State Fair Thoughts

It really is the end of summer. John goes off to kindergarten tomorrow morning. Here are some things we accomplished at the Fair:

• John got a t-shirt from the smooth jazz radio station he loves. BIG thrill there. He immediately changed into it.

• I won NOTHING. @#$%!&* East German judges. I'm already plotting for next year.

• $30 worth of ride tickets goes slightly slower on Kids' Day. Not much slower, but a little slower.

• We saw Walter Mondale. Very cool.

• Maia went on her first carousel ride. She was gripped the pole tightly, then began to shake with fear as the horse moved up and down. After one down-up, she was screaming with laughter and joy. I wish I'd brought my camera, but that face will be in my mind forever, really.

• John found a ride he loved, too, called Flying Tigers, and his undiluted fun was wonderful to see.

• John bought, with his own money, a pink fluffy glittery stuffed unicorn with a silvery glittery collar. He can't decide whether to name her Pink or Silver.

• We ended the day with a nice slow ride on the skyride. Perfect.

• Mini-donuts, corn dog, fries and pop. No nutritional redemption whatsoever.

Conspiracy

I'm a lukewarm conspiracy person. I'll never be the one to research the grassy knoll or UFOs, but as soon as someone proves anything about a cover-up or destroyed files or silenced witnesses and I'm the first one in the line for those Cynically Not Surprised.

But I've stumbled across some proof for the Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy bandied about by our side when we're feeling defensive. I didn't see at first, but when all the pieces are together, the picture becomes clear.

The Republicans have been pushing for months the charge that John Kerry is a flip-flopper. One of their most damning examples, they say, is the fact that he fought and served honorably in Viet Nam (honorably, they say, only when it fits their argument) and then came home, turned around and denounced the war on TV in front of a Congressional committee.

(You know, isn't it terrible when someone does his duty, then does some hard thinking and realizes that what he's doing is morally wrong? Then tries to tell someone how wrong it is? Yeah, I hate that.)

Anyway, so Republicans are repeating the "flip-flop" charge in the hopes of making it stick. They bring what we used to call shower thongs (bleck) to Kerry rallies and clap them to make their point. Oh, those masters of debate, those Republican supporters.

Now, I'm going to make a confession. It seems like a change of topic, but stay with me. I love getting catalogs. I love looking through catalogs. I love looking at knick knacks and mocking them silently but affectionately in my head. I look at appliqued sweatshirts and silverplate earrings and china boxes and while I do not want them, I see the appeal.

Judging from my catalogs, the new thing this year is...flip-flops. Catalogs like Lilian Vernon and Catalog Favorites and so on are selling accessories with a flip-flop theme. There's a necklace with a flip-flop pendant. Flip-flop earrings. A skirt, for God's sake, printed with multicolored flip-flops. Here's a scary example. You can buy a flip-flop charm bracelet to pull the whole look together. At my grocery store, on the cheap-jewelry display, there are ropes of flip-flop necklaces to give your outfit that last kicky look of summer.

Who wants to wear flip-flops? Back in the day, and I used this phrase earlier, they were called shower thongs and you wore them at camp to make sure you didn't get some kind of fungus that lived in the communal shower and was brought in by Other Kids. Then your shower thongs would get slimy and gross, and you threw them away when you were done with them. Hardly high fashion. And now suddenly, flip-flops are the New Black, especially among the catalog crowd and those who buy accessories at grocery stores.

Coincidence? I don't think so. I'd like to see the voting demographics on catalog shoppers.

Erasing History

I'd like to tell you a little bit about Floyd B. Olson, who was elected governor of Minnesota three times in the 1930s. He helped forge the Farmer-Labor party, which was a hell of a lot of work, since he had to hold together an alliance of the Nonpartisan League (farmers), organized labor, and small businesses.

He had a strong, engaging personality. His policies helped Minnesota through the depression. His enemies branded him a communist, and he was unapologetic in his advocacy of state ownership of industry and utilities. "I do not mind being called 'red,'" he said. "I would prefer it to the term 'yellow.'"

There is a statue of Floyd B. Olson in the Minnesota Capitol, and there is a Floyd B. Olson Memorial Highway. Fitting tributes for a man who brought the state through the Great Depression, was popular and a true leader.

Now I'd like tell you a little bit about the Minnesota Taxpayers League.

They would like to erase any official mention of Olson. They want to tear down the statue and rename the highway. I think their press release says it best: "'Red' Governor's Name should be replaced by Communist Regime Slayer Ronald Reagan."

(What a title! It makes me want to write a heavy metal song.)

I don't use "erase" lightly. They want to wipe out any mention of Olson and replace it with a party man on the other side of the spectrum. The symbolism is blunt and the insult palpable.

The league describes itself as the state's premier spokesman [sic] for free-market principles. They are almost always automatically against things like new public transportation ideas, progressive taxation, and similar proposals. As I see now, however, it's also for raising taxes by tearing down statues, putting up new statues, and changing signs along highways.

Besides, Olson's middle name is Bjernstjerne. That name alone deserves its own recognition.

One Dead, One Wounded

People who work against abortion rights, who call themselves "pro-life," often use the phrase "one dead, one wounded" to describe a woman who's had an abortion. I think it describes, quite nicely, what is happening to the families in this country because of Bush's ill-conceived, fraudulent war.

Yesterday in Florida, a man was told his son had been killed in Iraq. A couple of Marines had driven to the father's house in a van, to tell him in person. When he found out, he took some gasoline and lit the Marines' van on fire. Then he climbed inside.

His son was on his second tour to Iraq. They were immigrants, although the son was born in the States. According to news accounts, the man was distraught during his son's first tour, ecstatic when the boy returned.

Damage beyond the blasts.

Another Mystery

Calling all birders!

We have a mystery bird at the Edit Barn. It is shy and wily, but noisy. We haven't gotten close enough to even see how big it is. At sunset, it begins to call. About every 10 seconds or so, it gives a shriek. Sort of a "wheek!" But sometimes it changes. "Whar. Whrack. Wheet? Wheek!"

Imagine that, every 10 seconds, all night long. All. Night. Long. The bird seems to kind of circulate on the property, sticking to the high trees. It stops right around sunrise.

It sounds like a large bird. There's a lot of power behind it. It sounds like a raptor. But what non-owl calls all night long?

Any ideas?

What's Taking So Long?

I brought the jams in last week. I brought the pies in on Sunday. I've heard that the judging is done on the former and likely finished on the latter. So where are the results? Why aren't they online yet? I must know!

Even when one is out of one's league, there's still an inclination to hope anyway. I am competing against hard-core State Fair bakers and canners -- little old ladies whose eyes glitter and whose grandmotherly smiles disguise dog-show competitiveness. But still, what if my entries...what if...

I'm worried about my apple pie. I was a bad baker and forgot to check my ingredients before I started, so at 9 p.m. the night before the pies were due, I found I was out of shortening for the crust. No problem, I figured; I'll use butter instead. I was a quarter-cup short of butter as well. So I threw in some half'n'half and hoped for the best.

It turned out well, I think -- a little heavy and biscuity, but still tender and flaky. (How's that for a commercial?) I peeled the apples, which I rarely do, and added cinammon to the crust. The lattice was handsome and capable -- seven strips on each side. It smelled fantastic.

As I was checking in, just before I relinquished custody of the pie, Maia reached and pulled off a handful of lattice. All of the check-in volunteers gasped. Other contestants looked sympathetic and triumphant at the same time. Maia looked at the handful of lattice, looked at me, and said in her Shirley Temple voice, "Uh-oh!"

It reattached fairly well. I know it won't win, but it's fun to think about.

Swing-State Living

John Kerry will be visiting Minnesota yet again this week. Bush was here last week. I was thinking about going to the protest against Bush, but a variety of things kept me from going. Matt went, though, and got in a few faces.

I was thinking out loud about going to see Kerry, when Matt said, "I think you should. Take John to a happy rally for once, instead of an angry one."

He's right. I've been taking the kids to rallies and protests for years, but lately, they've all been angry ones -- we marched in February 2003 with millions around the world against war in Iraq. We marched the day war was declared. We've protested Bush's work here in Minnesota many times.

John has made a couple of his own signs. One says "No war" and has a big happy face on it -- he worried, when he drew it, that by using a happy face, people might think he was FOR war, instead of against it.

Another one says "No Bush. Bush go home. Bush is 3." The ultimate insult from a five-year-old.

The last fun rallies we went to were for Paul Wellstone. He knew John by name and when he saw him at rallies, he'd call "Hi, John!" from the podium, and then push through the crowd to hug him.

Our political work has been hard and angry since 2002. This week we'll take a little break and cheer for instead of work against.

Welcome to the Edit Barn. N-Joy Your Stay

To whoever did a search on the letter N and found yourself here (out of 72,388,426 other pages): I hope you found what you were looking for.

Gawd Bless Murca, Part II

Last night John and I were playing with his K'nex. We were building robots, who we would then pose and make the other person guess what they were doing.

I put a long K'nex in my robot's hands and pulled it over its shoulder. I thought it was fairly obvious that it was playing baseball. But I was wrong.

John: Is it holding a flag?

Me: No.

John: Is it holding a banner?

Me: No, not that either.

John: Is it taking off all its clothes running down the street singing "The Star-Spangled Banner?"

Apparently I'd used that phrase before, in an unrelated context, many months ago. See, kids DO listen to what you say.

Good News, Bad News

Didn't see this until now...at the beginning of August, the UFCW in Jonquière, Quebec, won recognition at the Wal-Mart there. A hearing will be held today to determine the makeup of the bargaining unit.

Well done, workers! Forward! But I have a feeling the contract negotiations will drag on for months and be taken to court over and over. They don't bust unions with brickbats and police batons much anymore -- they bust them with a pen.

In not-so-good news, United Airlines said it would likely cancel its pension plans to help itself emerge from bankruptcy. All those years people put into working and saving up through defined pension benefits -- sorry, we kinda couldn't manage our company very well, so we'll just be taking this, thanks.

And nothing happens. No consequences. And the most you get out of the union leaders is, "Well, that's unfortunate. We're angry." If they occupied an office or held massive walk-offs or sickouts, they might have a little more influence.

When You Hear "Injured", Think "Maimed"

I don't know about you, but when I hear reports of injuries coming out of Iraq, I think "bullet wound in the shoulder, like in the movies." I think "broken glass skimming across the forehead, giving the opportunity to wear a tough-looking bandage." I think "piece of shrapnel in the leg, carefully and completely removed by a competent doctor and treated with antibiotics, the result being a limp when it rains."

Yep, I'm ignorant. Fortunately, I got a little education yesterday.

This is third-hand information, so take it as you will. The woman I work with has a close friend whose son is a colonel in Iraq. He e-mails his folks every day, and he's gotten so frustrated with what's going on there she's worried he might do something stupid. The other day he wrote to her about casualties -- a casualty report unlike the ones in the newspaper.

(And incidentally, have you noticed how reporting on the casualties has changed? No longer front-page, no longer leading the evening news. They've dropped, graf by graf, in the newspaper stories, and sometimes you have to look after the jump, inside the paper. Slowly. But it's happening.)

The colonel said he is in despair because of what he's seen. In the area he oversees, there have been 952 limb amputations.

Nine hundred and fifty-two.

It's a blast war. Not a bullet war. Now I know that, and now I know the difference.

The Anticipated Absence

You, the blog reader, should immediately click upon the "next blog" button at the top of the screen, so as to avoid reading further on this blog. I am about to call attention to a collection of books full of disturbing accounts that make for unpleasant reading. To avoid despair, please turn off your computer and find something more cheerful to do with your time, like learning about snails.

I found out yesterday that Lemony Snicket's new book, The Grim Grotto, will unfortunately be released on September 21. If you have not read any books in the Series of Unfortunate Events, then I suggest that you do not start. If you have, then you may share in my feelings of despair of having to read more of the tragic adventures of the Beaudelaire children.

I will likely not blog on September 21. I'll have my nose in a book.

Not So Smooth

When you have a baby, people tell you that you will fall in love with it. You quietly think they are full of crap because it's difficult to fall in love when your nips are raw from nursing, you're falling asleep every time the baby lies still for seven seconds, and you can't quite remember why you thought having a baby was a good idea.

And then, the baby smiles at you. She squeals. She puts her arms up to you when you come to pick her up. You try to outdo yourself for better reactions. I remember one night when John had just mastered a belly laugh. I was giving him a bath and everything I did made him screech and gurgle with laughter -- until I made a silly face. His smile faded a bit, his eyes grew puzzled. He gave a polite little "heh," which, coming from a 14-month-old, was somehow more crushing than a perfunctory Valentine from an eighth-grade crush. My antics had become tiresome. I felt like my boyfriend had just told me my bangs were lame.

It was then I realized I had fallen in love, truly. And sometimes, love can really stink.

John is more than ready for kindergarten. He is chafing at staying at home with me all day. We grizzle at each other almost like a married couple, going after the same arguments every day. He is 5 going on 15 and has an attitude of a skateboarder, putting his hand on his hip and turning his other leg out when I tell him to pick up his stuff.

"Who wants a mama like you? I sure don't," he said today. Not to my face; not yet. But from another room, and then repeated, fearful that I would hear, and yet wanting me to.

I'm surprised that I didn't squirt blood from my eyes like a horned toad -- my blood pressure went up that hard, that fast. What do you say to something like that?

I tell myself he doesn't mean it -- he's anxious about school starting, he's tired of me (with good reason), he needs to be with kids his own age more. Still, when you fall in love with someone, even the words they don't mean can still hurt.

More Sooner Rather Than Later

The Edit Barn has been down due to a trip to Lake Superior, rescuing a five-year-old Power Ranger who fell into said lake, and taking jam to the fair. It will be up again shortly.

Speaking the Truth

It is easy to ascribe prophetic powers to very young children. For some reason, it's hard *not* to. In those first few weeks of taking care of my children, I felt like every song I sang would influence them, that the first eye contact I made with them would be a memory they carried forever.

And of course to some extent that is true. But it's funny that I feel that when toddlers are just learning to speak, everything they say is true.

I don't mean the comments you hear from older children who say what everyone else is thinking: "That man is fat! Your shirt is weird looking! Why does your breath smell funny?" And so on.

I mean the almost mystical pronouncements that children under three can give us when we least expect it, that show just how very new they still are, how unused to living in this world.

The other day we drove through the little town where John and Maia were born. "We're going past a special building soon," I said.

"What, where?" cried John, looking out the window. Then he saw the sign and said, "The hospital! Where I was born and Maia was born!"

"Do you remember that?" I asked him.

"I remember when Maia was born. But not when I was!"

"Well, where were you before you were born?"

"In your womb," he said.

"I mean before that. Where were you before that?"

He stopped and thought for some time. Then, "I don't remember."

I turned the rear-view mirror so I could see Maia. "How about you, Maia? Do you remember where you were before you were born?"

"Yah," she said, nodding.

"Where?"

"There," she said clearly, pointing out the window at the sky.

I believed her.

Letter From a Mother

Dear Ms. T.:

I see you are going to be John's kindergarten teacher. We got the letter yesterday confirming his teacher's name and whether he'll be in morning or afternoon kindergarten.

I am not trying to tell you how to do your job. But there are some things about John I would like you to know.

Ms. T., he will do just about anything you ask him to. Please use your power wisely. He is so eager to learn and ready to try new things, it is easy to manipulate him.

He is a Power Ranger with prophet hair and a tender heart. In any situation he is ready to offer a hug or clench his hands into defiant fists. His world quickly falls into moral absolutes, and I'll just tell you right now he's ready to offer an opinion on the presidential race. He might ask you if you're a union member.

Please do not diminish his empathy or expression of feelings. If someone gets hurt in your classroom, John is likely to feel it, too. Stories of people getting hurt or lost are likely to send him into a serious blue period, and you may have to gently bring his attention back to what you're doing in class.

An example: He's decided to stop looking at his "Noah's Ark" illustrated story after realizing that the flood drowned everyone, including little babies, who wasn't in the ark. "But I LIKE little babies," he whispered, eyes filling with tears.

I'm just trying to give you an idea of what you'll be dealing with.

We have taught him to use his words when he is feeling frustrated or angry, or wants to be alone. He is not trying to be a brat when he is being honest. I know sometimes it's hard to tell the difference -- it's hard to stay calm when someone says "I don't want to BE with you right now!" instead of taking him for his word and walking away until both of us are calmer.

While tender, he is also tough. He is your average five-year-old in that he can be stubborn, obnoxious, silly, loud and physically daring. He can read well and do some math.

I won't be one of Those Parents. I know you will have many children with many different abilities to look after, and that you take your job very seriously. What I'm trying to say is that I love my son so much. You are the first non-family authority figure he is going to love, and in giving you his own heart, he's giving you mine as well.

Thoughts on Baseball, Pt. 1

I'm tired of empty gestures. I was so ready, on September 12, 2001, to jump up and do whatever was asked to make this a better world -- the people of this country were poised to build and create and reach out and change, but the only challenge we got from the country's "leaders" was go out and buy flags with "Made in China" stamped on them.

After irony was declared dead, it took a few months for it to revive itself. I think I felt that healthy cynicism creeping back the first time I saw a gas-station sign that said "GOD BLESS AMERICA SEPT. 11 MARLBOROS $21.99/CASE CHEAP SMOKES!!!!" or something along those lines. One of the biggest opportunities I've ever missed was taking edgy photos of all those signs across the country in the months after the attacks and publishing them in a large glossy coffee-table book. I like to think that would have made a lot of money.

Now, even many of the "SUPPORT OUR TROOPS! CHEETOS 3/$1" are gone. But in case you've forgotten we're at war, and that we are supposed to never forget a large variety of things, we've still got the ruination of the Seventh Inning Stretch.

At the Metrodome, which the Minnesota Twins call home, they played "Proud to be an American" for a few months after the attacks, before "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." The song should be outlawed for a variety of offenses -- plodding melody, vapid lyrics, craven jingoism and patriotism for all the wrong reasons. No one should have to stand up for it, let alone sing it and enjoy it.

Now they've switched to "God Bless America," a song people have a vague idea about, although "white with foam" slips most people's minds, for some reason. "God Bless America," and THEN "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."

I've had it. I'm at a baseball game, spending on credit, eating disgustingly delicious foods full of nitrites, nitrates and preservatives, drinking beer, caring desperately about a game. What could be more American than that? I'd say singing "God Bless America" at the stretch gilds the baseball lily, but that would be giving the gesture too much credit.

Pie Wagon Post Script

Really, this isn't about Ann Coulter. In fact, if you read it carefully, it doesn't even have to be about her words. This can taken as a heartwarming description of a trip to the dentist.

John lost his first tooth without incident in May, his right bottom front middle tooth (which I believe is the scientific term for it). A couple of weeks ago, I was examining the left bottom front middle tooth for signs of looseness, and realized that the adult tooth had erupted about an eighth of an inch behind the baby tooth, shark-style.

Well, that was just a little weird. So we made an appointment to see the dentist today. After a shockingly fast cleaning ("Not a lot of scaling on kids!" the hygenist said cheerfully), John was sent home with a new toothbrush, a fake-crystal bracelet from the treasure chest, and instructions to "wiggle and twist" the tooth until it comes out (not in front of Mom, of course).

While we were waiting for John to go in, we read "Clifford at the Circus," which outlined the adventures of the big red dog and Emily Elizabeth when they attended the circus. Apparently it was Failure Day under the Big Top as an elephant was sick, the Human Cannonball ran out of gunpowder, and Clifford sniffed some cotton candy -- and holders! -- up his nose.

The clowns needed help as well, so Clifford obligingly dressed up and put on some makeup to lend a paw. We turned the page to see him as a clown, and there it was. A pie wagon. A real, live pie wagon, in color. It's where clowns get their whipped-cream pies to throw at each other! I know this now because it even had "pie wagon" emblazoned on the side in an appropriately circus-y typeface.

It wasn't hirsute, though, so I can't tell you how that would look.

Authenticity

Last year, our apple tree went crazy.

It went through a reproductive frenzy that would have impressed the Catholics. It burgeoned with apples.

I made a few pies and saw that pie production would not be able to keep up with apple production. I went through "The Joy of Cooking" (old version) and decided to use up the apples by making jelly.

It was a hot, messy, sticky business. I came up with a lot of underboiled batches and burned fingers. But I had a lot of apples to practice on, and in the end I came up with several jars of golden, sparkling apple jelly.

Let me just say here that making jelly and jam is a beautiful business. Apple jelly is like spun gold. Rhubarb strawberry jam looks like pieces of rubies in wine. Last night I made raspberry jam, and the crushed berries and sugar looked almost like blood -- a bright, flat red smeared throughout the steel pot.

I entered some apple jelly in the State Fair last year. That's what you do with jelly, right? I didn't win anything but had such fun with it I'm entering more this year. Unfortunately, this year our apple tree seems to have some kind of rust or parasite. We will harvest no apples. But I did discover some raspberry bushes, so I will enter strawberry-rhubarb jam and raspberry jam this year.

The thing is, I have this authenticity hang-up. I would never have entered anything in the fair if we hadn't had such a harvest. I would never have gone to the store, bought some apples and then made jelly. The rhubarb was from our patch. The raspberries were newly discovered. I had to buy the strawberries, but they were local.

Also, I use no pectin. I have heard it's nearly impossible to get it right, and frankly, it seems like cheating. I felt bad that I put some cut-up apple in the raspberry jam last night. Does this put me at a disadvantage? Probably. My strawberry-rhubarb jam turned out more like preserves. Will I be downgraded because it doesn't hold its shape or sparkle the way a jam made with strawberry Jell-O does? Who wants to put Jell-O in a jam? Yuck.

You hear the stories about the jelly-maker who knew a chemist and used the centrifuge to separate the juice, ending up with one pint of glass-clear jelly and the blue ribbon. That's one way to make jelly. Another way is to make all the jelly you can with all the apples off your tree, and choose the two best half-pints to enter. I suppose both are equally valid to the letter. But it's the spirit of the fair I enjoy.

It sounds disingenuous to say I'm just in it for the work and the fun. Frankly, I would be thrilled to pieces if I won anything in the fair -- I'm competing against people who have been canning for years. But there is a little part of me that says, "I did it the old-fashioned way." And I do take pleasure from the work and mess that go into it as well, and seeing the jars, back-lit and glittering, in the cases at the Fair, whether they have ribbons or not.

Three Words

Maia has started saying two-word sentences, which is a milestone in childhood development. She started a couple of weeks ago, and has been adding sentences almost daily.

A few common phrases:

"All done broom" means "I see we have arrived at our destination safely and are preparing to disembark from the vehicle." ("Broom" means car, possibly an imitative sound of Matt's diesel truck.)

"Dahn -- seepy?" means "I note my brother is not here. This can only mean that he has retired for the night; am I correct?"

"Moy doos" means "My cup is empty and I would appreciate it if someone refilled it with juice." A one-word alternative is "numbnuts," which for some reason means "I'm thirsty; where is my sippy cup?"

"Nak! Pees!" means "I am in need of nourishment -- not a full meal, just a little something, if you please."

She made a leap yesterday and risked a three-word sentence. We had just gotten home from day care and were walking into the house. I saw a cake pan outside filled with rainwater and bubble solution. I tipped the pan to empty it so Maia couldn't play in it; in doing so, I spilled much of it on my boot.

"Boot! Wet!" she cried as I held the door open for her.

"That's right!" I said. "My boot is wet. I spilled some water on it."

"Mess," Maia observed.

"Yeah, I made a mess on my boot. Mama's boot is all wet."

For some reason, that last sentence caught her. "Boot, wet," she said mournfully. But then stopped. "Mama, boot," she added tentatively.

"Yes," I said. "Mama's boot. Mama's boot is all wet."

It's a simple sentence, and a simple idea. "Mama" modifies "boot." "Wet" modifies "boot," which is "mama's." It's not just any boot, it's Mama's boot. And now it's wet.

The three concepts overwhelmed her. She laughed out loud. She stopped walking, so she could devote all her strength to this new thought, this new way of thinking.

"Mama. Boot," she said. "Boot. Wet. Mama! Mama boot!"

She sat down, clearly because she had stopped thinking about standing. She looked up at me and said with triumph: "Mama boot WET!"

Indeed.

Economic Terrorism

I saw an interesting fact today from the UFCW. Again, I haven't figured out how to format quotes, so here it is just laid out:

"In 1970, the country's largest employer was General Motors, with 350,000 workers. Overwhelmingly union, they earned $17.50 an hour plus health, pension and vacation benefits and cost-of-living increases."

Do you know what the country's largest private non-governmental employer is? Many people don't. Again from the UFCW:

"Today, the country's largest employer is Wal-Mart, with over 1 million US workers. They earn an average hourly wage of $8.00, with no defined benefit pension, and inadequate health care."

We're hearing a lot about terrorism, especially with the localized, better-late-than-never Orange Alert. We're hearing about how "they" hate "us" and want to smash our economic system, because it's symbol of our success and represents the freedom, opportunity and beauty that define America.

I say, smash away. Suppressing wages and busting unions is economic terrorism. Wal-Mart, by paying $8 an hour and short-changing people on health care, is waging war on this nation. Low wages and people relying on public health are going to bring this nation down a lot sooner and faster than a couple of airplanes in a couple of towers. The results will reach farther and be more devastating than we can imagine. It's starting now.

I AM Voting My Conscience

I’ve been hearing a lot about the progressive movement, the self-described conscience of the DFL (here in MN) and the Democratic Party. Kucinich’s candidacy brought to the forefront a lot of concerns people have about the party, and brought opportunities to speak about dissent within the ranks.

Has party leadership embraced it? No. Should it? Who knows? I won’t, and that’s what I’m blogging about today.

I’ll be the first in line to stand up and say there are problems with the Democratic Party. We’re slow to react. We’re terminally reluctant to fight fire with fire. We demand loyalty and are quick to forgive when it’s not won. Most of all, we’ve fallen into the habit of letting the other side define our issues for us, and now we’re letting the “progressive” movement do that as well.

I resent being told to vote my conscience. This battle-cry for third-party supporters and progressives who break with the party implies that I haven’t considered all the options. It implies that I have considered all the options and am making a willfully bad decision.

My conscience tells me that when people’s economic interests are met, they can take the time to educate themselves on the issues of the day, are in a financial position to work actively for the side they believe in, and can become integral parts in building a just society.

My conscience tells me that peace in Iraq is not going to come first on the first Bush-free day. Nor should it. I marched with millions against that war and believe it is a crime that we are there. But after breaking and entering and assaulting, we can either sneak out the back door or stand up, look around, realize what we’ve done and then make it right.

My conscience tells me that yes, it is better to choose benign neglect of my interests over malicious, calculated destruction of my interests. In an either-or situation such as this, I am not going to choose outside the system, because at this point, to do so would be foolish.

The changes that the progressives say they want — in health care, in economics, in peace and justice — are not going to happen through the existing system overnight. If they are going to work through the system, it will have to be incrementally. If they want instant solutions, it will only come through revolution, and I have yet to see a progressive endorse that.

Every election is not an end-all. History is not a moment. Voting for Kerry moves us away from the scary right-wing fascism we’re moving toward now. It does not get us to where many of us want to be. It moves us in that direction, however, laying ground for more progressive ideas and victories.