I’ve just received a very convincing letter from one of my uncles why Kerry should not be elected president.  It’s a copy of a forwarded letter from an Air Force Pilot who once flew Senator Kerry into Phnom Penh for some POW / MIA talks.

I could show you the whole letter, but it is much easier to sum it up with one sentence.

It seems that the good Senator Kerry stole a pizza meant for the crew.

Here’s my favorite line of the letter, when the supposed pilot sums up his political feelings:

You want a mega-millionaire ego-maniac, it’s-all-about-me, crew-eating-pizza-ite like Kerry or maybe a Green Party candidate like Ralph Nader?

Crew-eating-pizza-ite?  Did Kerry eat the crew and the pizza?  Why isn’t the media all over this thing?  And Ralph Nader?  What does he have to do with this?  The letter made no mention of Ralph Nader being in Phnom Penh.  Am I now to believe that he was there as well, eating stolen pizza?  Or worse yet, helping Kerry gulp down hard-working, Air Force crew members?  This has Khmer Rouge written all over it.

Vote carefully, my friends, because history, it seems, dies ever so slowly.  This is not just a vote for conservative or liberal.  It seems there are now pizza-ites moving among us, infiltrating all levels of society.

But then, any hungry college student could have told you that.

I have completed my mail in ballot.  My votes are cast.  Needless to say, I have voted for . . .

I would show everyone my ballot, but one of the conditions that I had to agree to is that I would not show my ballot to other people.  Yep.  Seriously.  It’s a voting condition here in Oregon.  Located just above the signature line are a series of bulleted conditions, one of them being:

• I voted my ballot and (did not unnecessarily show it to anyone)

If you use a mail in ballot in Oregon, you have to promise not to pin it to your chest and walk around town.  You can’t fold it into a pirate hat (presidential side out) and wear it into any bar, tavern, or eating establishment.  You can’t, even in cases of high wind, allow your ballot to blow out of hand and pass in front of the eyes of neighbors or friends.  And you must not, under any circumstances, take digital photographs of your ballot and post them on your website.

Unnecessarily show it to anyone?  What in the world is that supposed to mean?

So, if John Kerry loses the election by one Oregon vote (I know, an impossibility), and I’ve flashed around my ballot, will I be able to prove in a court of law that I had necessary reasons to do so?

And do lawyers sit around inventing these things?  These rules?  Has life somehow been transformed into nothing more then a great big game of attorney solitary?

Is it possible that we will soon be voting on whether or not we might need a constitutional amendment to help define what is meant by necessary as opposed to unnecessary?

Please.  Anyone.  I need clarification.

And for God’s sake, if we’re going to keep playing games, enough with the jokers wild.  I’m sick of this game.  Let’s play something new.

So Bush wins, leaving me to worry about which metaphor to use to describe him and his role in history.  But then I think, hmmm, maybe metaphor is too bold, too concrete.  Maybe a simile will suffice.  Metaphor’s weaker sibling.  Is Bush cancer, or is Bush like cancer?  Or maybe it’s rust?  I’m just not sure.  The list of possibilities goes on and on, so you can see just what this reelection has done to me.  I have serious concerns. 

Instead of just being able to go through my meaningless motions each day, thinking of nothing in particular, I am now faced with the increasingly annoying task of thinking of him and still having to go through the meaningless motions.  I have to think about the things that he does and the things that he says.  I hear his twisting of the language in my head and the echo of his idiot’s laugh.  I cannot escape his blank, watery-eyed stare.  Bush has been reelected, for whatever reason, and now I am constantly thinking about not only what he has done to the world, but what he will do.  It’s enough to make a guy stop whatever he’s doing, no matter how menial, and look around.  Bush, I’m afraid, is going to get me into trouble.

But mostly, I’m now thinking all the time about how to express all these worries.  Which words do I use?  How do I describe all these feelings?  But I suppose I shouldn’t complain.  Maybe I should even be thankful.  I’ve always thought one of America’s best, upper-middle class benefits was the luxury given us to sit around, worrying about everything.  And I’ll admit, I’ve enjoyed it.  It’s given me the great illusion that I am part of something big, something important.  Worrying gives me the feeling that I can make a difference; that if I worry enough, I will suddenly say something intuitive and new.  Yes, I like worrying very much.  Worrying, I’m sure, is the fence that divides upper-middle class from middle class, and, god forbid, the lower class.  But don’t be confused, I’m not talking about the simple, everyday worries of food and shelter and clothes for the kids.  I’m not talking about that fence.

But I suppose I should begin worrying about my luxury to worry, while I have the chance.  I suppose in time, even that luxury will be taken away from me and replaced by something else.  But what replaces the luxury of worrying?  Pain?  Suffering?  Hunger?  Unending repression?  Religious intolerance?  I’m not quite sure.

But you can bet I’m worrying about it, even as you read this.  I’m worrying and searching for the right words.  It’s quite the dilemma.

Here’s a letter not many of us have a chance to write.  The poet Sharon Olds writes to the First Lady, turning down the invitation to read at the National Book Festival last Saturday.  Letter brought to my attention by The Catharine Chronicles, letter reprinted thanks to The Nation.

Laura Bush
First Lady
The White House

Dear Mrs. Bush,

I am writing to let you know why I am not able to accept your kind invitation to give a presentation at the National Book Festival on September 24, or to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress or the breakfast at the White House.

In one way, it’s a very appealing invitation. The idea of speaking at a festival attended by 85,000 people is inspiring! The possibility of finding new readers is exciting for a poet in personal terms, and in terms of the desire that poetry serve its constituents--all of us who need the pleasure, and the inner and outer news, it delivers.

And the concept of a community of readers and writers has long been dear to my heart. As a professor of creative writing in the graduate school of a major university, I have had the chance to be a part of some magnificent outreach writing workshops in which our students have become teachers. Over the years, they have taught in a variety of settings: a women’s prison, several New York City public high schools, an oncology ward for children. Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for the severely physically challenged, has been running now for twenty years, creating along the way lasting friendships between young MFA candidates and their students--long-term residents at the hospital who, in their humor, courage and wisdom, become our teachers.

When you have witnessed someone nonspeaking and almost nonmoving spell out, with a toe, on a big plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter, his new poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion and essentialness of writing. When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet card for a writer who is completely nonspeaking and nonmoving (except for the eyes), and pointed first to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until you get to the first letter of the first word of the first line of the poem she has been composing in her head all week, and she lifts her eyes when that letter is touched to say yes, you feel with a fresh immediacy the human drive for creation, self-expression, accuracy, honesty and wit--and the importance of writing, which celebrates the value of each person’s unique story and song.

So the prospect of a festival of books seemed wonderful to me. I thought of the opportunity to talk about how to start up an outreach program. I thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some books and meet some of the citizens of Washington, DC. I thought that I could try to find a way, even as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep feeling that we should not have invaded Iraq, and to declare my belief that the wish to invade another culture and another country--with the resultant loss of life and limb for our brave soldiers, and for the noncombatants in their home terrain--did not come out of our democracy but was instead a decision made “at the top” and forced on the people by distorted language, and by untruths. I hoped to express the fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of tyranny and religious chauvinism--the opposites of the liberty, tolerance and diversity our nation aspires to.

I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival in order to bear witness--as an American who loves her country and its principles and its writing--against this undeclared and devastating war.

But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that if I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were condoning what I see to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush Administration.

What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady who represents the Administration that unleashed this war and that wills its continuation, even to the extent of permitting “extraordinary rendition”: flying people to other countries where they will be tortured for us.

So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish and shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the clean linens at your table, the shining knives and the flames of the candles, and I could not stomach it.

Sincerely,
SHARON OLDS