candidate I supported give a concession speech for the third time. But I’ll still be back at the polling station in 2008 ready to go through it all again because of three reasons: the past, future and present – in that order.
The PastI vote because of my skin tone; because people who share that tone have repeatedly been denied the opportunity to exercise their civil rights. There was a time when a black person having the audacity to approach a polling station was cause for harassment, public beatings or even a heinous killing. The only complaint I’ve ever had at the polling station has been in regards to the amount of time I waited to cast a ballot. Blacks in previous generations complained about the time they had to wait for the right to cast one.
As much as I hate the electoral process, I doubt I could stand the shame that would take hold of me every time I saw an elderly black woman on the bus. Beneath her wrinkled, experienced hands, there could be scars she earned from trying to vote. Giving up my seat for her would be a meaningless gesture if I also gave up the rights that her scars have earned for me. I’ll endure the long line at the polling station for that woman. I’ll endure a much longer one for her and every other black person who worked so hard to allow me to.
The FutureThe blissful naivety of children always makes me happy, but the joy they have will one day be dwarfed by the stressful realties of the world we’ve created. Heck, many of the problems we’re dealing with now are rooted in the misdoings or inaction of the generations before us. Now that we’re creating even more problems with social [in]security, global warming and the cost of an oil-dependent society, it’s all but written in stone that America’s youth are going to inherit a screwed-up world. Whatever path they take, it will be socially, environmentally and financially challenging.
So I enter the voting booth every two years hoping that maybe I’ll finally select a winning candidate who will make this country a little bit less of the hell we’re heading towards. And if I’m really feeling optimistic, maybe my vote is actually the bad luck that prevents the wrong candidate from winning. For the sake of the small children still clutching their last few years of innocence, I’ll stand next to that smelly man. I’ll do a lot worse for them.
The Present
I vote because of me. I’m a pessimistic young black male who has lost almost all hope in politics, but I’m not pessimistic enough to ignore it. I vote because maybe the candidate I choose is the one who will protect the Bright Future Scholarship that allows me to attend college. Maybe he or she will crack down on police harassment and brutality so I won’t be so afraid of Miami’s finest.
I have and never will expect any candidate to save my life, but I do expect them to do as much as they can to make it better. Even though it rarely ever happens, a candidate is supposed to make the lives of his constituents less challenging. I’ll deal with having fewer hours of sleep for the off-chance that maybe I’ll elect someone who will make that happen. I’ll deal with much worse for me.
posted by Andrew | 10:23 AM
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