Not long ago I decided to clear out my bookcases. To say that I have been slow to do this is an understatement. I’d kept pretty much every book I’d ever owned. Every textbook from my college days. Every business book from my years in corporate America. Books inscribed with tender words from boyfriends of my youth, men now old enough to be grandfathers. But, reluctantly accepting the popular notion that you have to let go of the old to allow new things to find you, I thought, okay, it’s time.
The non-fiction was pretty easy. After all, how useful can a 30-year-old book on communicating via mass media be? It was the fiction that was tough. My rag-tag collections of Jane Austen and Dorothy Sayers may be made up of second-hand hardcovers and yellowing paperbacks, but they are well loved.
On the other hand, do I really need to hold on to this novel that I would likely never read again? I pulled it off the shelf, leafed through it and found a note on the back of an index card I must have been using as a bookmark. I recognized my father’s handwriting. He died in 1986, but I’d know his bold, block print anywhere. Written on the card were a name, address, phone number and the words Registration New Voter.
The memory came rushing back. I can see my father, who was active in local politics and had campaigned for JFK, standing in our kitchen, telling me the name of the person to contact to register. I was 18, and I was determined to have my voice heard through the ballot.
I’ve never lost that determination. In fact, I have always loved Election Day. To me, the duty and privilege of voting is a joy. I love the feeling of breezing into the polling place, smiling at the poll workers as they check off my street address and sliding my ballot into the machine to be counted.
I found my father’s note a few weeks before the 2016 Presidential Election. Here I was all these years later being reminded of my first step towards responsible citizenship as I witnessed a woman on the threshold of the American presidency. Election Day morning (No early voting for me. That would be like opening Christmas presents in November!) I put my father’s note, along with a copy of the Constitution, in my purse. Inside the voting booth I reminded myself not to rush, to savor the moment, to appreciate the history.
I drove out of the parking lot with tears in my eyes. I had voted for the first woman president.
Except I hadn’t.
Remember how I said I’ve always loved Election Day? That’s true. But I don’t always love the day after. And in 2016, well, you know….
Today is Inauguration Day. I will always respect the Office of the Presidency and, by extension, acknowledge the legitimacy of the person holding that office. If the candidate who lost the election can be present to witness the peaceful transfer of power, recognizing the supremacy of our democratic process over personal pain, then I can accept disappointment in the election result. It certainly isn’t the first time.
My first presidential election was in 1972: Richard Nixon versus George McGovern. The candidate I voted for that year lost too. Actually “lost” doesn’t begin to cover it. Richard Nixon got 520 electoral votes. George McGovern got 17. Three of McGovern’s votes were from the District of Columbia; 14 of them were from The Commonwealth of Massachusetts. You think the 2016 electoral map has a lot of red? On the 1972 map, the only visible blue (DC is too small for the color to show up) is a sliver on the top right. Of course, that election didn’t exactly work out. Watergate gave Bay Staters the opportunity for the ultimate bumper-sticker I-told-you-so: Don’t blame me—I’m from Massachusetts.
No, it’s not the first time I’ve been disappointed in election results. But this time, it’s different—even more concerning than Watergate. This time, the presidency was attained via a campaign that went beyond spouting insults to unleashing hatred and fear of anyone who is perceived as different. A campaign that denied press privileges to media outlets that dared to criticize it. A campaign led by a candidate who threatened that, if he were elected, two leading newspapers would “have problems” and who pledged to “open up our libel laws.”
As a writer, I find the attempted suppression of the media the most frightening aspect of this presidency. The First Amendment is first for a reason. As disturbing as all the other vitriol is, without a strong Fourth Estate, all rights are at risk. The first step in weakening a democracy is to weaken the freedom of the press.
But what can I, an individual with no power, do?
I realized something after this election. I realized that, while I have always voted, been passionate about voting, even majored in political science in college, I never really have been involved in the political process.
I’m spoiled. When you’re a Democrat in Massachusetts, it’s easy to become complacent. In the brilliant Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing, there is an episode where President Bartlett’s staff is at a rally in Boston during the re-election campaign. Josh and Sam are talking. One of them, questioning why they are there, asks if there was any chance the Democrats were going to lose Massachusetts. The answer was no. Of course it was no. Even in 1972 there was that shining sliver of blue in the top right.
Don’t blame me—I’m from Massachusetts.
That’s not good enough anymore.
When our core principles have been attacked by the person now charged with defending them, there is no room for complacency. For the first time, I feel compelled to play a role in civic life. What can I do? I’m a writer. I can write. In a small way, I can become part of the firewall that protects freedom of expression. But really, will that make any kind of difference at all?
I wrote the first draft of this essay a few days after the election. It helped, because writing is a way for me to create order from chaos. But I still felt very small. Then two things happened. First, I re-read the Tenth Amendment to the Constitution. We hear about this amendment fairly often because it’s where the assertion of states’ rights comes from: the powers not delegated to the United States are reserved to the states. But we don’t hear a lot about the last four words. Yes the rights “are reserved to the states respectively,” but that phrase is followed by “or to the people.” We do have the power, the constitutionally affirmed power. It doesn’t feel like it most of the time, but we do.
The second thing that happened was I attended a Writers Resist event. The room was overflowing. People were standing along the sides and sitting in the aisles. The event consisted entirely of writers reading short pieces affirming freedom of expression. Some read their own work; others read the works of the likes of John F. Kennedy, Henry David Thoreau, Angela Davis and W. H. Auden. Does such an exercise matter? All I know is, everyone in that room was committed to defending the First Amendment, and suddenly I didn’t feel so small. Many more of these events took place across the country simultaneously.
I have great faith in our democratic form of government. I think it is strong enough to persevere in the face of tremendous challenges. But it is not invincible. We cannot take it for granted. Each of us has to decide for ourselves what we can do. But if everyone does something, surely that matters.
Today is Inauguration Day. As he takes the oath of office, the new president will promise to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution. I hope he lives up to that promise. But we can’t leave it to him. While we may not put our hand on a Bible with the world as witness, shouldn’t we all pledge to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution? Shouldn’t each of us experience our own inauguration day?
I’ve framed my father’s note. It sits on my newly freed-up bookcase next to my favorite college textbook, one I will not discard: American Constitutional Law. It is a reminder of that first step I took as a contributing citizen and an inspiration to live up to the responsibility such citizenship demands.
Bumps, Scrapes and Kisses 
January 20, 2017
Not long ago I decided to clear out my bookcases. To say that I have been slow to do this is an understatement. I’d kept pretty much every book I’d ever owned. Every textbook from my college days. Every business book from my years in corporate America. Books inscribed with tender words from boyfriends of my youth, men now old enough to be grandfathers. But, reluctantly accepting the popular notion that you have to let go of the old to allow new things to find you, I thought, okay, it’s time.
The non-fiction was pretty easy. After all, how useful can a 30-year-old book on communicating via mass media be? It was the fiction that was tough. My rag-tag collections of Jane Austen and Dorothy Sayers may be made up of second-hand hardcovers and yellowing paperbacks, but they are well loved.
On the other hand, do I really need to hold on to this novel that I would likely never read again? I pulled it off the shelf, leafed through it and found a note on the back of an index card I must have been using as a bookmark. I recognized my father’s handwriting. He died in 1986, but I’d know his bold, block print anywhere. Written on the card were a name, address, phone number and the words Registration New Voter.
The memory came rushing back. I can see my father, who was active in local politics and had campaigned for JFK, standing in our kitchen, telling me the name of the person to contact to register. I was 18, and I was determined to have my voice heard through the ballot.
I’ve never lost that determination. In fact, I have always loved Election Day. To me, the duty and privilege of voting is a joy. I love the feeling of breezing into the polling place, smiling at the poll workers as they check off my street address and sliding my ballot into the machine to be counted.
I found my father’s note a few weeks before the 2016 Presidential Election. Here I was all these years later being reminded of my first step towards responsible citizenship as I witnessed a woman on the threshold of the American presidency. Election Day morning (No early voting for me. That would be like opening Christmas presents in November!) I put my father’s note, along with a copy of the Constitution, in my purse. Inside the voting booth I reminded myself not to rush, to savor the moment, to appreciate the history.
I drove out of the parking lot with tears in my eyes. I had voted for the first woman president.
Except I hadn’t.
Remember how I said I’ve always loved Election Day? That’s true. But I don’t always love the day after. And in 2016, well, you know….
Today is Inauguration Day. I will always respect the Office of the Presidency and, by extension, acknowledge the legitimacy of the person holding that office. If the candidate who lost the election can be present to witness the peaceful transfer of power, recognizing the supremacy of our democratic process over personal pain, then I can accept disappointment in the election result. It certainly isn’t the first time.
My first presidential election was in 1972: Richard Nixon versus George McGovern. The candidate I voted for that year lost too. Actually “lost” doesn’t begin to cover it. Richard Nixon got 520 electoral votes. George McGovern got 17. Three of McGovern’s votes were from the District of Columbia; 14 of them were from The Commonwealth of Massachusetts. You think the 2016 electoral map has a lot of red? On the 1972 map, the only visible blue (DC is too small for the color to show up) is a sliver on the top right. Of course, that election didn’t exactly work out. Watergate gave Bay Staters the opportunity for the ultimate bumper-sticker I-told-you-so: Don’t blame me—I’m from Massachusetts.
No, it’s not the first time I’ve been disappointed in election results. But this time, it’s different—even more concerning than Watergate. This time, the presidency was attained via a campaign that went beyond spouting insults to unleashing hatred and fear of anyone who is perceived as different. A campaign that denied press privileges to media outlets that dared to criticize it. A campaign led by a candidate who threatened that, if he were elected, two leading newspapers would “have problems” and who pledged to “open up our libel laws.”
As a writer, I find the attempted suppression of the media the most frightening aspect of this presidency. The First Amendment is first for a reason. As disturbing as all the other vitriol is, without a strong Fourth Estate, all rights are at risk. The first step in weakening a democracy is to weaken the freedom of the press.
But what can I, an individual with no power, do?
I realized something after this election. I realized that, while I have always voted, been passionate about voting, even majored in political science in college, I never really have been involved in the political process.
I’m spoiled. When you’re a Democrat in Massachusetts, it’s easy to become complacent. In the brilliant Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing, there is an episode where President Bartlett’s staff is at a rally in Boston during the re-election campaign. Josh and Sam are talking. One of them, questioning why they are there, asks if there was any chance the Democrats were going to lose Massachusetts. The answer was no. Of course it was no. Even in 1972 there was that shining sliver of blue in the top right.
Don’t blame me—I’m from Massachusetts.
That’s not good enough anymore.
When our core principles have been attacked by the person now charged with defending them, there is no room for complacency. For the first time, I feel compelled to play a role in civic life. What can I do? I’m a writer. I can write. In a small way, I can become part of the firewall that protects freedom of expression. But really, will that make any kind of difference at all?
I wrote the first draft of this essay a few days after the election. It helped, because writing is a way for me to create order from chaos. But I still felt very small. Then two things happened. First, I re-read the Tenth Amendment to the Constitution. We hear about this amendment fairly often because it’s where the assertion of states’ rights comes from: the powers not delegated to the United States are reserved to the states. But we don’t hear a lot about the last four words. Yes the rights “are reserved to the states respectively,” but that phrase is followed by “or to the people.” We do have the power, the constitutionally affirmed power. It doesn’t feel like it most of the time, but we do.
The second thing that happened was I attended a Writers Resist event. The room was overflowing. People were standing along the sides and sitting in the aisles. The event consisted entirely of writers reading short pieces affirming freedom of expression. Some read their own work; others read the works of the likes of John F. Kennedy, Henry David Thoreau, Angela Davis and W. H. Auden. Does such an exercise matter? All I know is, everyone in that room was committed to defending the First Amendment, and suddenly I didn’t feel so small. Many more of these events took place across the country simultaneously.
I have great faith in our democratic form of government. I think it is strong enough to persevere in the face of tremendous challenges. But it is not invincible. We cannot take it for granted. Each of us has to decide for ourselves what we can do. But if everyone does something, surely that matters.
Today is Inauguration Day. As he takes the oath of office, the new president will promise to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution. I hope he lives up to that promise. But we can’t leave it to him. While we may not put our hand on a Bible with the world as witness, shouldn’t we all pledge to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution? Shouldn’t each of us experience our own inauguration day?
I’ve framed my father’s note. It sits on my newly freed-up bookcase next to my favorite college textbook, one I will not discard: American Constitutional Law. It is a reminder of that first step I took as a contributing citizen and an inspiration to live up to the responsibility such citizenship demands.
© 2017 Elaine L. Ricci