Why Am I Liberal? (Part 1)

              I get asked this question a lot, usually with a sneer and a confused blink. Sometimes I have to look down and make sure that I still have my clothes on. I’m usually taken aback for a couple of reasons. First, I find the outright question rude. My grandparents and my parents always taught me acceptance. Don’t ever invite yourself to a party, don’t stare when a special needs person is nearby no matter how curious you might be, and above all do not discuss money, religion, or politics – especially in company other than family. Second, I usually fail to provide a good answer because I rarely have a witty, one liner that stops any further inquisition into my unorthodox view of politics and life in general. As a writer, I’m expected to not only have one-liners flowing from me like fresh water from a spring, but I’m also expected to have knowledge of the subject I am discussing, especially when it directly relates to myself.

            I grew up in Tekoa. It is a small town in Eastern Washington. The population at last check was just over 800 people. I now live just outside the neighboring town of Oakesdale, population around 400 souls. I think it is fair to say that small towns in general have a reputation for being more conservatives than large cities. In working with that assumption, I think it is also safe to say that in our neck of the woods, Tekoa is considered more liberal, and Oakesdale more conservative. I grant that that is a generalization, but I’d venture a guess that many of my neighbors in both communities would tend to agree.

            Growing up in Tekoa I cannot recall ever being asked about my religion or my political views. Frankly, I assumed that is because my grandparents had gotten a hold of most of my neighbors and friends and instructed them on proper manners, just as they had me. However, in Oakesdale I have had a much different experience. I have been asked to attend church on numerous occasions, one time with the suggestion that we should go because our mass quantities of children would look so darned cute in the Christmas play. In addition, it has also been suggested that I, and one of my children pray in public. I have been blessed I don’t know how many times – and all of that is fine with me. A good blessing has never hurt anyone as far as I know.

            I have smiled at it all and declined politely, not only because they are my neighbors and friends, but also because I really enjoy hearing about different beliefs and seeing those beliefs shine in people that I want to know better.            

            When I was a teenager, my favorite song to sing around the fire at church camp was “Pass It On.” To this day I still sing it, even though I no longer have the beliefs that I once did. I like that my neighbors trust me enough to share and “pass on” their beliefs to me, and my curiosity at their conviction almost makes me want to agree. I really like these people and seeing them socially on any day of the week would be a welcome visit.

            However, agreeing to attend their church would also be hypocritical, and as my parents and grandparents taught me, an affront to the honesty that binds any relationship. For myself, I figured just keeping silent about my “difference” was good manners. 

            I was okay with that, right up until one cold and windy fall night in 2009 when a local police officer came to my house to have a chat with my husband. Apparently, there had been some discussion about a sign nailed to the fence that surrounded our barn. The officer had been known to drive by our house on occasion because he lived nearby. Often, he would wave and I would wave. It felt good having a man of the law close by. I often told my kids that if there was ever a fire, ever a problem, feel safe because he was just right down the road.

            I had no idea what he and my husband we talking about in the driveway, and I almost went out to offer the man a beer. He was in civilian clothes after all, and had rarely slowed for more than just a wave. I was intrigued as you can imagine. However, a few days prior to the visit I had burned some yard debris on a windy day, and had been very thankful that he had not driven by. I assumed that he somehow found out about it, and that he was here to give my husband a friendly warning about my carelessness. Of course, that was not the case. He just wanted to chat with my husband about that sign.

            Apparently, there had been some talk about the blue and white sign. Some even assumed that it might have been a mistake, or even a joke. It wasn’t. The sign was in our support of Barak Obama and Joe Biden for the upcoming presidential race.

            From what I learned after my dear husband walked through the door shaking his head, the officer wanted to know whose sign it was. My husband told him that I had put it up, and the officer kindly suggested that Wave consider telling his wife to take it down. It was subtle of course.

            “Well, you don’t support him, do you?” the officer asked.

            “Well, my wife really does. I haven’t made a decision yet.”

            “Maybe you should take the sign down until you do.”

            “Well,” my husband said. “You’ll have to take that up with my wife. It’ her sign.”

            All of this was true. We had had some lively discussions in our family about who to support since Senator Barak Obama first started showing up in the news a couple of years prior.

            I could not believe it, or at least I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to throw a fit, stomp my feet and march right over to his house and give him a piece of my mind about democracy. I even suggested sneaking over to his house in the middle of the night and sticking the other ten signs I had all over his yard. But my husband, always the level headed on, reminded me that he was only one person.

            I stewed and muttered something for a couple of days about freedom and acceptance and our forefathers until I finally calmed down. I hoped he did not represent the feelings of all of my neighbors.

            Interestingly enough, I was shocked to learn that he did represent more than I knew. Not that my other neighbors, who had apparently be taught some manners by their parents and grandparents as well, would ever suggest that I take the sign down. But, some were certainly curious, if not outright appalled that I believed the way I did. From one friend, I heard that she was surprised. She just didn’t know I was a Liberal.

            Up until that point, I had actually considered myself a Democrat. But Liberal? As a wordsmith I had to say, I really liked the sound of that better. To me it sounded like branching out into a smaller more dedicated, more knowledgeable faction of the Democratic party, which had for some time seemed to large and indescribable to me.

            My friend, whom I learned that day, clearly understood her own conservative political stance, apologized as well for a remark that she had made about the future president in front of me.

            “That was rude, and thoughtless,” she said. “Knowing you as well as I do, I should have known right away that you were a Liberal.”  

            “He’s not my family,” I laughed. “You can say what you want. It probably won’t change my opinion, but you never know.”

            Since then, more people have asked the question that started me thinking today. “Why am I liberal?” I, like most people on either side of the razor wire fence that seems be dividing this country today, I doubt have taken the time to sit down and really think about it.

            …stay tuned for Part Two of “Why Am I A Liberal.”