Bali

Rhapsodist Poster

by madison johnson

A Thank You Note

by beverly williamson

On January 20, 2009, my son and I danced with the Obamas. Yes, we were there with the smiling tuxedoed President and the regal First Lady. I had on my fat pants and fleece socks; my son had on his onesie pajamas. Oh, and we were at home. But we were as happy as anyone at the ball. As we glided across the rug, I said, “whee” and “yea” as I dipped him, and he clenched his little legs around my waist exclaiming, “A rock a bama! A rock a bama!” I had tears in my eyes. I was happy because for the first time in my voting life; I felt like someone had counted my little vote, and it counted. My son was happy because it was past his bedtime, he was dancing, and the President had such a fun name.

Here, I feel I must go back and confess why I voted for Barak Obama the first time. I believed that President Obama would bring every single military person – man, woman, and bomb-sniffing dog – home. I looked forward to stories of families reunited. I knew that at last all those boys and girls who had signed up not knowing a thing about what was really going on over there (and there could be a number of places) would come home, go to college, get a job, live to be old. I thought this might take two or three months. I also voted for Barack Obama because I believed that the man-eating monster that is racial tension would at last disappear. Black women would not be followed in department stores (That happened to Oprah, you know!), black men would not be pulled over for DWB (Driving While Black – it’s really a thing!), and roadblocks to education for young, bright teenagers would be removed. I thought this might take six to eight months. And I could not vote for the honorable John McCain because if the worst had happened, Sarah Palin, with her incredible foreign-country-spotting vision, would have been president. Enough about that. I found it much harder to go to the polls in 2012. People still dying. People still angry. I was tired and back to believing my vote didn’t count. But I went, and I voted for our President, again, for two main reasons. A very dear friend – a father of two young sons, a devoted and loving husband, a charming and dear person – was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer. Through the nightmare of chemotherapy and endless worry, one fact that has destroyed so many families dealing with cancer was no longer a fact. My friend, who did miraculously survive, would not be refused health insurance.

And I could not vote for someone whose advice to students who want go to college or start a business was to borrow from their parents. The most 109