thematically fickle

Since Barack Obama and John McCain became the “presumptive nominees”—whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean—of their respective parties, I’ve been saying that McCain is going to win this election. Not so much because I’m a pessimist but because I have this innate desire to be right about things. There’s something so satisfying about being told, “you were right!” and I’m nothing if not a person who seeks satisfaction.

To be sure, always being right is not a noble or admirable personality trait; in fact, it’s obnoxious. But my awareness of this shortcoming has helped me learn to let go of the need to hear those three words… though if I’m being totally honest, I have to cop to my private end-zone dance whenever they fall from the husband’s lips. (There is some amount of victory in that). Mostly though, as I’ve gotten older and become a role model for the poor kid who lives down the hall, I’ve learned that being right just isn’t that important in the big scheme of things. Afterall, will it really be that glorious if I hear that phrase on November 5th?

Until tonight, I’ve refused to get on board with Obama. Of course, I’m going to vote for him. But when it comes to national politics, I feel like an abused spouse. Twice, in the last eight years, I thought I was getting out of this relationship in which I’ve been continually brutalized. In 2004 I was finally going to get out from under the fist of my abuser. I had a plan, an escape route, and I could see clearly how good life would be with That Man & Co. in my rear view mirror, even if I did catch a glimpse of my blackened eye while watching the awful past recede as I fled.

But as my abuser once warned, “…foolmebutyoucan’tgetfooledagain.” I took this to heart. This time around, I would not be so foolish. This here’s my life, I figured, and I’d just as well quit fighting it and get used to being dragged around by my hair. It hurts a lot less when you give in and roll with it.

So it is that I haven’t dared imagine the possibility of an Obama presidency, less as a construct of my need to be correct than one of self-preservation. I’ve refused—with an implacable conviction that would make the most vociferous curmudgeon proud—to be sucked in by Obamamania. I’ve been mostly unwilling to say anything positive about him or even defend him to detractors (I’m already crossing my fingers that he doesn’t sleep with anyone other than his wife until after the election).

But tonight, while I painstakingly tried to hold back the dam during Michelle Obama’s speech at the Democratic Convention, I decided that she must be our next First Lady and that I was going to stop with the Democrats-are-going-to-beat-themselves talk. Obama the wife was as moving and compelling as Obama the husband. She was as real as Cindy McCain is Stepford and we’ve had plenty of Stepford. Obama, the couple, is the future and the historic weight of the moment was not lost on me, no matter how defeated I’ve become.

Do I think the Republicans will lie and cheat and say anything to win? Yes. Do the Democrats continue to disappoint me? Oy, to a fault. Do I think Americans are stupider than ever? Given the current favorable view of offshore drilling, uh, no brainer. Do I think that once in the privacy of the voting booth, American racism will be revealed like Toto revealed the Great and Powerful Oz? Sadly, yes. But I don’t want, nor do I need, to be right this time. I want to be so wrong that the three words I hear are “told you so!” while all my friends point and laugh at me.

So because of this, because I think that Barack Obama truly is the best candidate running, the one who offers the most possibility for the future of America—and because I want my daughter to see her image reflected in that of the first family—I’m not drinking the Kool Aid. I’m hooking up to an I.V. of the stuff.