Can't We All Just Not Care Anymore?

As I do on most Mondays, I drove the kids to school. It was closed for Martin Luther King Day. Yes, I should have realized this. While it's one of those marginal holidays, schools are big on celebrating this one. Even though they celebrate it for the wrong reasons.

The United States is about to inaugurate its first black president. He also happens to be half-Irish, but the black part is the big deal, simply because it's new. Record breakers are by definition newsworthy, so I get that. But I'm weary of it. I'm impatient for the next step. Which should be, as far as genetics go, a yawn.

The other day my son's classmate had to choose a teammate for a class project. He chose between two people. "I didn't pick her because she's Mexican," he said. As he grows, he will learn not to give voice to his thoughts. But unless we do something, his thoughts will still be there.

This all irks me. I'm tired of it being such a big deal. King's speech was nearly 45 years ago. When do we become colorblind?

Celebrating one group to make up for past transgressions does not necessarily lead to equality. Do it incorrectly, and it leads to jealousy, retaliation, and deluded entitlement. Schools and other entities celebrate 'Black History Month.' My son wants to know when 'White History Month' is. I want to know when we quit thinking in terms of race.

Years ago my cousin married a Puerto Rican Jew. She converted to Catholicism to be with him. At the wedding, there were a few tense moments. Being Jewish, the bride's side of the chapel was clueless on when to sit, kneel, stand, etc. My dad took full advantage of this by starting to kneel, then sitting, then standing. He had the entire left side of the church faked out, following him in a monkey-see, monkey-do sort of Catholic hyper-genuflecting. Both sides of the church were in hysterics. Except for the moms and the priest. They were required by law to show their disapproval.

Later on, during the reception, the bride's side of the family was having their picture taken. My dad started making fun of them. "Hey, look at all the Spics!" he laughed.

"Hey, look at all the Micks!" one of them called back. They laughed. We laughed. No Jets and Sharks that day. Just Micks and Spics. They started singing some songs in Spanish. My Nana burst into a heartfelt rendition of Danny Boy. We all had a drink and a very good time.

So we celebrate our differences. How we react to those differences is the key. When it comes down to it, I really don't care what color the president is. What's his economic plan? He could be purple with green stripes and curly antennae - just get me a job, please!

Let's toast the new president for what he symbolizes - a fresh start. Then let's get started. He's going to need all the help he can get, poor guy - his mother-in-law is moving in with him.

I, too, have a dream. I dream of a day when it doesn't matter what color or gender a president is, when a woman is paid the same as a man, when the word 'Muslim' does not automatically translate to 'terrorist,' when you can marry who you love and nobody fears you will infect their family with your 'differentness.' Yeah, I dream a lot.

We have a very long way to go.

Election Results

Today, in our living room, my two boys held an election. About twenty stuffed animals ran for mayor. They were quickly whittled down to four finalists, mostly by our terrier running off with some of the losers. (Isn't that always the way?)

The final four consisted of a chicken, a fish, a dog, and a gorilla. Each gave a speech. The fish, being out of water, had a bit of trouble and died of asphyxiation at the podium.

The gorilla started out smoothly but lost his composure when he had an inconvenient itch that just couldn't wait. It was a bit of a turn-off and, if it isn't already, is sure to be a hit on Youtube.

The chicken clucked something unintelligible, flapping her wings like the sky was falling. Most of the audience didn't speak chicken so they didn't understand. Too bad, since she might have made sense if she could reach them somehow.

The dog napped through the other speeches, spoke last and promised everyone cake. Sadly, that was all it took.

My question to Scruff, the worn, old dog who won, was this - how could you promise everyone cake when food isn't allowed in the living room? How could you make such a promise when you knew from the start that you couldn't deliver?

As a stuffed animal, Scruff wasn't talking. He appeared angry and a bit creepy. Maybe he was missing his nap. I'm guessing he hadn't thought his actions through this far. Just get through the campaign, promise what you need to, and fix it all once you're in control. Arf.

I'm sure we'd never let that sort of thing happen, right?

The Candidate Who Came to Dinner

The same blizzard that welcomed John F. Kennedy to our highest office welcomed me to this world. At the time, people worried that putting a Catholic in the White House was a huge mistake. Washington would be controlled by Rome, and Kennedy would be nothing more than the Pope’s pawn. Pretty soon we’d all be packing Rosaries and banned from eating meat on Fridays. This silliness amazed me.

I don’t want to be amazed like that anymore. Now we have a woman and an African American running for office, and some people running to cover their ugly, deep-set fears with flimsy excuses. Look deep - if you’re voting against (or for) someone simply because of gender or race, you need therapy, not a voting booth.

Honestly, I don’t want to know what a candidate does at home, how bad a bowler he is, or whether she can kick back shots with the guys. At what point do we finally say, “I don’t care if the next President of the United States is a transgender mandrill – somebody give me a shot at a decent life?”

The candidates confuse the issue more by pandering to our base commonality. “I’m one of you,” they purr. No, you’re not, and we’re happy about that. We could never survive the rat race that is Washington. We’re hoping one of you can.

Sometimes private choices give you a peek at what a candidate's future intentions might be. For instance, did they marry for money? If that’s the case, maybe that candidate will marry big oil. Gas is quickly approaching $4 a gallon – at what price ignorance? But at least he’s white, you may think, if not say. If we decide one of the most critical elections using racist or sexist bias, we deserve what we get. If we can’t look beyond looks, we are most certainly doomed.

Has it really come down to which is less worse – a woman in the White House, or a black man in the White House? Are we really that shallow? This is the part where you yell, ‘No!’ Unless, of course, you're uncomfortable with a woman telling you what to do. If that's the case, I hope you enjoy cereal for dinner, because after paying for gas, that's about all you'll be able to afford.

False issues cloud the real deal like so many messy snowflakes. But I will tell you one thing -this candidate WILL be coming to dinner. The next President will decide how often you have a nice steak, or have to settle for a cheaper cut of meat. Picking the President based on primordial fears may be the cut that gives you indigestion.

Choose wisely– you may have to eat your vote. And that's no bologna.

Live, From Texas and Ohio, it's Democrat D-Day!

Step right up and dangle your chad - we have all the makings of an exciting political showdown. The Democratic Sweeps Week is giving "Lost" a run for its money as top topic at the water cooler. If a similar thing was happening in, for instance, baseball, I'd be excited. But this is our country's future, my healthcare, my war, my gas tank, so I'm more nervous than excited. Next to this, sports and entertainment trophies pale in comparison.

For the Democrats, it's anybody's horse race. Hillary has gone to the whip, scoring key tv appearances on Saturday Night Live and The Daily Show. Barack is spending like there's no tomorrow (there isn't). American Idol has nothing on how these two perform.

Obama certainly sings a lovely song. "I'm asking you to believe," croons his website. "Not just in my ability to bring about real change in Washington...I'm asking you to believe in yours." The problem is, we don't need another song. We need a solution. We need to quit dreaming and get doing. His bedside manner is quite charming, but anyone who marries for charm finds out what happens when the honeymoon is over. The dream can become a nightmare. A weak dollar, an ugly war, it's time to wake up. No more snooze alarm.

Sadly, the best soundbite often supercedes the best intentions. Is Clinton getting choked up during her campaign really more of a story that than Bush not getting choked up about invading Iraq? A little emotion once in a while usually illustrates a heartfelt decision. (For the record, I've shown more emotion at a shoe sale at Nordstrom than Hillary ever displayed in her emo non-event.)

Hillary contends that Barack's dream is a projection of what people want to see. What dream isn't? Everyone likes to dream. Dreaming is fun. That's a big part of the Obama allure. Clinton, on the other hand, is Monday morning reality. Not our favorite time of the week, but if you're gonna get something done, that's the time to do it. Not in your dreams.

Let's leave the excitement and dreaming for the reality TV stars. When G.W. Bush was running against Al Gore, a friend commented that Gore was "boring." I replied, "I'll take boring over stupid any day." That time around, not quite enough people did. And here we are.

I'm done sleeping. I'm picking the doer over the dreamer.