I went to get an ice cream cone the other night at a popular shop in Berkeley, California. The line snaked out the door and down the block. Two women in front of me were talking politics.
This is something I love about my country: people talk politics all the time. How the mayor's doing, what this latest thing is in the Senate, whether they're ever gonna settle the strike and pick up the garbage. It's like we're all following some never-ending sports season.
These women were covering all the usual election-year bases. Did Obama have enough experience? Will Republicans vote for Hillary in the general? True, Rudy is a nut job, though he did do some good things in New York...
"Well," one sighed. "Whaddyagonnado?"
And here, as it often does, the conversation stopped.
The truth is, the individual voter doesn't have a lot of power, and she knows it. And she certainly can't change any candidate's age, or skin color, or gender, or disposition -- so why do we talk about these things so earnestly?
What makes our limited discourse all the more poignant is my hunch that our best source of learning and strength is each other. What's my neighbor's take on the role of corporations? Do my friends think the U.S. is an empire, and if so, should we be? How would my landlord divvy up the federal budget? To ask would be somewhere between impolite, awkward, and completely bizarre; yet, we have a lot more influence over the answers than we do over Hillary's sense of humor or John Edwards' sincerity.
As the presidential campaigns crank up, and the political conversation again narrows to the candidates, I am reminded of what a public high school principal told me about uniforms. "I make sure my students wear 'em," he said, "because that means 85% of their grievances have to do with the dress code. As long as they're complaining about what they're wearing, they're not challenging me on anything that really matters."
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