A year ago today, a dream died. It was a grand dream, one previously held only by those in the highest realms of political power, by those with money, influence (often the same thing) and the hubris to wield it.
They called it a movement, a revolution, a cult. They called it strident, idealistic, naive. They called it youth. They called it audacious. They called it crazy.
We called it Dean for America.
A year ago, on a soggy New Mexico evening, the victory party I'd planned turned into a rout. We tried not to notice the big TV screens at Kelly's Pub reporting the caucus results, while the blue and white balloons deflated, one by one. We smiled when reporters asked us how we felt, determined not to let them see that our hearts trickled blood every time another precinct reported in.
Oh, there were more states yet to vote--as Howard Dean had reminded us the night of Iowa, but every one of us knew that night it was over. We wouldn't be getting our country back. We wouldn't be knocking the special interests off their perches in Washington, with our $100 contributions. We wouldn't be camping out in each other's daughter's friend's cousin's spare bedrooms in D.C., while attending the People's Inaugural.
It began, for me, in August, when I went to my first MeetUp. I was surprised that many of the people there were shamefaced Republicans, disgusted by their President, and eager to support someone who pointed out the Emperor just might be naked. That night I signed up for any and everything--to hell with restraint, I told myself, my country needs me!--and within a few weeks, I was working full time on the campaign. Not for money, or personal political power. I simply wanted my country back, and I was willing to share it with every other American.
Howard Dean said recently the best way to gain power is to give it away. We understood this. We'd all been empowered, and the result was the unprecedented rise of a governor from the tiny state of Vermont, a doctor who became involved because he wanted a bike path built and ended up being the front runner for the democratic nomination for president.
That November, a friend told me she had reservations about Dean: "It seems like a cult," she said. But she was wrong. We didn't drink the koolaid, we never engaged in strange initiation ceremonies, our organizational structure was unwieldy. In fact, Howard Dean constantly reminded us, "YOU have the power! YOU have the power!" We believed it, too, until that cold rainy night in New Mexico.
The media also pegged us as young, but we were only young at heart. Most of us had long given up plucking the gray hairs and resorted to Clairol, or a "bite me" attitude. We paid our kids' college tuition a month at a time, and wondered what would happen if anyone got sick--really sick.
They blamed it, too, on the internet, but most of us didn't have time to log in; we were too busy performing the million myriad tasks a state-wide campaign requires.
They even called us latte sippers, and we laughed, not understanding "liberal elite" was a slur. Besides, our Volvos were old, our tattoos fake, and that sushi stank up the office.
The called us city slickers, too--blue state, urban professionals, but they didn't know Midge Farmer, who wrote when she mailed in her $100 contribution to DFA:
Link: Blog for America.
Dear Howard Dean,
I live in the outback of America. I am a woman. I am about to turn 65. No one cares about my vote.
I live in a big square state with less than half a million people. I was transplanted to these high plains in 1959. I love this land and would defend it from terrorists to my death.
I have been a Republican all my voting life--41 years--so that I can have a voice in our far-right conservative county elections. However, I don't fill any political slot because I study candidates and vote for the best person. I do that because it is my right even though, thanks to the electoral college, it never counts. I am ashamed of the 3 delegates Wyoming sends to Washington, and disgusted that Dick Cheney calls himself a "Wyoming son."
But I can do one positive thing and here it is, my little piece of your campaign. Run it clean, run it well, you have my vote for what that's worth.
My good wishes for your success,
Midge Farmer
Gillette, Wyoming
Midge nailed it. This was why we added our names to those sign-up sheets, this was why we drove our Volvos through the barrios of New Mexico in search of votes, this was why our hearts bled that night last February.
We just wanted our country back.
We were the barbarians at the gates, and that cold rainy night a year ago, the gates were slammed in our faces. But unlike barbarians, we gamely joined the opposition, only to find ourselves out in the cold again on Inauguration Day.
A year later, we've rejoined the barbarian ranks, found other causes, formed Democracy for New Mexico, blogged the revolution the way Trippi predicted. But we're older, wiser, and less prone to dreaming.
Until another candidate comes along....
