Last night, while hobnobbing with the locals at a neighborhood bar, I witnessed something phenomenal: people—young people—passionately talking politics.
In fact, politics was all they were talking. As I sat on the patio for two hours, my hand poised simultaneously over a pint of ale and a notebook as I tried to surreptitiously take notes, I was privy to a flood of impassioned conversations. Sometimes I participated, and sometimes I just listened, jotting down fragments whenever I could.
“Roe vs. Wade is NOT ABOUT ABORTION,” a bartender on break said to her younger sister. “It’s about CHOICE.”
“But it’s a life!“ her sister slurred, tugging on her sweatshirt.
“What if you needed a kidney transfer?” Angela, the bartender, asked, tapping her cigarette impatiently on the side of the ashtray. An interesting choice of organ, I thought to myself, eyeing her sister as she slid unsteadily off of her chair. “Would you want someone telling you you’re not allowed to get it?”
“A baby’s not a kidney!” Angela’s sister cried, before weaving her way back inside to get another beer.
As she pushed through the door, a round, jovial woman with spiky hair was on her way out. I recognized this woman. Earlier, when I’d breezed by the bar en route to the bathroom, I’d distinctly heard her say, “I love McCain! I think he’s brilliant.”
She sat down and lit a cigarette. I couldn’t resist.
“So I heard you’re a McCain fan?”
From my peripheral vision, I could see Angela tense up and clench her jaw. The blonde woman nodded, unsure of how to answer.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I asked, leaning forward, “what do you like about him?”
She emitted a nervous grin. “Are you a reporter?”
I laughed. “No.” A blogger isn’t the same as a reporter, right? “I’m just curious.”
“Well…” she took a long drag from her cigarette, “I feel safer with McCain.”
Angela blew a puff of air audibly from her nostrils.
“What do you think of Palin?” I pressed.
“I like her,” she responded. “She’s down to earth. I like the way she speaks. She knew she was going to have that Down syndrome baby, and she had it anyway. And come on,” she said, after a brief pause. “I mean, we can’t have a president named Barack.”
I nodded, utterly intrigued, silently encouraging her to go on.
“And I don’t like his wife,” she continued, gaining confidence. “She’s got no class. Dresses like a slob. Cindy McCain is just so cute.” She leaned forward a little. “To tell you the truth, I don’t like how Obama looks.”
“Oh?” I said, aiming for nonchalance. “Because he’s black?”
She pressed her lips together, obviously unwilling to answer in the affirmative. “It’s his eyes,” she said, failing to look me in mine. “I don’t trust him.” She giggled a schoolgirl’s laugh. “My daughter hung up me on the other day when I told her that.”
Angela, who’d been sitting quietly beside us, chimed in. “I’d have hung up on you by now, too.”
“I’m a registered Democrat,” the blonde woman said with a shrug. “I’ve always voted Democratic before. But not this year.” She finished her cigarette and stood to go back inside. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” she said with a sigh. “Sylvia Browne already said Obama would win.”
“Who’s Sylvia Browne?” I asked naively.
“The psychic!” both women said in unison, marveling at my ignorance.
When the blonde was gone, Angela turned to look at me. “You know the KKK still meets here,” she said. “They have a chapter in this county. Right up the street.” She shook her head. “It’s not just them, either. My boyfriend’s dad is a good guy. But yesterday, he said to me, ‘It’s a white house, Angela. Not a black house.’”
“Wow,” I said, amazed that this kind of thing still happened in 2008, and then amazed at myself for being amazed.
Two twenty-something guys came outside. The conversation quickly turned to football. “Did you see that?” one of the boys said, mimicking a pass. “Freakin’ unbelievable!” And in a flash, the spell of politics was broken.
Freakin’ unbelievable indeed.
