Politics

Politics

It's Saturday night in Honolulu.
Could be any late summer Saturday night in Honolulu. It's not.
It's the anniversary of September 11th and we're on the verge
of a terrible national election.

The outcome of this election will demonstrate how culpable
voters are--and many people won't vote because it doesn't
make sense to vote because it appears that votes don't count
due to ballot box treachery or because there's a lack of
relevant candidates.

I've been following the presidential race like everyone else.
Or actually, squinting my eyes, heart and soul because I just
don't want to see it anymore. It's a technique I developed
in childhood when my father would hit the low end after
the high when partying with his buddies, when he'd strike out
against the membrane of the world that hurt him and hurt those
who loved him.

I knew his pain, could see it flare around him,
strike the aurora of sadness and blow. I'd pretend it wasn't
happening, distance myself to some far planet or star until
it broke and rippled into nothingness. And then it would be
okay again.

It's an old habit I've tried to break because what is is what is
and you might as well keep absolutely focused so you don't miss
anything at all. I'll never forget the scene in Sharon
Doubiago's memoir of growing up in Southern California
when a semi tractor trailer loses control and heads straight
toward the car she's in. Everyone else screams and hides.
She keeps her eyes wide open because she wants to see,
to know this thing.

Joy Harjo
September 11, 2004