But if Hillary doesn't win, I'm not sure she'll be to blame. I'm looking at you with narrowed eyes, American voters. I'm looking at you, women. And sorry, I'm not sorry, I'm judging you.
Sorry, family members, friends, person at the dry cleaner yesterday, but I’m not at all sorry that for weeks now, I’ve been on a rampage about Hillary. And by weeks I mean months. Fine, a year. The amount I NEED Hillary to become our next president is suddenly distracting, heavy, as if I’m dragging around a pillowcase of wet sand no one else can see. As if I’m carrying around Ben Carson in a damp sleeping bag, while he’s actually sleeping. When folks make gentle remarks about Hillary “stumbling,” or possibly losing, I become unhinged. I want to shout, “Do you want me to have to carry this wet sand around forever?” Because if she doesn’t win, that’s what it’ll feel like. “Do you want me to toss this moldy heap at you and you can carry it until we get another chance as good as this one? Don’t you want me to be able to shake out this pillowcase of broken dreams and launder it and put it the hell away?”
The fear that she might not win has become a burden, and perhaps because I wasn’t expecting to be towing this frightful burden, I’m angry about it. I know anger doesn’t win elections, and I know that if she doesn’t win the nomination, many will say it means that she didn’t deserve to. That she didn’t connect. The anticipation of people eventually saying this also makes me unhinged. But if Hillary doesn’t win, I’m not sure she’ll be to blame. I’m looking at you with narrowed eyes, American voters. I’m looking at you, women. And sorry, I’m not sorry, I’m judging you.
I know female solidarity comments by Madeleine Albright and Gloria Steinem angered women in the You Cannot Tell Me What To Do As It Is Not Feminist Of You To Do So department. I see their point, yet feel sorry I do not. For Democratic women voters considering other options, I’m especially not sorry. Young, old, every demo in between–if you are noodling around still “unconvinced,” there will be a special place for you–if not in “hell,” as Albright suggested–but perhaps in my moldy pillowcase.
I love Bernie. I do! I love the movement, the message, the ire directed in the right places. I love his hair, his dental situation, and of course the fact that I think of senior Muppets every time I hear his voice, which is nice. If the world was a just and magical place, a co-presidency for Clinton-Sanders sounds incredibly productive, righteous, and promising in a hundred ways. I like the idea that Bernie can pull Hillary left, which I want to happen; I don’t mind him giving her a rough going-over regarding donors, and I support almost all of what he has to say, however narrow his focus might appear to be. I do however, experience rogue waves of fury when he labels her “establishment” and “not progressive,” as though what she’s doing, and has already done, isn’t the very first journey of its kind. I am not sorry to admit that he’s beginning to feel, as challengers to one’s personal desires often do, IN THE WAY. And yet nowhere near the obstacle that female voters who choose him over Clinton will be. I’m not sorry to grab these voters by the earbuds, topknots, normcore turtlenecks and ask them to do what I think is right for the country. Not right BECAUSE Hillary is a woman, no. Sarah Palin is a woman, and a vote for her, just for example, would move you right into the sleeping bag with Ben Carson.
It’s right for Democratic women because of the very specific person that Hillary Clinton is. A woman who is not perfect, but is the most capable. Not the last of her kind but the first of many to hold this office, if all goes well. Right because I want to capture the momentum of what went right the last time–when our country elected the very best person for the job who also just happened to be our first black president. I’m not sorry that I want to feel proud of my country, as I did when Obama was elected. And not sorry that I feel ashamed when it rears other, unseemly sides of itself.
Again, sorry, but I’m not remotely sorry that I’m dreaming of sitting on my couch on election night with my kids, tears streaming down my face while they look on confused and amazed by the pitch of emotions, as we celebrate the very best man for the job getting the job: Hillary Clinton.
So make way. I’m not telling you what to do. I’m asking. I’ll never be sorry for asking for what I want. And please do be warned, if Hillary wins, she won’t be apologizing anymore either.