Election Day

It's the Monday before election day, and I'm on solo shift at the bar. It's a sleepy late afternoon, and my three patrons and I exchange pleasantries between sips of craft beer.

One customer, a portly man who looks like a 40-something Santa Claus (sans beard but all twinkling eyes) , grins at me over his fourth bourbon-ale and asks me the following question:

"So Chris: what is this election for? Who are we voting for tomorrow?"

I laugh and demur, eventually mumbling something about being registered in Ohio. I look around at my other customers, and no one pipes up. I don't think any of us has any idea what the local contests are about , or even what the issues are.

I wonder aloud if my (our?)  ignorance is typical of the American populace. Another of my customers, an Englishman on holiday visiting his daughter who lives in a nearby apartment building, assures me that Americans' lack of knowledge of their own political system is typical. He guesses that only 50% of the American electorate is registered to vote, and that only half of this group actually votes.

The group of us at the bar starts talking at once, demanding the Englishman's source. Obviously he hasn't gotten over America's successful move to independence, and is spouting nonsense.

A cursory Google search (on the brewery's POS system aka an iPad)  puts the debate to rest:

Of the electorate that is eligible to vote in the U.S., only 57.5 % actually voted for president in 2012.  In fact for the last three presidential elections, participation has sat between 55% and 60% of the eligible voting populace. And on an off year election year like this when we aren't voting for president, I can imagine that number is much lower. So, while the Englishman's stats are off, it's pretty clear that the American public's participation in its own democracy is pretty weak.

That Google search took a lot out of us. After a long sip of beer to recover some semblance of pride (and to cover our shame at our abysmal showing in the world's most successful political experiment), Santa Claus offers up an explanation for why people don't vote:

"It must be because things are pretty good in America. People say 'fuck voting'  because they're pretty damn satisfied with the world."

The Englishman makes a face as though there was a real possibility that Santa's right. The other patrons cast fugitive looks at Santa, obviously interested in this nugget of opinion. Santa, satisfied with his assessment and not feeling the need to elaborate, orders a fifth ale, and tips generously.

Sometimes, balls out, unnuanced, bald faced white privilege catches me unawares, and I'm left with a sensation not altogether unlike the out of body experience of jumping into a freezing lake on a brilliant June day--shock, and then odd refreshment. I pour a little bit of beer out for myself.

As a black millennial who, at this juncture, spends most of my time (outside of my job at the bar) with persons of color and other millenials, I rarely hear sentiments of gratitude surrounding the American condition. The death of black people everywhere at the hands of the police has brought about  a real and pronounced suffering over the last couple of years. I still tear up when I remember the South Carolinians bible study gunned down in church. A dark cloud descends over me when I think about Eric Garner's murder, and the blatant injustice of the cop that beat the charge. I become incensed when I try for the umpteenth time to understand the death of Tamir Rice, a mere child, mowed down by white fear. And these don't even to speak of the acts of racial violence that I've experienced in my life, first hand.

The supposition that we don't vote because we are satisfied runs counter to the fact that I'm of an age that graduated college into a historic recession, and am experiencing the crushing burden of unremitting student debt.  It contradicts the legitimized slave labor of unpaid internships that I and my peers have had to endure, and the ignominy of knowing that the American promise of outstripping the generations before us has stalled.

As Santa orders beer number 6 ( this Monday afternoon, he's not playing around), I finally find my voice.

"Couldn't it be," I say to him, "that people don't vote because they're just lazy. Or maybe it's that they've lost faith that government can actually make the dramatic change that we're looking for.  It's not that they're  happy about the way things are."

"Maybe,"  replies Santa, his eyes twinkling with Christmastime intensity.  "But be honest. YOU'RE pretty complacent, aren't you?"

I want to say no. That I'm changing things. That I'm down with the cause, fighting the good fight. That I'm beyond making trite advances at the problem. I'm the real deal.

My heart, however, knows better.