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I remember my first time.
It was in 1990, and William Weld was running to become the first Republican governor of Massachusetts in 15 years.
His opponent, Democrat John Silber (then President of the Boston University), was infamous for one thing — his temerity in using sweeping, often offensive language. He reportedly called residents of traditionally black Boston neighborhoods “drug addicts,” referred to Jews as racists, indicated that it was a senior citizen’s “time to go” when they were “ripe,” and implied that working mothers contributed to child abuse and neglect.
After years of making November phone calls on cold New England nights; after urging people to go to the polls (long before I was old enough to); after encouraging anyone who answered the phone to vote the party line — before they removed the ‘party lever’ from the voting booth, that is — I voted Republican.
All my life, my family, my friends, and my acquaintances vilified Republicans, and there I was, voting for only my second time, scratching out my absentee ballot — for William Weld.
Before that day in October, I had never considered voting for a Republican. After that deflowering, my party affiliation became much more blurry. I changed my registration from Democrat to Independent. I decided to cast my vote for the person whose ideas I supported. I was not swayed by peer pressure, by tradition, or by rote to vote for the Democrat.
It Is a Secret, but…
Although I strongly believe voting is secret — I’ll tell you, I’ve skipped all over the electoral map — from the Green Party at the “progressive” end to the occasional Republican at other end of the spectrum. Although various election rules occasionally prohibit me from voting in a party’s primary elections, my independence has been well worth it.
Therefore, when my mother e-mailed me a few days ago asking whether I was going to vote for Barack Obama for President, it set me to thinking. Every four years my mother and I have this conversation. Every four years my answer disappoints her. Indeed, I have never voted for a Democrat for President. In my circle, this is akin to saying to heck with abortion rights, to heck with the Supreme Court, and kneeling to pray to effigies of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan.
I, rightly as it turned out, thought Bill Clinton was dodgy from the beginning. Al Gore was not as liberal as Ralph Nader, and John Kerry was not ready to report for duty.
A Safe Assumption?
As a progressive black woman, almost everyone assumes that Obama has my vote, because we share our skin color. The truth is, I still do not know whether I will vote for the Democratic nominee or not come November.
I am not one of those clichéd “undecideds” who, despite endless media coverage, claims to be unaware of each candidate’s agenda, or is waiting for some kind of epiphany. I’ve read his books. I’m pretty clear where Senator Obama stands.
My hesitation in voting for Senator Obama stems from my tenuous association with the Democratic Party. My relationship with the party is like my relationship with white women feminists. Our allegiances may appear aligned, but I cannot help the feeling that either may abandon me at any moment.
I still feel slighted by Al Gore’s unwillingness to stand up for African American disenfranchisement in Florida in 2000, and Kerry’s unwillingness to stand up for African American disenfranchisement in Ohio in 2004. Not to mention my feeling of betrayal following fellow alumnae Gloria Steinem’s January The New York Times op-ed piece.
How to Shock People
When people find out I am not a Democrat, they are shocked. Then they try to convince me to change my mind.
“But, but Democrats stand with you,” they say.
“Only the Democrats understand your pain, and your struggle,” they cry.
“No other party will represent your issues,” they tell me.
“Look,” they say, pointing, “just look at all the progress ‘your people’ have made with Democratic help.”
I ignore them.
Instead, I look at my 87-year-old grandmother. After nearly 70 years of religiously rising at 5 o’clock in the morning and being the first to vote in her Brooklyn, New York, precinct, our near 90 percent alliance with Democrats is looking like a lopsided relationship. My grandmother’s East New York neighborhood has fallen down around her swollen ankles. A few times a year I sojourn to her house – past vacant lots, and idle boys, and potholed streets – convinced that Democrats have not held up their end of the bargain.
When I fret about my “brothers” being pulled over routinely by the police, suffering the daily indignity of being the featured “suspect” on the nightly news, and facing by some counts a 50 percent unemployment rate, I know the train carrying African Americans and Democrats toward the future has run off the rails.
Do I think Republicans can assist us in fixing our neighborhoods and schools? Probably not. There are more than two choices when one casts a vote, however. I dread lending support to people who ask for my vote and give little or nothing in return, leaving me to relentless gun violence, dying public schools, and almost non-existent affirmative action.
None of this answers my mother’s question. Will I vote for Barack Obama? Perhaps. He may live up to the hype, truly representing a new kind of politics. Maybe his experience of living as a black man in the United States for a majority of his life will prompt him to remember the rest of us once we do our part at the ballot box. I have not made a decision, but this November may herald another first time for me.
Jessica Gadsden has been controversial since the day she discovered her inner soapbox. She excoriated the cheerleaders on the editorial page of her high school paper, transferred from a co-educational university to a women's college to protest the gender biased curfew policy, published a newspaper in law school that raked the dean over the coals with (among other things) the headline, "Law School Supports Drug Use"—and that was before she got serious about speaking out. Progressive doesn't begin to define her political views. She's a reformed lawyer, and full time novelist who writes under a pseudonym, of course.This will mark the debut of our newest, and perhaps most charismatic, weekly essayist. A Brooklyn native, she divided her college years between Hampton University and Smith.
