An Extraordinary Man

Let me put it directly to you—that man on Jan. 20 of 1969 is going to have to be an extraordinary man. And if he isn't an extraordinary man, the burdens of that office will crack him and the turbulence of the times will overwhelm us.
—former San Francisco Mayor Joseph Alioto, in Norman Mailer's Miami and the Siege of Chicago

I have something to say. I hope you don't mind.

It started with all this talk about small town America. About the preservation of picket fences. The truth in little league. The virtue in ice cream socials. I value small town life; small town life is part of what made me who I am.

But though I was raised in a small town, I now live in a city. And what I value even more is the essential dialogue between the two, the exchange of ideas between people who live in small towns or rural areas and those who live in the cities. (This may be in my blood: my grandfather was a county extension agent, the person responsible for relaying information from the agricultural research departments at universities and companies to farmers who could then put the ideas into practice.) I think this dialogue is at the foundation of our democracy. And I don't know about you, but I feel like we're losing that dialogue, and it's putting us in danger. The small town folk, the urbanites, and everyone in between.

And there are so many. How can we claim to understand what it's like to be someone else, to live someone else's life, without this dialogue? How can we possibly know what's best for all of us? If we're sensible, we sit down and start talking to each other. Find a picnic table somewhere in the middle and try to figure out our common ground. Through discussion, we sort the myth from the reality, the good from the bad, define the true problems that affect our daily lives. We respect the opinions of those who think differently than we do. We get to know each other, so that we can set our biases aside and finally start to get things done.

That's how I was raised in my small town.

Unfortunately, John McCain, who talks freely about reaching across the aisle, has surrounded himself with people who seem determined to make the aisle wider, to increase the great divide. People who have chosen to create more convolution than conversation.

Barack Obama, on the other hand, believes in the dialogue. And that is why I believe in him.

I don't claim he's a miracle worker. No one here is calling him savior. But I do believe he is an extraordinary man. I believe he has answers. I believe he has a plan. I believe he's thoughtful, honest, and open to discussion. All issues and party alliances aside, I believe he is what this country needs right now. Someone to lead us in dialogue: with each other, and, once again, with the rest of the world.

Much has been written elsewhere in more detail by other people about why we should vote for Obama. I know I'm merely adding a drop to the ocean in the hopes that it might swell. I wasn't originally going to say any of this here at all. I had no plans to air anything more than subtle salutes to my candidate. But yesterday on the subway, something changed.

I was reading Norman Mailer, the part where the reporter can no longer sit still and must get on stage, must congratulate the protesters, the activists, the youth who are involved and engaged and vocal. And as I turned the page I heard a voice.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please be activists and do whatever it takes." It was a man in a peace sign belt buckle, thick plastic glasses, a "This is NOT a plastic bag" ripoff bag. I let my book fall slightly, cocked one ear. "We don't have affordable healthcare. Senior citizens don't have the help they need. There's too much violence."

He continued to speak his piece. On a rumbling speaker's corner filled with bleary-eyed commuters. "Even if Obama wins, there's still a lot to be done. We're not in a bottomless pit." Maybe he talks out loud on the subway all the time. "But if we let these crooks continue to do what they're doing, then we're in trouble." But as the train shifted through the tunnel, you could feel the commuters listening. For once. And then he looked straight at me: "Right, miss?"

I nodded and squinted and smiled, the subway language of quiet assent. And that's when I realized that I needed to write this. Do whatever it takes.

I can no longer sit on my hands; I can no longer bite my tongue. Consider this my endorsement.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.