Carly Fiorina and Choice Feminism

So last month I went to Cedar Rapids for the Iowa Women’s Leadership conference, where the key note speaker was Carly Fiorina. Like many politicians, Fiorina has been spending a lot of time in Iowa lately, and even though at that point she hadn’t yet officially announced her presidential bid, she wasn’t going to waste a speaking opportunity in this coveted state.

But I didn’t go to the conference because of her. I went because my cousin-in-law Robin, who is a two time reality TV star and small business owner, was also scheduled to be speaking about personal journeys, which was the conference’s theme.

“You have to help me,” Robin had demanded, when was first asked to speak.

“What are you talking about?” I replied. “You’re the superstar. I’m sure you’re a much better speaker than I am.”

“Nope. All I do is let cameras follow me around. I don’t plan what I’m going to say and I don’t have to say it front a group of people who are waiting for some deep, life changing message to come out of my mouth. That’s your territory.”

Even though I doubt that my community college students expect life changing messages from my lectures (and they’re disappointed if they are), I still agreed to help her and I also signed up to attend the conference so I could be there to cheer her on. It was fun. We drove down together and we went around to the various speakers, where we also got to know some of the other women who attended.

One woman, named Rachel, cuts hair at a national chain store but she dreams of moving up the ladder and managing her own salon. “I got no maternity leave when I had my kids, and they won’t give me a set schedule, so childcare is hard to arrange, and they pay me basically minimum wage. As a single mother that’s really hard.”

So Rachel was excited to hear Carly Fiorina’s key note address, where she talked about how she went from secretary to the first female executive of a Fortune 500 company. I’ve heard lots of “choice feminists” support Carly Fiorina, and the idea that feminism has changed with the times. After all, everybody is free to choose their own path, and having a choice is always empowering.  It’s not the system that needs to be changed; it’s how we work within it.

“Anyone who wants to harness the full power of human potential, of both men and women, needs to focus on building a meritocracy,” Fiorina said in her speech. “…a true meritocracy where people are recognized, paid and promoted, not on how long they’ve been there, but what they produced – women will rise to the top – not because women are better than men, but because they have half the human potential.”

This is how she explains away our need to establish rules for equal pay. If we just focus solely on performance, there will be no need for employee protection.

But here’s how I see it:  In the eighties, some feminists took offense when men would open the door for them or pull out their chair. Women worried about the implication, that they were incapable of opening the door on their own.

But now, politicians are equating that idea with the idea that some women, like Rachel, actually need real help. We’re not turning Rachel into a victim by giving her equal pay, or maternity leave, or the opportunity to advance in her career, and the insult isn’t the offer of help, it’s our refusal to see that because we still work in a patriarchal system, some women need it.

So yeah, I wasn’t the louder applauder at Fiorina’s speech. The same can’t be said at Robin’s speech, though. She was so nervous before she went on; she kept biting her lip and rubbing her hands against her dress, which was light blue, sleeveless with a gathered skirt, and painted with a pastel map of the world.

“The dress is cheesy, isn’t it?” Robin glared at her reflection back stage, and she looked panicky and pale.

“Not at all. It represents what you do and who you are.” I placed calming hands on her shoulders. “Don’t worry. Just go out there and be yourself. You’ll be great.”

Then I left her so I could take my place in the audience. Soon Robin came out and stood at her podium, and while she started out shaky, her confidence only grew and by the end she had commanded the room.

“I am not shy about admitting to my mistakes,” she said. “I’ve made a lot of them. But when you mess up on national television, the world responds in one of two ways. They either love you or hate you for it. I’ve experienced both. And now, it is my goal to let my missteps empower me, to love myself for all my flaws and foibles. Life is difficult enough anyway, why not forgive ourselves? It could be the first step toward forgiving each other, and then maybe, we can give and receive the help that everyone, at some point, needs.”

****

Attention, Fans!

The Next Breath is in the running for a RONE award from Ind’tale Magazine, but I need readers to vote for it. Click  here you’ll need to subscribe to vote, but that’s free to do, and you can opt out of receiving any emails. I’m under Chick Lit/ Women's Fiction in week four for voting, so hurry, because week four ends tomorrow!

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Push-up Monopoly and The Five Stages of Donald Trump

I grew up without any siblings or cousins, the sole child in an adult world. Now that I’m married, I’m surrounded by adults who act like children. I suppose it’s no different for most families. You get around the people you grew up with, and you never grew up at all. I see it all the time at Monty’s family get-togethers, which usually include some weird competition involving foosball, water polo, food tasting, or some other sort of tug-of-war, which often ends in middle-aged man injuries.

The most intense rivalry is between Monty and his cousin, Ted. They’re both the older siblings, both went to top-tier universities, and both are set on proving their superiority. They also attended the same high school, but Ted was a year younger and Monty was always ahead. So I think it’s fair to say that Ted is the one who ignites this cousinly competition, but Monty rarely turns the other cheek. It’s just not his nature.

For example, last week was Spring Break and Ted and his family were in town. We had everyone over for a big family meal and afterwards people decided to play Monopoly. Ted loves real estate as much as Donald Trump loves real estate, so it was a point of honor for him to win. When Robin, Ted’s younger sister, landed on Tennessee Avenue (the last orange property that Ted needed for a Monopoly) Ted convinced her to trade it for two railroads and one of the light blues, of which Robin had the other two.

“Don’t do it, Robin!” Monty cried. “You’re handing him the game.”

“But I’ll have my own Monopoly,” she answered as she made the trade.

“You’re just mad because my properties are better than yours,” Ted said to Monty.

Monty rolled his eyes. “Greens are way better than oranges. Everybody knows that.”

“You’re such an amateur,” Ted laughed. “The oranges have the highest odds of being landed upon. That makes them best.”

“But the green have the highest rate of return,” Monty responded. “I would think you’d understand that, as an expert investor.” Even I could hear the air quotes in his voice.

“They only have the highest rate of return after you put hotels on them, and you’ll go bankrupt if you try.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Soon it became the battle of green versus orange, as everyone else either dropped out or just barely hung in. The kids fell asleep in front of a movie and the game had been going on for so long, when Monty and Ted reached a stalemate. “I think we need to take this to the next level,” said Ted. “From now on, whenever I land on the greens or whenever you land on the oranges, the other one will have to do twenty-five pushups. And if we can’t manage, we’ll owe an additional $1,000 rent.”

“That’s insane.” Monty took a swig of his beer in an effort to be nonchalant. “You said yourself that oranges are landed on the most.”

“Fine,” Ted answered. “I’ll do thirty pushups but you’ll only do twenty-five.”

All the adults were still gathered around the table, waiting for Monty’s response. Only I knew about the pinched nerve in his back, and how it had gotten so bad that he’d had to sleep in the reclining chair one night this week.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said stupidly.

That was all it took for Monty to accept the challenge. Heaven forbid he admits to weakness. 

“You’re on,” he said to Ted.

He and Ted went around the board three times each; Ted never landed on Pacific, North Carolina, or Pennsylvania, but Monty landed on St. James Place once and on Tennessee twice. He attempted the push-ups, laughing through the strain, but on the 68^th one his back spasmed and he collapsed with a yelp.

Curled up into a fetal-shaped ball and moaning, Monty conceded the game. You would think Ted would have acted reticent, but I could see his shiny and triumphant smile, even though technically Ted’s mouth curled down. But Monty was no better. He knew the risks of push-up Monopoly, yet he still played. That made it feel hard to bad for him, even when he spent the night on the Lazy Boy, with an ice pack pressed against him.

What had made him act so stupidly, and why are he and Ted both incapable of rationality any time they’re together? My theory is that they’re both going through The Five Stages of Donald Trump, which is just a little thing that many middle aged men (and women) experience.

Stage #1 – Casinos: You’re no longer young, and the need fot something showy (like a new career, trophy wife, or sports car) sets in.

Stage #2 – Bankruptcy:  This can be of the financial, emotional, or spiritual kind. Basically, you’ve established yourself, but after the tremendous highs, come tremendous lows. It’s character building.

Stage #3 – Reality TV: Now you thrust yourself into a public format, forcing the world to notice you, gaining fame but losing respect.

Stage #4 – Accusations and Denial: You feel like people doubt you. You need to prove how right you are and how wrong everyone else is, especially if they’re more powerful than you. So you say whatever comes to mind, possibly even going on YouTube or Facebook to make pronouncements that fall short of expectations.

Stage #5 – Run for President: It’s the only action left to take, because you still believe in yourself, you know you are the best, and it’s time for the world to understand that YOU are the winner.

Obviously I am speaking metaphorically, and the specifics for The Five Stages of Donald Trump will vary from individual to individual. But whether it’s push-up Monopoly or presidential politics, the theme is universal. There’s no gain without pain and no growth without regression. It’s what keeps you a child in an adult world.

Plastics

Around six years ago Abby was a couple months old and I was still trying to acclimate myself to motherhood. I had heard the horror stories: you’ll never sleep again, your sex life will die, you’ll lose your sense of self, you’ll always keep that extra ten pounds, and your nipples will harden and crack like dirt during a drought.  I was also given wonderful promises: you’ll finally feel complete, you’ll understand your true purpose in life, and the love you’ll feel will surpass anything and everything you’ve ever felt before or will feel again.

Every mother I met had a story to tell or an opinion to share and I was shocked when I’d look in the mirror and still see my own reflection staring back. Motherhood was not a total transformation, not for me. I still liked reading about 20^th century politics, I still cared about showering and combing my hair, and when Monty sneezed I was usually cognizant enough to say “Bless you.”

I was still me, more or less.

“Nobody ever talks about how hard motherhood is,” my neighbor, Eileen told me. She always had her youngest son, Atticus, propped up against her hip, and he’d tug on the strap of her tank top whenever he felt like a sip of breast milk, as if he was the customer and she the self-service buffet.

“Actually, pretty much all I hear is about how hard it is,” I replied. “I mean, of course it’s challenging, but I guess I was expecting the first few months to be worse.”

Eileen nodded her head while Atticus suckled. He was about to turn three, so he was huge, five or six times the size of Abby, who I held against my own chest. She was swaddled in a blanket and had just nursed, but I could hear her whimpering. Whether she was still hungry or needed to be burped, I was not sure.

“Well, that’s great. And the love you feel for your baby makes it all worth it. But you’re not at the really hard stuff, not yet. Like, have you decided whether or not you’re getting her vaccinated?”

We were in Eileen’s backyard, where they had a chicken coup so they could harvest the eggs. There was also a hand-built playhouse and I’d heard that Eileen’s husband had made it from oak. Eileen’s daughter sat in that playhouse, coloring on construction paper with crayons made from recycled candles. Crayola and coloring books, especially Disney coloring books, were not allowed.

“Umm…” I stuttered as Abby began to fuss more loudly, so I put her abdomen against my shoulder and began to pat, trying to get a burp out of her. “Why wouldn’t I get her vaccinated?”

“Because there are other options,” Eileen said, her voice rather soft. “And that’s the hard part. You have to funnel out all the sound and the noise and figure out what’s right for you and your family.

Atticus finished drinking his mother’s milk and pushed himself away. Eileen put him down, wiped her dripping nipple with the hem of her shirt, and covered herself. But when she looked up she saw that Atticus had found a toy lying on the ground.

“Atti, give that to Mama.”

“No!” Atticus stamped his foot, looking like a defiant little rocker, with his long, blond locks and black hemp t-shirt.

“Babe, that toy was supposed to be thrown away. Please give it to me.”

“No! I want it!”

Eileen’s mouth set into a grimace and she leaped towards her boy. He tried to squirm away but she wrapped herself around him and pried the toy from his grubby fingers. Atticus howled, bereft, like someone who’s just lost his soul. “But I want it,” he moaned.

She held out the toy to me. “Here, would you like it? I thought I’d gotten rid of all our plastic toys, but I guess I missed this one.” She waved it, trying to get me to take it. “If you don’t mind chemicals, you should take it.”

It was a turtle with a blue head and legs and a green shell. It had big, black eyes and a friendly smile, but the remarkable thing was the tiny baby turtle that rose from its back, identical to its mama except it was faceless, entirely green, and completely reliant on its mother for everything. There was no separating the mother from the baby; I couldn’t even decipher where one began and the other one ended.

Atticus pounded his fists on the ground, and then turned his dirty, tear-streaked face towards me. “But I want it.”

Top 2014 News and New Year's Resolutions

So 2014 is over and mostly I feel astonished that time goes by so quickly. Sometimes I want to press the pause button, and savor life while my children are young, while I know health and happiness. But there’s no such thing as a pause button for real life, and I’ve come to learn that adulthood is mostly is about savoring the best moments and getting through the rest. Meanwhile, there’s always room for improvement, always forward steps that can be made, so that the moments to savor will outnumber the rest.

Sure, a lot of it is out my control, but I like to believe that everyone makes an impact no matter how small, and before I write my New Year’s resolutions, I always look back and take stock. 2014 was just like any other year, I suppose, in that our mistakes were numerous and there’s still a lot to learn:

• The conflict in Ukraine caused thousands of unnecessary deaths, displaced millions, and now things between Russia and the U.S. are as strained as a long-distance relationship.

• The Malaysia Airlines flight 370 disappearance was tragic and I can’t imagine what the passenger’s families are still going through, but CNN went crazy with their 24-hour news coverage, and all the conspiracy theorists have emerged from the dark basements in which they live.

• Speaking of dark, the rise of ISIS is terrifying, but what’s even scarier is that we can’t resolve our own issues here at home. The heartbreaking deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, and the violent protests that followed, makes me wonder if this county has forgotten progress.

• Certainly, we ought to have the power of knowledge in this digital age, but the spread of misinformation during the Ebola outbreak was like a deadly virus itself.

• Oh yeah, the Republicans took over the Senate. I would have seen red if I hadn’t totally seen it coming.

• At least Obama is now free to do what he wants, whether it’s an executive order about immigration or laughing at Congress as they sue him over healthcare.

• Still, all this makes me wish for simpler times, like say, the 1980s, when Bill Cosby was the world’s best dad, life could be laughed at, and problems could be solved in 24 minutes while wearing a fabulous sweater.

What have I learned? What do I resolve for next year? Read on!

1. I will be brave.

There isn’t much sniper fire here in West Des Moines; okay, actually there is none that I know of. I’m lucky that I don’t need to hide behind a barricade every time protesters and security forces clash, and my little conflicts are silly in comparison. Still, if I encounter a student in need, if I am backed into a corner of incompatible opinions, if I need to stand up for someone who can’t stand up for themselves, I’ll do it.

2. I won’t rush to judgment.

Sometimes, backing away can look like charging forward, and raising your hands in resignation may be misinterpreted as an act of war. I’m not immune to jumping to quick conclusions so I resolve to listen to the people in my life and turn down the reactive voices in my head.

3. I’ll try not to panic.

The world is a scary place. Planes fall into the ocean and deadly viruses claim innocent children. While brave medical workers remain unruffled in the face of danger and sacrifice, others are blinded by fear. Maybe a hero is a person maintains their vision in the face of adversity.

4.When I lose, I’ll still act like I’ve won.

I mean, I won’t be obnoxious about it. But come on, enough already. There’s only so much reaching across the aisle you can do. Sometimes you have to surrender the fight but that doesn’t mean you have to surrender yourself. I’m looking forward to the next two years. A lame duck can be a powerful duck.

5. I’ll speak out when I have something important to say.

A woman shouldn’t have to wait to say what’s difficult until there’s a dozen other  women ready to back her up. We shouldn’t cower to the rich and influential, but we do. In my little world the rich and powerful include work superiors and bossy neighbors, but I resolve to remember that my voice can be just as loud as anyone else’s.

On this New Year’s Day, I braid my daughter’s hair, read a story to my son, eat crab dip with my family while watching football on our big screen TV, and lay my head against my husband’s shoulder as we pause, however briefly, to savor the moment.

The only thing left is to my keep my resolutions, and to wish you and yours peace, power, and perspective for 2015.

Surprises, Executive Orders, and Captain the Cat

This fall I got into a routine. After a busy day of parenting, work, and running errands, I would put the kids to bed and afterwards, I’d stare blankly at the television while trying to muster enough energy to get ready for bed. Monty had been in D.C. for several weeks, working with The World Health Organization on Ebola policy, and though we had nightly phone conversations, I became used to solitude.

It wasn’t all bad. I was good at changing the channel if something was unpleasant, like just about any of the news coverage during the midterm elections. One night I was listening with half an ear as the pontificators wondered if Chris Christie or Rand Paul would make the better nominee to go against Hillary, when I heard a foreign sound. It was a meow.

I walked over to the sliding glass door that’s off the kitchen and opens onto our deck, and sure enough there was a cat, clearly annoyed at our unjust world. I slid the door open, slipped outside before he could come in, and crouched down.

“Hey, kitty cat,” I said, scratching it behind his ears. “Are you lost? Are you hungry?”

The cat immediately plopped down and rolled over, exposing his furry white belly. I rubbed it and his meows gave way to purring. So I petted him for a couple of minutes, checked to see if he had a collar (he didn’t) and told him to go home.

I don’t know where he went, but he did go away. Yet, the next two nights he showed up again. On the night of his third visit I was talking to Monty on the phone, listening to his crazy Ebola news, when the meowing began.

I cut Monty off mid-sentence.

“Oh!” I proclaimed. “My cat is here.”

Monty sputtered. “You have a cat? Since when?”

“He’s not exactly mine, but he’s been showing up lately, just to say good evening.”

 “Is that all?” Monty laughed. “He’s not asking to be let in? He’s not asking for food?”

“I’m sure he’d like that,” I answered, “but so far he’s been satisfied with belly rubs. And I’ve looked at lost cat message boards, and I’ve asked the neighbors about him, but so far, I haven’t found anything. I think he’s a stray.”  By this time I was outside, kneeling beside the cat, bracing myself against the chilly November evening while scratching behind the cat’s ears.

“Lucy, we’re not adopting a cat.”

“I never said we were, Monty. But is it a crime to enjoy seeing him? He’s very affectionate, and he shows up every night, asking for nothing but my company.”

“Are you trying to make me feel bad?”

I sighed, although it was a jokey sort of sigh. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

“Right, okay. Just promise me you won’t let the cat in.”

I promised, but I since I hadn’t promised anything about not putting food out, I opened a can of tuna and placed it on our deck floor.

Then it was like we were having an illicit affair, that cat and I. I told Monty as little as possible about Captain (with his distinguished grey and white fur and his soulful green eyes, he looked like a Captain), and somehow, Captain always only showed up after the children went to sleep.

On the night of Obama’s immigration speech, I was wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the couch, happy that Obama was finally taking a stand, but also worried about Captain. It was raining, and icy pellets were hitting against the windows. Would Captain have a warm, dry place to sleep tonight? Would he show up to see me?

Obama was defending his executive order: The actions I’m taken are not only lawful, they’re the kinds of actions taken by every single Republican president and every single Democratic president for the past half century.

Distracted, I got up to check if Captain was outside. Maybe I just hadn’t heard his meowing. Right as I stepped up to our glass door, Captain leapt in front of it, and in a moment of pure synchronicity, I didn’t think, I just opened the door and let Captain in.

An hour later, Captain and I were snuggled together on the couch, when I realized that Monty hadn’t yet called. Then another synchronized moment occurred, because right as I was reaching for my cell phone to call him, I heard the front door open.

“Hello?” I yelled.

Footsteps came bounding up, through the kitchen and into our living room. “Lucy?” My husband’s voice rang out, and then he was standing in front of me. I shot up before he could spot Captain, and rushed into Monty’s arms. “What are you doing here?” I asked, squeezing him and speaking into his neck. “You said the earliest you’d be back is next week.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Change of plans. I was able to get that one report done, and so, surprise!” Monty crooked his neck down, and hoisted me up higher. “Are you happy to see me?”

“Of course!” I could feel the blood rushing to my face. Monty kissed me and I enthusiastically returned the kiss, but my mind was racing. Maybe I could tell Monty to go upstairs, that I’d be up in just a second, and then I’d quickly put Captain outside. But it was still raining. Could I really do that to poor Captain? Doesn’t he, like everyone, deserve a home?

“What the hell?” Monty broke away from me and looked down. Apparently, Captain had hopped off the couch, strolled over, and began rubbing against Monty’s leg. It took only a second for the truth to sink in. Monty looked back at me, eyebrows arched and mouth twisted in indignation. “I thought you weren’t going to let him in. You promised.”

I shrugged. “Things happen. Life happens.”

“Uh huh.”

“He’s a sweet cat, Monty, and he needs a home. Just like you were dying to come home, Captain wants to be home too.”

“You named him Captain?”

I reached up and brushed a damp lock of Monty’s dark, wavy hair from his forehead. “I’m really glad you’re back,” I murmured, my voice low.

“Don’t try and distract me,” he said. “You can’t just let a cat in because he wants to be here.”

“Of course I can.”

“You don’t have that authority, Lucy. That’s not how this happens.”

I shrugged and smiled, willing him to smile back. “Lighten up. It’s just for right now, okay? I’m making an executive order."

"You don't get to make executive orders."

"I do, and I did, because you haven't been around to vote. Captain is here now, and we can’t put him out in the rain.”

Captain continued to rub against Monty’s legs, and I rubbed against Monty too, and pretty soon he melted. “Fine,” he mumbled, returning my kisses, “Captain can stay, but just for one night.” He exhaled heavily while looking at the cat. “I want to go peek in on the kids.”

“Let’s go.” I tugged his arm, and we went upstairs, leaving Captain to himself.

And he was a good house guest, if you call someone who pees on the furniture a good house guest. But who can blame the guy? It’s not like he had a litter box. It didn’t matter though, because in the morning we found Captain snuggled up in bed with Abby, and I knew Captain was no longer a guest. He’d become a citizen.

“Mommy!” Abby cried. “Daddy’s home. And he brought me a cat!”

So Captain stayed, Monty got credit for what he was originally against, and we were all reminded that even as fear, doubt, and anger continue to pull the world apart, there are still reasons to come together. This year at Thanksgiving, when we went around the table and stated what we were most thankful for, Abby beamed, saying she was thankful for her new cat, Captain.

Across the table I caught just the slightest of eye rolls from Monty, but it was soon replaced by a smile. And later, when he fed Captain little bits of left-over turkey, Monty let Captain lick his greasy fingers. Captain purred and licked, and Monty smiled, and I silently gave my thanks for having a home, and love, to share.

Ebola, Zombies, and Midterm Elections

Like a lot of other cities, the East Village of Des Moines hosted a zombie walk and pub crawl this fall, where the walking dead can roam around, drink beer, party, and scare each other. My cousin’s Robin’s clothing store is in the East Village, and she convinced me to dress up and help out, since she was counting on increased store traffic and sales. “It will be fun,” she assured me. “I’ll make you look all zombie-like, and afterwards we can grab a beer.”

This was just a few days after the CDC had confirmed that Eric Duncan had the first case of Ebola here in the U.S. But people weren’t panicking; he seemed to be doing okay and the message was simple. The United States of America has the resources to handle Ebola. We’re not like West Africa, and we don’t need to worry.

So Robin and I had a good time, enjoying the creepy festivities and chatting with people who roamed into her store. The only thing I was worried about was that customers would get their zombie makeup all over Robin’s beautifully constructed clothes. I was in the middle of arranging a rack of dresses when I heard a voice behind me. “Lucy? It’s you, isn’t it?”

I turned, and became nearly hypnotized, dumb with the realization that the person who had said my name was my high school nemesis Reggie, a guy who used to bully me relentlessly. A hunting accident post graduation had put him in a wheel chair, plus he was in zombie makeup and he had aged twenty-years. But I recognized those cold, hard eyes and the diabolical scrape of his voice, as if no time had passed since when he would terrorize me on a daily basis.

“Hello, Reggie,” I said, keeping my voice even.

Reggie laughed, causing his eyes, which were outlined in blood-red, to squint. “Are you working in a clothing store now? Wow. Whatever happened to the class brainiac’s big aspirations? I thought you were a college professor in Seattle.”

I didn’t ask how he knew that, because I didn’t want to know. “We moved back to Des Moines last year, after my dad had a stroke. This is my cousin’s store, and I’m just helping out for the day.”

Reggie nodded. “Yeah, and aren’t you married to Monty Bricker?”

I nodded. It didn’t surprise me that he knew that. Everybody in high school knew Monty, and he and Reggie’s moms were friends. But my pulse was racing and I felt all flushed. Much as I hated to admit it, I was in panic mode, capable only of hostility or idiocy.

“I have a lot to do, Reggie. So unless you need something, I should get back to work.” I turned towards the clothes, away from him.

“Wait,” he said. “Midterm elections. How about the Republican’s chances?  Not only is Ernst going to beat Braley, but the Republicans are totally going to take over the Senate. You must hate that.”

Reggie and I always used to spar in our Civics class, taking opposite views. Our senior year was when Dukakis lost to George H.W. Bush, and I can still feel the burn from Reggie’s glee. So although I shouldn’t have taken the bait, I did.

“Ernst and Braley are tied,” I retorted. “And there is still time for Democrats to pull ahead in the other Senate races.”

Reggie chuckled. “Maybe there was still time. But not now. Obama blew it when he didn’t close travel to and from West Africa, and the Republicans are going to play on everyone’s panic. It’s done.”

“I don’t think so.” I sighed, looking around the store, trying to locate Robin. She was busy, in the process of making a big sale to some college girls.

“Oh come on, Lucy. You know I’m right. Why do you think events like this are so popular?” Reggie gestured around, at all the zombie stuff. “There is no better allegory for modern times than the zombie apocalypse, because we’ve all become zombies ourselves, surrendering our individuality to government surveillance and our autonomy to social programs and ridiculous spending. So now there’s a virus that will actually make people bleed from the eyes, and it’s come here to the U.S.! People are not only going to believe that Obama didn’t do enough to prevent it, but that on some level he wants us to suffer. He wants us to all be zombies.”

My mouth dropped open. “That’s insane.”

“But I’m right. And the republicans are going to capitalize on all our fears, and they’re going to win.”

There was something tribal about the moment that passed between us, like I could feast on that huge ego of his and spit it out all over the floor, and I’d never be hungry again. “Reggie,” I murmured, suddenly aware of how dry my throat was. “I don’t know why you’re talking to me like we’re friends. We’re not. And even if all your predictions come true, you’re still a narcissist, and I’d like you leave right now.”

Reggie raised his eyebrows in amusement, as if I’d just told a mildly funny joke. “I was looking for a present for my wife.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry to ruin your day, or whatever. I’ll get out of your hair.” He laughed and wheeled himself out of the store, and hopefully out of my life for good.

But now, weeks later, his predictions still ring in my ears. Especially since Monty told me he’d be D.C. indefinitely, full time.  He was packing his bags one afternoon when I came home. “They’re putting me on an emergency committee, to work with the World Health Organization, writing briefs and policy about Ebola. This is the worst health crisis in decades, and we need to be on top of it.”

“You won’t actually be travelling over there, will you?”

He shook his head. “I promise I won’t set foot in West Africa.”

But he left for D.C. a couple of weeks ago, and is now working around the clock. At night when we talk, he rants about the news coverage, that they’re causing a panic, and that people still don’t understand that Ebola is not airborne. “But we can’t turn our backs on Liberia and surrounding regions if we want to find a solution,” he said. “A travel ban will just make it worse. West Africans will fly to other places first, and then come here, so we won’t be able to monitor them, and then people really could die. I don’t understand how Republicans can be advocating for it.”

“It’s politically motivated,” I answered, thinking about what Reggie said. “They’re playing on people’s fear.”

“When did everyone become so ruthless?” Monty answered back. “I can remember a time when everything wasn’t always about politics, when the value of human life was actually put first.”

“Yeah, I know.” I sighed. “Any idea when you’ll be able to come home?”

“No.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry. I really miss you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I suppose I’ll be watching the midterm election coverage alone in a couple of weeks, if I can even bring myself to watch it at all. The republicans have a 65% chance of taking the Senate, Mitch McConnell and Pat Roberts are probably going to win after all, and here in Iowa, Ernst has pulled ahead. What’s worse is that Reggie was totally right. People are freaking out about Ebola, but at least there isn’t a real zombie apocalypse on our hands. However, that doesn’t mean that I’m not afraid.

Kindergarten, Narcissists, and the Harkin Steak Fry

Two weeks ago Monty and I dropped off Abby for her first day of kindergarten. She clung to my hand as we walked towards the classroom, her pink cotton dress getting mussed by the too-big, empty backpack that rested against her shoulders. When we arrived at Miss Mandy’s classroom, a young, bright-eyed, ponytailed woman greeted us.

“Hello!” Miss Mandy cried. “What’s your name?”

“Abby,” my daughter replied, her voice confident and clear. Then she peered past Miss Mandy, making a beeline into the room and towards one of the activity tables. Abby quickly went to work, putting together a block puzzle, while Monty and I introduced ourselves to Miss Mandy and put Abby’s backpack in her cubby. Then we stood off to the side, idly watching and realizing that we weren’t necessary, that it was time to go.

Monty approached Abby first. “Bye, sweetheart,” he said, “have a good day!”

My voice caught in my throat as I chimed in. “We’re so proud of you!”

“See you later!”  She said, not looking at either of us. Abby could barely be bothered to wave goodbye. She was already chatting up the other kids at her table, telling them her life story.

As we walked out I felt ridiculous for crying, but I’ll admit, my tears were leaking a little. I wasn’t the only one who was sentimental. “It seems like just yesterday she was a baby,” Monty mused, “and now here she is, ready to take over the world.”

I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “I wouldn’t say that yet. She’s still our baby.”

Monty squeezed my shoulder and kissed my cheek before he veered off towards his car. (We drove separately so I could leave for work.) “She’ll always be our baby, but mark my words: she’s taking over the world. Our Abby could be president one day.”

It seemed like a strange thing to say, so I just told him to have a good day, and I drove to the community college where I teach. It was the first week of classes and that day I taught History of American Politics. So it’s a question I’m used to pondering: what makes a president?

Monty’s statement nagged at me all week, and that Saturday, as we gnawed on overdone meat at the last Harkin Steak Fry, I realized why. “Do you think Abby’s a narcissist?”

Monty roughly swallowed his bite of steak before answering. “What? No, I mean, she is, but all five-year-olds are. Why do you ask?”

“You said she could be president.”

Monty squinted against the sun, leaned back in his metal folding chair, and peered off at all the “Ready” signs the Clintonites had decorated the area with. “I meant that as a good thing,” he replied. “Don’t turn it into a criticism.”

“But all presidents have to be narcissists. Otherwise, they wouldn’t believe they’re up for the job. Do you really think Abby sees herself that way?”

He laughed and widened his eyes. “She’s five!” Then Monty looked around at all the people who were waiting for Hillary to make her appearance. “Be careful, Luce. People might overhear and think you’re making a dig at their candidate. You don’t want to start a riot.”

I sighed. “Do you think she’ll announce her candidacy tonight?”

“Who? Hillary or Abby?”

 I answered him with an eye-roll and Monty leaned in, speaking in a loud whisper. “Do you think she’s narcissistic enough to be president?”

“I don’t know. She’s not Bill, and that’s always been her problem.”

He smiled, thought lines creasing his forehead. We’ve been married long enough that he can answer most of my questions without me needing to ask them. “I only said that thing about Abby being president one day because it’s fun, imaging your kids growing up and surpassing you.”

“I suppose,” I responded. “But it’s also fun to enjoy the moment, while they’re still young.”

“I agree.” And his fingers brushed the bare skin of my arm. “So let’s enjoy the moment, right now.”

My fingers found his, they locked together, and somehow we found a quiet, peaceful moment in the midst of a massive crowd. That day, Hillary did not announce her presidency, but pundits still saw her speech as the beginning of her campaign, perhaps even the beginning of an era. But the crowd wasn’t so analytical. As they sat beneath the Midwestern sky, listening to Clinton, there was a hope and enthusiasm that’s missing from our society most of the time now, at least when it comes to politics.

So what makes a president? Is it narcissism, or is it just being the right person at the right time, with the ability to get elected? Because this week, Ken Burn’s Roosevelt documentary stressed strongly that nowadays, FDR would not be elected. Not a chance.

I mean come on: Imagine if we had a great leader, except he’s in a wheelchair, oh, and he’s admitted to having affairs, and now he has a secretary that’s almost like his wife. But speaking of his wife, his real one is outspoken, liberal, and she has a special female friend who will be living in the White House with them. Do you think reporters would stay away from that? Do you think photographers would agree not to take pictures of him getting lifted out of his car? And if, by some miracle, he did get elected, would Congress pass the New Deal? Would conspiracy theorists not circulate a rumor that the polio had affected his brain?

No wonder hope and enthusiasm are absent from politics lately.

But the nice thing about hope and enthusiasm is that they’re renewable. I was reminded of this when I tucked Abby into bed the other night.

“Sweet dreams,” I said. “Get a good night’s sleep. You have another big day tomorrow.”

“Mommy,” Abby said, giving me a hug. “Do you think that tomorrow I’ll learn how to read?”

I cocked my head. “What do you mean? You already know how to read.”

“Only some words!” She cried. “I want to read all the words!”

“You will,” I told her, and I stroked her curly hair. “Don’t worry. You have a lot of time.”

She shook her solemnly. “But there’s so much I want to know, Mommy. There’s so much I want to get done.”

****

News Flash!

The Next Breath, the latest Robin Bricker novel, is now available on Amazon. Click here to download your copy.