I'm starting to hear it again. In blogs, in e-mails from friends: "If the Republicans win in November, I'm leaving the country."
I said the same thing in 2000, but my husband calmed me down after Bush "won" with this: "The country survived Nixon, for God's sake. How bad can it be?"
I said it again in 2004, when I saw just how bad it could be and how Nixon was about as destructive as a trolley car compared to the Bush-Cheney F-16.
And you know what? I did it. Or we did it.
My husband and I moved out of the country with our two sons. For almost three years, we have lived in San Miguel de Allende, a gorgeous colonial town in the mountains of Mexico. Sure we had other reasons to move; we wanted our boys to become bilingual. But the gun in my back as we made our border run was my despondence that an America that could re-elect Bush was an America I could no longer recognize or connect to.
For the most part, these past three years have been blissful, in the way that ignorance is bliss. It has been easier to distance myself emotionally from the GOP-created chaos. When I hear news like Cheney trying to dodge accountability because his office isn't fully part of the executive branch, I can turn off my satellite radio and revel in the heretofore-unknown comforts of sand around my earlobes.
I don't have to see opposition bumper stickers and yard signs and find my hands tightening on the steering wheel as I wonder just what kind of idiot can still be proud enough of our mess-of-a-country to advertise such slavish loyalty. I don't have to hear people make stupid comments like, "I think history will show that Bush was a great president." (OK, I did have to hear this when my mother reported on my sister's recent musings, but hearing it second-hand probably saved a few blood vessels behind my eyeballs.)
The night before the 2006 elections I actually slept soundly, something that hadn't happened on the eve of several previous national votes. I simply told myself that if the results didn't turn out right it was because that was a country I no longer knew. (I did still vote, however, since I would never give the other side the satisfaction of one less voice.)
But in many ways moving hasn't offered as much relief as I'd hoped. Mexicans and other foreigners here often ask me for an explanation of U.S. conduct or the mentality of U.S. voters. I often find myself apologizing for what we've done or become, even though I don't support the policies. I feel the embarrassment of association here, like a child whose uncle has been arrested for streaking at a little league game.
I also have a nagging sense that I should be in the mix right now, ringing doorbells and writing letters to my local paper, doing what it takes to make sure we don't take another journey down the toilet bowl. When I announced I was moving to Mexico three years ago, one friend was not pleased. "You should stay here and fight," he said. I often have twinges of guilt that I took the easy way out.
To be completely honest, now that the 2008 election is in full gear, I realize that I still care, so deeply, what happens to the U.S. Being nine hundred miles from the nearest road sign in English cannot fully ease my despair that a once-stellar country is on the brink of collapse under the combined weight of consumerism, cynicism, mental laziness and greed. It can't prevent my stomach from aching when I catch Sarah Palin spin her silky-but-saucy deceptions and manipulations.
I feel more invested in the outcome this November than ever because I'd like to be able to go home if I so desire. I want to feel that the country has woken up while I was gone and that I'll now feel like I belong again. There is a group of ex-pats in San Miguel who are waiting for a Democratic victory the same way Miami Cubans wait for Fidel's demise.
What I say about this election is, "If McCain wins, I'm not going back." And I mean it.