Metamorphosis
I’ve been having the time of my life at a weekly gathering of people who don’t talk about politics at all—or, at least, have not yet done so in my presence. I suspect many of these folks—if not most—vote differently than I. Yet these are the people who have accepted me as family, more than any other social group I have mixed with in my new hometown—including those groups I sought out because of their politics. These folks chat with me, invite me to lunches and dances, and are just doggone cheerful about being together and being alive.
This phenomenon has altered my take on politics. Perhaps this change is merely a needed hiatus from my sense of civic duty to stay politically aware at all times. Or it might be a metamorphosis: A transition into a different kind of being all together. A being for whom political matters are secondary to socializing with friendly humans, regardless of political persuasion.
Actually, such a transformation would be a return to a previous self. Decades ago, while living on the Gulf Coast, my husband and I had some neighbors who were distinctly Republican—while we, distinctly, were not. And they were our best friends in the area. We’d sometimes playfully razz one another about our political differences, but ultimately those differences didn’t matter. Not one iota.
Back then, I had bumper stickers on my car expressing my outlook on many things political. It felt like a normal part of the democratic process. But for the last decade, I have traveled incognito in my dirty white minivan (Yes, it’s ten years old!). I felt a tad unsafe advertising views that defied the majority.
And before socializing, I’ve felt a need to know which side somebody is on—so I’d know if I could feel safe in their company. If I was unable to determine a person’s party affiliation, I’d minimize my time with them, and keep our chatter focused on the weather.
But lately, I don’t want to know. At all. I want to go back to that time when wearing a political button, t-shirt, or baseball cap didn’t cause a ruckus. Or even rufffle a feather.
I had planned on going to the “No Kings” march last month—there was a big one in my new town—but I didn’t go. Partly because that afternoon I finally got a contractor to fix my leaky toilet and remove the treacherous glass shower doors hanging precariously over my bathtub—and I still had some mess to clean up when it was time to leave for the demonstration. At least that’s what I told the folks who were going to drive me there. But partly I backed out because I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. I didn’t feel combative enough for a protest—even though my hard feelings toward our self-proclaimed king have not softened in the least.
I do have one new friend with whom I discuss politics a little. She and I agree on many things political, things we don’t really need to talk about. But we discuss how it works with her partner, who belongs to that other political party. I’ve met very few politically mixed couples and find the very notion intriguing. Perplexing. Next to impossible. But why should it be impossible?
I am, weekly, communing with happy people accepting me with no questions asked, and we are building relationships that have nothing to do with politics. This makes much more sense than drawing a line in the sand and declaring everyone on the other side to be an idiot.