If I were a black voter in America today, I would be feeling weary indeed. In fact, even as a white voter, I'm feeling pretty lethargic. Here we are, in the year 2000, listening once again as a middle-aged white man asks black voters to keep the faith, since he's their best hope against another pair of middle-aged white guys who supposedly care even less about them.
Perhaps the most depressing news report of the past few days was the one in which the Democrats were said to be elated at Dubya's choice of his daddy's good friend as running mate - not because it shows the Republicans for the unimaginative establishment clods they are, but - get this - because it gives Al Gore a free hand to choose whomever he likes as his running mate.
What does that mean? It means, Phew! We don't have to go out and look for anyone female, or anyone of color, or even anyone vaguely interesting, to offset the Republican ticket! No, now we're free to go back to our very own pool of half-dead white guys and get somebody we're comfortable with! Ain't democracy grand?
Nothing changes. On the elephantic side of the ticket, we'll have the choice of two affable Texas oilmen, both Yale-educated, both with about as much passion for social justice as Zsa Zsa Gabor.
On the other side, we'll have two pragmatic liberals, guys who will do the right thing by the downtrodden, the environment, and the world at large as long as it doesn't threaten their political longevity very much. Once again those of us who carry around the outmoded idea that government should be used when possible to nudge society in a fairer direction will shrug, hold our noses, and vote for the least offensive duo of white guys.
I have a friend who is in the hotel business. His company does a lot of market research, and according to those who do this sort of thing, there are two kinds of travelers: the aggressive and the regressive. The aggressive traveler is out there for adventure, conquering new worlds, relishing new experience. The regressive traveler usually is not on the road by choice, but forced there by circumstance, and wants experiences that closely mirror home. He or she wants reassurance, not adventure.
Is the regressive traveler a prototype of the American voter? Probably. In the mass market exercise that politics has become, we're all trapped in this mode, whether we like it or not.
We may be thinking to our private selves that, given the amazing prosperity we're now experiencing, it might be an idea to try to bring along all those poor kids in the cities who have to go to cruddy schools. Or maybe we might have another try at bringing America into the group of civilized nations with a working health care system.
For those of us who long for vision, social justice, some kind of different future, it's kind of like being trapped on some bleak interstate, with nowhere to stop but Best Western and nowhere to eat but Wendy's. You're dreaming of something just a little more interesting - nothing fancy, even an old-fashioned diner would do - but as you get hungrier, you realize that this landscape was not planned with you in mind. Your desires do not matter. In the interaction of the mass market and the highway, you are a roadside weed. You are not worth cultivating.
And then, just as you think all is lost, you see a small sign, hand-lettered, looking forlorn: Nader's Grill. Home-cooked food. So you get all excited and you take the exit and you find the sad little place, and there's a sign on the door saying it's closed in observance of Eugene Debs' birthday. Nice people, you think. Their hearts are in the right place. But I'm still hungry.
You end up back on the highway, and you find the least offensive name-brand plastic place and you buy some Rolaids and head for home. Some adventure.
Don't lose faith, Al Gore pleaded this week. At this point, Al, I've got faith in just one thing: my own home cooking.
© Copyright 2000, The News & Observer
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