Wide Awake Now, page 7
“You heard me,” Satch said, like he was proud of it.
I was totally thrown. That word had never been shot at me before, especially not in school by someone I knew. It was such a Decent thing to do, to act like it was their God-given right to be hurtful to someone else. It felt like hate, and it felt personal.
I would’ve stayed paralyzed. But not Jimmy. He was immediately staring Satch down.
“What’re you saying, Satch?” he said. “Don’t hold back now.”
I looked at Jesse, and I have to admit that even he seemed a little surprised. But he wasn’t going to let his friend down.
“Get off, Jimmy,” he said.
“No, I want to see if Satch is done. Because I can think of plenty of other insults he can hurl my way. Where you want to go next with this, Satch? You probably noticed that as well as being gay, I’m also not white. Perhaps that bothers you, too?”
He was right in Satch’s face, only a few inches between them. Satch shoved him away. Jimmy shoved back.
There were other people in the hall now. Watching. Letting it play out.
“Just take your fag President wannabe and get the hell out of here,” Satch said. Then he went to shove Jimmy again, and a number of things happened at once:
Jimmy knocked Satch’s arm before Satch could knock Jimmy.
Jesse and I both jumped in to stop it.
Satch spun back, striking out.
Jesse and I almost collided. To avoid Jesse, I moved a little to the right—
—and got hit right in the face by Satch’s elbow.
So I ended up being the one knocked over, my eye bruised. Jesse and Rand pulled Satch back. Jimmy bent down to see if I was okay.
It all happened so fast. All unleashed by a single hateful word.
“Are you okay?” Jimmy asked. I nodded…even though I was holding my eye.
“Never been better,” I said.
“It hurts?”
“Yeah, it hurts.”
I didn’t want to go to the nurse’s office. (I could hear her: “You?!? In a fight?!?”) So Jimmy got a bag of ice from the cafeteria and we sat out back for sixth period.
“This is getting out of control,” I said.
He didn’t disagree.
* * *
—
People have to learn their hate from somewhere. I used to think it was always from their parents, or somewhere at home. But when a whole political party decides to gain votes by giving people permission to indulge in their deepest hatreds, so intimately tied to their deeper fears, I have to imagine that what you hear at home is only part of it.
Their pride was tied to making us feel ashamed. Our pride had to be stronger than that.
* * *
—
Word spread that Stein was going to make a big announcement in a press conference at eight o’clock.
We all waited in nervous anticipation at headquarters that night. My eye—not quite a black eye, but still a little purple—was the object of a lot of scrutiny and concern. I didn’t like the attention and would have been able to shrug it off if Jimmy hadn’t been beside me the whole time, watching over me and telling people what had happened. I knew he felt bad, and I’d told him more than once that it wasn’t his fault. I couldn’t even give Satch full blame for the blow, since I didn’t think he’d expected my face to be anywhere near his elbow. Still, I resented the chain of events that had led to the collision, and the fact that Satch hadn’t said sorry after.
Virgil shook his head when he saw it, and Flora insisted on running upstairs for some ointment. Sara was nowhere to be seen, which might have explained why Mira and Keisha appeared inseparable again. I wondered how genuine that was, and hated myself for thinking that way.
Finally, it was eight o’clock. We all quieted down and watched the screen. As reporters scrambled for position, Stein walked up to the podium at his national headquarters and began to speak.
* * *
—
“My fellow Americans, the time has come for us to do something about Kansas. A small group of politically motivated people are trying to disenfranchise, manipulate, and lie their way to winning this election. Although they say it is being done in the name of fairness, it is truly being done out of greed and self-interest. We cannot let it happen. This afternoon, I received independent verification of something I already believed to be true: My campaign has won the majority of votes in the state of Kansas. This cannot be denied, and the fact that it is being denied must be viewed as a call to action.
“I’ll be honest with you: This is not something I say lightly. It would be easy for me to remain silent, to leave the fate of this nation in the hands of two teams of lawyers, and ultimately the courts. But that isn’t what this country is about, and it isn’t what I’m about. You deserve the truth, and we all must fight for it if we must.
“I ask my opponent to concede this election and abide by the independent commission led by former governor Hopkins, which states clearly and unequivocally that the election results in Kansas are correct as initially reported. Any attempt by the current governor to invalidate these results should be stopped immediately. This is not an election that can be tampered with or questioned. The people have spoken, and now they must be heard. To do otherwise is against everything this country is about. America cannot and will not abide dishonesty, untruths, or the cynical manipulation of the voting process. Our values are much, much stronger than that.”
* * *
—
At a separate news conference, the former governor—a member of the opposition party—verified that his commission had monitored the voting in Kansas, had checked the results, and was satisfied beyond doubt that Stein’s margin of victory was accurate.
Then more troubling news began to come in: A Kansas election official told a reporter that she had been asked to erase some votes from the electronic polling machine in her district. Another person, a college student, volunteered that his name had been on the current governor’s “double-voting” list, proclaimed that he had not filled out an absentee ballot for his home state, and said that if one was discovered, it would be a forgery sent in by someone other than him as a way of disqualifying his vote. The opposition party, he said, could easily obtain students’ home addresses to pull such a stunt.
The opposition candidate held his own press conference, refusing to concede, saying that God wanted him to see this thing through to the end, through any channels and means necessary.
Finally, around eleven o’clock our time, Stein stepped in front of the cameras again.
* * *
—
“I can see which way the wind is being blown in Kansas. And the only way to stop it is to blow back harder. We must let the truth fill our lungs, our purpose fill our hearts and make us strong.
“This is what I say:
“I am going to Kansas.
“And this is what I ask:
“I want you, the American people, the ones who elected me as your next President, to come to Kansas, too. I want you there beside me to prevent an injustice from occurring. I want our opponents to see the faces of all the people they are trying to deceive. I want them to know they will not get away with it.
“Come to Kansas.
“I know this is asking a lot. I know it has never before been asked in these circumstances. But in times of trial, as we have done so often in the past, we must come together as a community. We must be our best selves. We must do what’s right.
“You have made your voice heard by voting for me. Do not let your voice be taken away.
“Ensure democracy.
“Come to Kansas.”
eleven
“Let’s go!” Gus called out.
Sara came running into the room, explaining that she’d been on the phone with someone at national headquarters who said that there was going to be a rally in front of the Kansas statehouse on Sunday afternoon.
“That gives us two and a half days to get there,” another college volunteer, Joe, said.
“How long a drive can it be?” Gus asked. “No more than a day and a half.”
“I don’t think we can all fit in your Prius,” Jimmy pointed out. “Not for that amount of time.”
“No hindrance,” Gus said. “I’m sure I can borrow the church van.”
“No need for that,” Virgil said. “Flora’s son, Clive, has a bus.”
There didn’t seem any doubt that we’d soon be on our way. Virgil wanted us all to go to school on Friday, but we’d head off right after.
“Finally we can do something,” Jimmy said, and I guess that summed up a large part of what we were all feeling.
If Stein needed us, we would go.
* * *
—
“Come to Kansas,” his voice kept saying on the news. They couldn’t stop showing it.
* * *
—
The opposition candidate clearly hadn’t anticipated Stein’s speech. At first, all he said was “Don’t come to Kansas.” It took another day for him to ask his supporters to come to Kansas, too.
* * *
—
“This isn’t going to be a vacation,” Virgil warned us. “Don’t think it’s going to be easy.”
* * *
—
On the way home, I listened to some of the commentators commentating. One of them harkened back to the Civil War.
“It’s Bleeding Kansas all over again,” he said.
I didn’t know what he meant. Luckily the host didn’t know, either, so the commentator explained, “Kansas was founded by abolitionists who wanted to prevent slavery from spreading from Missouri. They put their lives on the line for it, and when Missouri invaded to stop the Kansas opposition, it became Bleeding Kansas.
“The same passions,” he went on to say, “exist here.”
* * *
—
It was after midnight when I walked in my front door. I knew my parents would probably still be up, but I wasn’t expecting them to be waiting in the den for me to come home.
“Where’ve you been, Duncan?” my father asked.
“At Stein headquarters, with Jimmy and the others,” I answered. “You knew that.”
“It’s a school night.”
“Sorry.”
I didn’t sound sorry, and he knew it. I started to climb the stairs, but then he said, “Come back down here.” I did, and when he told me to sit down, I did that, too.
My parents had never really been cool parents, but they hadn’t been uncool, either. They were just there, and I loved them, and they loved me, and we didn’t really understand one another at all. I think it had always been clear to them that I was gay, and that hadn’t been much of a problem. When I’d first started dating Jimmy, I’d hesitated a little before bringing him home—not because I was afraid of how they’d react, but more because I liked the idea of keeping my world with him separate from my world with them. When I’d become involved with the Stein campaign, they’d been supportive without being encouraging; as Jews, they were convinced a Jewish candidate would never win, and my father never really bought into the possibility of the Great Community the same way that I did. I was pretty sure they’d both voted for Stein, but they didn’t want to make a big deal about it.
So I was surprised-but-not-completely-surprised when they sat me down and told me I wasn’t going to Kansas.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’m sure you saw Stein tonight,” my father said. “And I’m sure you and your friends are all ready to go to Kansas to take a stand. When you’re older and more mature you’ll be able to do such things, if you still want to. But right now you’re only sixteen and you’re not going to throw yourself into such a volatile situation.”
I could see my mother staring at my not-black-but-kind-of-purple eye. I wanted to cover it, but it was too late.
“What happened to you?” she asked, concerned.
“Nothing. Stupid accident,” I said.
“Oh, honey. Did you put ice on it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want more?”
“I’m okay.”
I realized I was getting distracted from the argument I needed to be making.
“Look,” I said, “I am going to Kansas. Flora’s son, Clive, has a bus, and we’re all going to go together. Not just kids, but adults, too. It’ll be fine. I promise.”
“I don’t think you’re hearing me, Duncan,” my father said. “You’re not going. You’re staying here.”
I don’t think you’re hearing me, I wanted to say. But I knew that wouldn’t go over well.
“Is that understood?” he prompted.
“Duncan,” my mother said, her voice gentler than my father’s, “I think we need to explain. We’ve always been proud of you for all the work you’ve done for Stein and the dedication that you’ve shown.” This was a surprise. I must have looked at her with complete disbelief, because she laughed and said, “Don’t look so shocked. You know I’m not the type to get involved, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be proud of my son for getting involved. We haven’t minded when you’ve come home late, when you’ve gone into some dangerous neighborhoods to talk to strangers, even when you’ve cut school—yes, we know about that, and we’re trusting you not to make it a habit. You seem to forget that your attendance record is online for us to see.
“But this is different, honey. You’re going to want to think that we’re making you stay here for some political reason. You’ll want to think of us as the enemy. But honestly, it’s not that. It’s because we’re your parents and we want you to be safe. You can’t possibly remember what the riots were like. You can’t possibly know how these things can go wrong and become violent. Stein wants you to come to Kansas—fine. But he can’t guarantee that things will remain peaceful. I know he wants them to be. Believe me, Dunc, I know. But this isn’t some picnic. This is a fight—he says so himself—and when you join a fight, you can get really, really hurt. Especially in this country. Especially right now, when everyone is so divided. So that’s why I—we—want you to stay here.”
She didn’t say Look at your eye, but she didn’t have to. I thought of a thousand Satches and Jesses heading to Kansas—and millions of the people who’d yelled at me on the phone, who’d been so ready to scald Stein supporters with the sheer will of their despising.
“There must be something you can do here at home,” my mother went on. “I’ll even help you. If you want. You just can’t go to Kansas.”
I went to my room more confused than ever. Because I hadn’t really been thinking about what would happen when we got to Kansas—I’d been caught up in the excitement of going, of being part of the team, of being on a mission with Jimmy. Maybe none of us had really thought it through. Because what if we were really heading toward another Bleeding Kansas? What if the opponent’s supporters were ready to do anything to throw the election?
I wondered if Stein himself had thought it through. How many people did he really think would come? Was it just a big publicity stunt? Would it spiral out of control?
I pictured millions of people angrily calling me a fag or a dirty Jew. I imagined crowds and crowds of people overwhelming me. I saw myself losing Jimmy, losing everyone I knew. Riot police pressing in. Gas in the air. Being pushed and grabbed and yelled at.
It wasn’t a nightmare; I wasn’t asleep yet. I was seeing it.
I didn’t want to face it. Not the hostility. Not the chance of my parents being right.
I really had believed I was going to Kansas.
And now I was starting to realize I wasn’t going after all.
twelve
I thought I might change my mind about changing my mind. But if anything, the next morning’s news seemed to support my parents’ position. The opposition was now saying that if Stein’s supporters were going to Kansas in large numbers, then his supporters would “take no prisoners.” The governor was calling in the National Guard. The current President was said to be “reviewing the situation.” Already flights were full. Rent-a-cars were scarce. The people of Kansas were preparing for an invasion of outsiders, whether they liked it or not.
I didn’t know what I was going to say to Jimmy. So I fell quiet. He misunderstood and thought I was still bothered by the run-in with Satch the previous day. For their part, Satch and Jesse kept their distance. School almost appeared normal. Word spread that Mary Catherine and her parents had already left for Topeka.
I started to pay attention not just to the kids who were talking about the election but also to the kids who weren’t talking about it at all. I’d ignored them for the past two days, but now I was feeling almost jealous. Whether or not Stein would be President didn’t appear to matter to them; they cared about their field hockey game after school or whether the boy they liked would like them back or whether they’d be able to get their homework done before it was collected during third period. The election was enough to get their attention for a day—maybe. After that, it was back to life.
I asked myself why I had to care so much. Then I reminded myself how vulnerable I was. I didn’t want being queer or being Jewish to mean being defined by my vulnerability, by the long history of hate and injustice being directed against us. I didn’t think any of the opposition politicians were as bad as Hitler; but I also knew that a gay Jew in Berlin in 1930 wouldn’t have thought Hitler was as bad as Hitler, either. Like so many other nonwhite or nonstraight or non-Christian people in America, an element of my pride had to be vigilance. Ignorance wasn’t a luxury that our history could afford.
