A little bitty tear let me down
Spoiled my act as a clown
I had it made up not to make a frown
Oh, but a little bitty tear let me down
The protagonist of Burl Ives’ famous song (written by Hank
Cochran) lamented the fact that his brave face broke down when
his lover left him and he cried – which men should not do,
except in song. But never in politics. There’s no crying in
baseball – I mean politics -- if you’re a man. But a moist eye
and a halting voice apparently can help a woman, given Hillary
Clinton’s tear-de-force in New Hampshire. The candidate written
off as old news following the Iowa caucuses apparently
galvanized the Granite State’s sisterhood and rode a wave back
to relevancy.
I will vote for the Democratic nominee because I’m a Democrat
and because the Republicans are so far offshore that no paddle
can save them. The ABC debate before the voting in New Hampshire
was a stunning contrast. On one hand there was a woman, an
African-American, a Hispanic, and a white Southerner. On the
other hand there was a tableau of stiff old white guys that
seemed to echo the 19th century. It’s hard to think of them as
relevant. They were like antiquated curiosities, relegated to
the basement of the museum of American politics. The Democratic
candidates at least seemed to belong to the 21st century.
My personal favorite was Bill Richardson. He is Hispanic, a
governor, a former Congressman, a former U. N. Ambassador,
former Energy Secretary and a skilled hostage negotiator. And he
knows a hell of a lot more about the Mexican border and border
issues than the rest of the pack put together, except for John
McCain, whose record of dropping F-bombs on fellow Republicans
has turned off enough of the GOP power structure to sink his
candidacy like a stone raft. But Governor Bill, whose time may
yet come, has folded. Watch for him to reappear as the candidate
for Vice President if Hillary Clinton gets the nomination.
What about Barack Obama? I predicted back in April of 2005 that
Barack Obama would be a viable candidate. I referred to him as
the “Tiger Woods of politics” several months before Maureen Dowd
of the New York Times came up that line. When others said that
he was not experienced enough, too untested, my response was
that timing is everything, especially in Presidential politics,
and that it might be his time. So, why am I reluctant to back
him?
The answer: I honestly don’t know.
My daughter Meg is a big Obama fan. She likes his charisma, his
eloquence, his message of unity and hope. She reminds me of me
when I helped my Dad campaign for a young, relatively
inexperienced senator named John Kennedy. She reminds me of my
idealism, my enthusiasm, my hope. When I complain about Obama’s
relative inexperience, I wonder if I’m becoming a curmudgeon as
I approach the end of my sixth decade. Barack Obama is the
finest orator in American politics today, the only one who
actually inspires us, the only one whose words echo Martin
Luther King and John F. Kennedy. When I find myself defending
Hillary Clinton, am I concerned about my country, or am I
concerned about my g-g-generation? Am I stuck in Woodstock?
As much as I like Hillary Clinton, I wonder if her time – our
time — has passed. I wonder if we shouldn’t pass the torch to
this new icon, who admitted to having done a “little blow,”
whose father was African and whose mother was from Kansas and
whose upbringing took place in Indonesia and Hawaii and came to
roost in the political cauldron of Chicago. When I find myself
skeptical of Obama, I wonder about the face in the mirror and
what happened to the idealistic youngster behind it.
When all is said and done, this campaign might come down to
whether my fellow Boomers and I vote for one of our own, or for
the candidate of our successors. For many of us, the choice
might come down to comfort versus inspiration. That’s actually
not a bad choice.
It’s better than the choice the Republicans are trying to sell.
They offer neither comfort nor hope – just fear. They want to
scare us into voting for them. They’re quite pathetic and I
nearly feel sorry for them. They remind me of the flinty
narrator in “Reefer Madness,” who was quite mad himself.
