We are the
disposable people.
We hold no
elected office – we can’t afford the filing fees.
We are not
the wealthy elite – we do not stand behind the curtain, pulling the strings.
We don’t
belong to the club.
Our children
don’t attend exclusive schools.
We can’t
afford to make a donation, and we don’t serve on your board.
Our families
are middle class, or lower-middle class, or lower-lower class, based on your system
of democracy.
Every four
years, you seek us out.
You clamor
for the common man to serve on your campaign committee. You know, to reach the masses.
You tell us
we are influential.
You buy us
lunch.
You answer our
questions in a manner that is palatable to our sort.
We believe
that you care about our lot, if only for a moment. Long enough to champion your
cause.
Then you
disappear – win or lose. You
disappear. We were never meant to
associate, after all. It’s understood. It’s called ‘strategy.’
We wake up
and punch in at 8AM.
You vacation
in Cabo to detox from the campaign.
Your wife
returns to her book club and the PTA.
Our spouses
return to being the receptionist at the clinic or the retired professor or the equal
rights activist facing taunts and editorials from your campaign donors.
Our shoes
will cushion our tired feet as we canvas for another candidate during the next
cycle.
We will
create art that protests your votes in the legislature, and we will sit
uncomfortably in the teachers’ lounge while we discuss our disappointment with
your latest vote.
Then comes
the call – “How are you? How’s the family? Election season is upon us – can I
count on your support again?”
