They drove out. Not too far. The map machine that I’ve disowned says it’s about a 25-minute drive from their hometown to Dubuque.
The woman and I start chatting. She asks me if I’m ready to hear Mr. Pence. Yes, I say, this is my first rally. I tell her that the energy in the room feels a little stale, and she mentions that she was hoping for a larger turnout. I take a glance around the room and say 150 seems pretty good. I ask her if the she feels like the momentum for Mr. Trump is building, and she says that, yes, hopefully it will keep building until the election. We discuss the disparity of the number of field offices between the two campaigns, and whether or not she thinks that matters. Her sails deflate a bit when I mention this, as if somehow, that hit her in the gut – that there’s too much organization on the other side, that there’s too much money behind the operation, or that the silent majority is a myth – but whatever it was that she pondered in that instant, she tells me that she is still hopeful.
A man in his late sixties or early seventies approaches - khaki pants, nice shirt, good-looking wristwatch. This man was her husband. I must have mentioned to the woman that I was following the campaigns for the duration of the election and working on a story, because after a few pleasantries she told her husband I was a reporter.
Full disclosure: I felt as if I had been outed. From what, though, I did not know.
THE LECTURE
Grandpa – and I’ll call him grandpa, because he told me that he had thirty grandchildren, “Irish-catholic” he said, proudly – started speaking. He began speaking about the campaign, the other side, how important it was to elect Mr. Trump, how sick he was of our current system, how he felt that his grandkids weren’t going to be able to have access to the same opportunities that he had, and then he pointed his finger into my chest and said, “Your generation is messing this up.”
And then he asked me where I was from. I could have said, “Born and raised in Michigan.” I could have said, “All over.” I could have said, “Let’s stay with you, where are you from? What’s your story?” I could have sidestepped the question, but I didn’t. Just speaking plainly to the folks, that’s what I’m doing. So, standing there, sweating like a whore in church – first time I’ve ever had the opportunity to use that expression – in the back of the crowd, I set the old man off on a rant.
“I live in San Francisco,” I said.
“Oh my God,” he said.
Full disclosure: San Francisco may cause a sudden spike in blood pressure.
Walking the line is a tricky thing. Wanting to avoid full-on confrontation, while allowing this elderly gentleman to speak his mind, feel comfortable, and speak honestly, I decided to hold my tongue and play dumb. So when he mentioned that the governor of my state was a complete disgrace, I said, “Who’s that?”
“You don’t even know the governor of your state? Do you know who your representatives are? I told him that I did not. “I was chosen for this project for my complete lack of knowledge in the political sphere. I write books.”
“Jerry Brown, Barbara Boxer, and Dianne Feinstein,” he said. “See, the problem with your generation is that you don’t know anything about politics, economics, the way the government works, any of it.” The music was playing a bit louder now, and his voice started to rise. “Moonbeam’s the worst,” he said, and then he spent the rest of the break eviscerating the state of California, Gov. Brown, the economic policies of President Obama, Hillary Clinton, the international policies of the US, the high tax rate on small business, the public education system, the welfare system, the healthcare system, immigration policies, trade agreements, tax loopholes, and business and manufacturing jobs moving outside our borders. He said all this, basically, in one long breath.
And then he closed, majestically, with a pirouette and a hard swing-of-the-gavel about how my generation was taking the country straight into the shitter. Through it all, dear reader, I promise you, I dropped my IQ down to Forest Gumpian levels, and I held my tongue – which, let’s just say, is tough for me (the holding my tongue part, not the dumbing down). Keeping the conversation flowing was, and had to be, more important than engaging in any argument. After all, I’m there to listen.
Lesson: patience.
When he said that keeping blue-collar jobs in the states was important to communities like the one that we were in, I agreed with him. That was a good idea. When he said that the Middle East was a complete quagmire, I agreed with him. But when he started beating the fear machine about the inner cities, and how within the next twenty years, I would witness the complete implosion of all major American cities, I bit my tongue and said, “meh.”
Full disclosure: We ended on a positive note when I told him I graduated from Michigan State University, and he smiled and said that we had a good-looking football team. Then he shook my hand. Helluva grip. Tana Goertz took the stage again and walked towards the microphone.
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