Georgia on my mind - What if we treated votes as speech?

 

The remarkably gigantic leap backward recently taken by the State of Georgia on voting rights has reawakened a line of thinking about voting that my mom kindled in me with her words back in 1964 when I was five. Now, you might ask yourself, what on earth could a mother have said to her five-year-old daughter related to voting rights back in 1964? And that would be the point, she didn’t talk about voting rights she talked about her how her vote was the way she made herself heard. It was her speech.

On election day in 1964, my mom took me with her to go vote. We walked into the polling place, and after a brief discussion with the polling ladies, I stood with her and watched her vote. As she was filing in her ballot, she looked down with her most serious mom face, and said the following, “Rachael, voting is one of the most important things you can do. It is how I tell the government what I want and make myself heard.” Now, she also taught me to write letters, make signs and all other manners of “speech” to let the government know what I’m thinking. But that idea that my vote is speech has stuck with me my whole life.

And it seems to me that it’s an idea whose time may have come. What would happen if we shifted the argument around voting rights to include suppression of political speech? Make a First Amendment argument against voter suppression by making the voting, and the vote, itself a form of speech. In the simplest of terms, a vote is the official form of speech in an election. Whether it’s by raising your hand, saying “yea” or “nay”, or a paper ballot for confidentiality. The act of voting, the vote, is the speech. If the ballot is the only method for that speech to be heard, and government infringes on it by making it unduly difficult for me, it would follow they have suppressed my First Amendment right to free speech guaranteed under the Constitution. Now, I realize that this is a very simplified argument, and there are lawyerly nuances to be made. But for those who think that the legal argument seems far-fetched; I would simply say this: If a corporation’s money is speech, then a vote sure as hell is.

 

Rachael A. Heade
March 30, 2021

Subject or CItizen?

Subject or Citizen?

I have never written something with such a political overtone as this. So, before I start to dive in, let’s get a bit acquainted. For all of those who despise the hyper-educated I have good news; I just missed getting my degree in theatre at a small public university in California. I have no BA, no Masters, no PhD. I haven’t studied political science or sociology, so no erudite musings based on deep learning from an intellectual snob. For those of you who would now like to dismiss me as a bumbling bumpkin; you should know that my parents also went to college. And spent the 50’s and 60’s hanging out with a sassy group of the intelligentsia from the University of Chicago with a Stanford and a Cal alum for good measure. My mom worked in the art world (still does) and my dad was a 20^th century raconteur which means he was really smart, had a remarkable wit, drove a cab, did odd jobs, and drank too much most of his life. So, between these two, at the end of the day I am an intellectual mutt with just enough original thought to let me think I’m interesting.

This brings me to why we’re here. At this time, I find myself on the edge of grief for the loss of a nation seeded in democratic principles laid out in magnificent imperfection by our Founding Fathers. Over the past few weeks, I have been reading (very slowly) The Quartet by Joseph J Ellis which is an in depth look at the time between the end of the American Revolution and the ratification of the Constitution and Bill of Rights (my summary, not his; apologies Mr. Ellis). Reading about this time in the formation of our Nation has given me great comfort during these tumultuous times for the simple reason that we were terribly screwed up then just as we are now. Hopelessly divided; 13 states in a confederation with wildly varying degrees of agreement on the idea of a Federal government, let alone the creation of one. Machinations and orchestrations on all sides to sway the outcome, a distrusted press, and rhetoric that was, shall we say, off the charts. It is really quite notable we are here at all.  But the one unifying theme upon which all could agree was that “We” would not be ruled. The idea of Monarchy; a single person to rule the confederation of states which was to become the United States was abhorrent. It flew in the face of all that was “the cause” of 1776 – Independence. Independence from England; from King George III; from governance without representation; from all that was the slightest whiff of the idea of King; of one man above others; of one who intrinsically knows what is best for us. It is this repugnance of the idea of a sovereign that is at the very core of what it means to be American; it is the belief that pulled us from a disparate set of arguing states into the greatest democratic republic the world has ever seen.

And it is this very issue which I will rail against in the 21^st century with the same fervor as our Founding Fathers; those famer soldiers; those subjects turned citizen patriots. So, the next time you hear someone in the Executive Branch threaten a state which stands for its people, withholds support from a governor based on party; sets the military against the people, or talks of a free press as an enemy, you are hearing the rustlings of one who thinks we are to be ruled. And so, I say to you, which is it? Citizen or Subject? For me, I choose the Spirit of 76, I choose independent thought, I choose citizen.

Falsies

In 1966 my family lived about four blocks from the Whisky A Go-Go on the Sunset Strip. If you don’t know about The Whisky that’s ok; all you need to know is that the house band was The Doors. And, while at age six I had little idea of who The Doors were I did know that my cousin Leslie was crazy about them. Thus I found myself one evening in 1966 sitting on the washing machine, which for some reason was in the bathroom, mesmerized as I watched her get ready to see them.

Now, in 1966 getting ready to go out meant something. It involved Aqua-Net, Maybelline, and Max Factor. Teasing and tweezing. It was like watching a magic show as she pulled pots of color and brushes out of a splashy paisley printed bag: Wild vibrant colors in violet, blue and emerald for her eyes; and the palest glistening pinks for her lips. Every stroke of every brush precise and perfect; making her more beautiful. I really thought it could not get better. And, then she pulled out a small box which seemed to hold the tiniest pair of butterfly wings. I craned my neck to see as she delicately lifted one of the tiny wings up and then with utter accuracy placed it along her lashes and while still looking down did the same with the other. And then it happened. She looked up and I was captivated and fallen head over heels in love with false eyelashes.

Of course, I was an intelligent child and knew that it was going to be a long time before I would be allowed to wear them, but I could wait. Oh sure, I got the odd chance at ballet recitals but it wasn’t like wearing them out in “real life”. As luck would have it by 1972 when I would have been allowed to wear them no one was wearing any makeup that you could see. And, with my unruly hair and chipped front tooth false eyelashes would not have been the first area of concern.

It took getting well into the 21^st century for me to get my real chance. It was a Saturday and I waited two hours for the eyelash specialist at the MAC counter to help me. I waited around watching girls that could be my daughters getting their lashes and with each one I found myself still enamored with them. At last it was my turn. The lash expert fitted me with a set and put them on. I was in heaven. I paid; got up and headed out of the mall to my car. I’m not sure I looked different on the outside, but on the inside I was giddy. I unlocked my Bug and got in. Flipped down the visor and took a long look in the mirror as I popped the key into the ignition and started it. The engine turned over and out of the radio Jim Morrison sings “And, I’m gonna love ya till the heavens start to fall” and one circle closes and the next begins.

Rock, Paper, Scisorrs

I think (OK, I know) there is a perverse part of me that just doesn't believe I'm good at writing, and for whatever reason this is the part of me that my brain has been listening too. And, the two of them have done a fine job of psyching me out of writing for just over a year. Now, what amazing stoke of God's will, or Gestalt episode was shaken me out of the devilish duo's grip? Sitting on the cushy work bus waiting in line to go home. (I say this because we haven't really moved and so at this point it's really just a line, not traffic.) The cushy bus has Wi-Fi (it is really crushingly cushy) so I thought about looking at all the half written stuff Blogger has been keeping warm for me all these months. And, you know, there are some good starts there. Of course, as I read them the stinker part of my brain started to mumble stuff like "well that happened months ago. Do you really think it's relevant now." (Does anyone else have a brain like this? And, if so, where do you send it when it does this?).

Then the miracle happened, I realized that I was going to be really late and called my husband to tell him. Well, as we're chatting I tell him that I'm looking at all this half written stuff and how can I post it out of order, and blah, blah, blah. And, he says "Rock, paper, scisorrs". And, yes of course, "rock, paper, scisorrs". Meaning, no one reading what I write really cares when I thoguht of it or why it took me so long to write it down. Hell, they may wonder why I write at all. Now, I'd like say that I don't care, but I do, but I don't have to let it stop me. (Yes, I get it that i have.)

So, I will be posting blogs out of order. I'm sure that I'm really the only one that cares about this out of order issue. Unless there is some strict blog rule out there related to timeliness. Which wouldn't really matter because once you haven't posted to your blog in a year you've alreday sort of blown the "I follow the rules" part of this whole thing.

Now, one last thing before I post - I'm already concerned taht some of you say "rock, scisorrs, paper" and not "rock, paper, sciorrs." But, I think we can all agree it starts with "rock". So, if you're going to comment let's not have it be about that.

Back in The Saddle

So, back in July while I was in what a friend likes to call "Blog Rot" I was on my way to work which takes me up this windy on-ramp that has you merge with the left lane, a.k.a. the "fast" lane on the freeway, so as you can imagine we move along this ramp at a crawl. This is not a scenic drive, and the ground immediately off the road is steep and tucked under the freeway above, which we are all trying to get to. It's also the area where homeless souls sleep off the troubles of their day. Needless to say it gets pretty trashy and a couple of times per year individuals who are participating in public service at the direction of the Corrections Department do some yard work.


So, there I am sitting in my car hating my commute (I'm not even 2 miles into it) and I look up at these guys in blue jumpsuits doing their civic yard work. This in and of itself is not noteworthy. Until of course, I notice that the law enforcement officer is holding a bullwhip and after further inspection I realize he is not Tommy Lee Jones, nor are Nicholas Cage or George Clooney wearing one of the blue jumpsuits. So, this is a real guy, and this bullwhip is part of his "real" work stuff?

Now, I am sure that it is not an easy job to try and supervise people who's liberty has been curtailed whether it be due to their own misdeeds or poor jurisprudence. However, a bullwhip? I mean, what is the circumstance in which the use of a whip in the workplace, in 21st century America is reasonable ? Is it OK to crack it on peoples' feet if they aren't picking up trash fast enough? Perhaps, it's OK to use it as a pointing device. You know, crack it over some one's head and then point to a piece of trash they missed. No. Of course not.

The answer is there is no time where the use of a bullwhip is acceptable. And yet there it was. And, I didn't know who to tell. Who to write? Our Congress is still arguing about whether or not water-boarding is torture, and if torture is really so bad we shouldn't participate in it. (You know I am still so dumbfounded by this it's hard to type it.) But the good news is that by finally writing this out I realize what it is I do need to do next, even if it's four months later: 1. Post this, and 2. Call the King County Prosecutor's office tomorrow and start asking some questions. I'll keep you posted.

The Purrell of Peace

It's Sunday. I'm at St. Gym. I'm giving the sign of peace to the people around me. Some of them get hugs, some of them get handshakes, and some little ones get little kisses. Their are even some across the church from me who get secret signs and winks because they are so special to me. We're going merrily along. We get back into our little pew places and as I look forward I notice the woman in front of me is squirting some hand sanitizer on and rubbing it in. I am completly aghast. Yes, that's really the only word for it,"aghast". Oh, say what you will about germs and bird flu, but c'mon, it's the sign of peace for goodness sakes. I mean, what's next? The Archbishop washing our feet on Holy Thursday with latex gloves on? Or, maybe auto-fonts for the holy water. You'll just wave your finger in front of it and it'll spritz a little water on your hand so you can make the sign of the Cross. No mess. No fuss. No more wondering, did I use too much or not enough?

Ok, ok - it's just that it really irked me, but live and let live. However, I do wonder what she thinks when she hears the Gospel when Jesus cures the blind man with mud made out of his spit? Would she rather be blind? And, then it occurs to me - in some ways she is and I pray for God's great love to fill us all.

Selling Paradise

Selling Paradise

And so, you are selling paradise.
The land of my childhood mystics;
I am scared of the cattle in the field.
We sit Indian style in the grass and they gather around us.
A huge game of Duck, Duck, Goose; and we are in the mush pot.
Each of their movement’s deliberate in my mind, tentative in theirs’.
I feel your hand around mine,
And take refuge in knowing I am safe.
Then we stand up; Sharp and straight.
At our movement they scatter,
Calling to each other “retreat, retreat.”
I am no longer afraid of the cattle,
And run down to the creek,
Where the pink lady slippers call to me,
As the prince did to Cinderella.

R. A. Heade, 9 May 2005

Creative Spin Head or is that Heade?

Ok, so it's 2:01 a.m. PST, which as I figure it, is the exact time where regardless of your location in the USA it is really too late or too early to be up. And, why am I up you ask? Well, I've have finally learned, the hard way, (I've not really figured out too many other ways of learning yet) that if you have a head like mine and you start a blog, and then put off posting because you get really involved in a bunch of stuff (like say, your real job and all the other crap that is really your "you can't do it" voice which we sometimes call responsibility) you will end up with a train wreck of thoughts, ideas, stuff you saw that cracked you up, or made you think, or better yet made you think differently all in your head screaming "me first". You will also write an incredibly long run-on sentence which would make Mrs. Jackson draw a huge parrot in the margin of your paper that was saying "Awk" or some other quaint but equally disparaging remark about your writing ability.

Ah, so here we are one long run-on sentence and poorly constructed paragraph in , and there it is the crux of the matter - insecurity. Man, do I really think that I live in this world where everyone else is totally confident all the time, never has to write a draft, and takes their "blog" so seriously that they envision the strictest English teacher they ever had as correcting it. (Crap, another run-on sentence.) There is really such a fine balance between perfectionism and perfection. Imagine all the flowers that would never bloom if they tried to blossom perfectly. Gosh, it's kind of like all the ideas that could slam around your head at 2:00 a.m. while you tried to figure out the perfect order to write them in. Well, amazingly a huge light bulb has just exploded over my head and all of a sudden I'm sleepy.

This is too much...Excuse me what was that? Oh, yes I'll write about you tomorrow. Yes, you are a very good idea. Yes, much better than all the other ideas. Yes, you're right, it is tomorrow, but I mean the tomorrow when the sun is up and it's normal for me to be awake. I promise. Now, let's you and I get some shut eye.