Politics, politics everywhere, teaching me how to think
How the quest to identify my first political act turned a timeline into an infinite loop.
Identifying the origin of something that has been omnipresent in your life is oddly challenging. I was recently asked about my first political act, and had a tough time nailing it down. Politics has always been a part of my life, even passively from an early age. Some of my earliest memories are of the excitement that accompanied my “weeknight sleepovers.”
Early every November, thanks to the generosity of our family friends, my sister and I would pack up our sleeping bags and trek two blocks over for a Monday night slumber party. Whether in major elections or off-year local contests, my parents both volunteered for the earliest shift at our local polling place, which necessitated their arrival at 5:00am day-of (before then going to a standard work day), and required someone to keep an eye on us kids and get us safely onto the bus that day. To me, at the age of 6, this meant a fun excursion on a school night.
Looking back, this also established a much more subtle and pervasive foundation in our minds — this is what you do. Political participation is important, they need volunteers, so you go help out. This became a running theme throughout my upbringing, which (as with anything we are raised with) just seemed normal to me, but certainly had a significant impact on my understanding of the standard contributions of an active citizen. Senator Richard Lugar’s grandson attended my elementary school, so he was sort of a fixture around major school events from my earliest years. I never questioned it, the way you never question any of the norms to which you are exposed from an early age. You mean other people DIDN’T complete every single elementary school project on the back of surplus political posters? Huh. Interesting. Literally, it wasn’t until I was in college that I even knew where you could buy posterboard — I assumed everyone got it from a massive stack in the garage.
Our evening walks around the neighborhood just happened to include brief stops at neighbors’ houses to offer them signs to post in their yards. Perhaps it is for this reason that it seemed perfectly natural to proclaim in the fall of 1989 (when I was all of 6) that I would be portraying Sandra Day O’Connor for Halloween that year. Sporting my father’s graduation gown and a customized white wig, I happily escorted my sister (dressed as a princess- we must have been a stunning portrayal of the broad spectrum of feminist ideals) around the neighborhood.
I suppose my first active political engagement is to the credit of Beverly Cleary. I was raised a member of a cat household, I was fascinated by arrival of a first family who had feline, rather than canine, affiliation. As an avid deciple of Ramona Quimby, I was further intrigued to note that their cats shared a name.
So, what is an 12-year-old with high political efficacy to do? Why, write a letter to Chelsea Clinton, of course. I inquired as to the origin of her cat’s name, wondering if we shared both an awkward adolescence AND a devoted literary affinity. I received a form letter and autographed headshot of the Commander in Chief, which I promptly framed and have to this day (buried in a box somewhere, I’m sure).
Had any of these pursuits been nipped in the bud or permitted to fizzle out, it is likely that the trajectory of my life would have gone in an entirely different direction. So for my current life as a professional civics nerd (who dabbles in teaching), I owe thanks to those hospitable family friends, politically active (& crafty) parents, and the literary aficionado first daughter of the 1990s. Once I spread my wings (relatively) and headed off to college, I took political initiative with my own unique brand of awkward.
My freshman year, Ball State University hosted a week of multicultural events, called UniverCity. Speakers included Cornell West, Greg Feribach, and one of my personal childhood idols, Linda Ellerbee. Saturday mornings in the home of my youth rang with the sounds of Nick News. So I dragged my friends to hear her speak about her experience with breast cancer, star-struck sitting in the front row with my copy of And So It Goes, autograph-ready. At the end of her talk, when they announced that she would not be available for Q&A or book signings, I lost all semblance of propriety, and bellowed across the crowd, “Ms. Ellerbee — can I have a hug?” This only strengthened my resolve in the idea that often, the worst someone can tell you is NO. And sometimes — SOMETIMES — they say yes. A decade later, the same philosophy landed me an annual trip with my AP Government classes to Washington D.C., hopefully sparking a fascination in political goings-on in the next generation.
Politicolor Sketchbook is collecting stories like this. Are you thinking about the story you could tell? Write it and join us.
