What's a girl to do as the big dance approaches

It may seem frivolous to compare the upcoming US presidential election and election to a high school homecoming dance, but please bear with me. This dance metaphor speaks to an important point about electability: we look to a candidate to inspire us, to bring us closer to our goals and dreams. Barack Obama could do this, as did the late John Kennedy. Arguably, Bill Clinton too. We usually chalk it up to charisma but that concept isn't quite broad enough. We need inspiration married to possibility. Homecoming dances are all about that.

Exploring the slippery electability issue, one column I read recently suggested that given all the uncertainties this time, we are better off looking at how candidates make us feel, as opposed to parsing polls and platforms. And that's just what I plan to do in this blog, as I explore my hypothetical dilemma: finding a partner who can take us to the epitome of Homecoming: the election of a king and queen, the biggest prize of a school's biggest football event. Like election campaigns, it's so much spectacle, but much is at stake. My vote counts, and I want to have the perfect partner for the top spot in the Homecoming parade.

At first, as I looked for my perfect dance partner,  I thought I should go for the sensible choice--class president, Joe. We could get the most votes, I thought--surely the most important thing in a campaign even if he would not shake things up in this Homecoming world--a world that most of us agree has become dysfunctional. But then, nice a guy as he is, I just couldn't get excited about him. Maybe it was the frequency of slips, his forgetting my name. Sigh. His loyal supporters--let's call them his would-be court--told me to pay no mind. That's just Joe, they said. Don't forget how much support he has!  But then my eyes turned to the one who was about to capture my heart and mind--Elizabeth.

Perhaps she made me feel so good and proud because she's my better self: like me in age and background, but, unlike me,  one who really applied herself to become a champion debater, a Harvard professor and member of Congress. And now she was expressing a plan, one that would take Homecoming to a whole new level--one that kept the tradition while solving long-standing problems at our school. She didn't want to centralize Homecoming, as the campus radical proposes; she has a more developed and nuanced view. If elected, she would be the first woman to become Homecoming King. What a thrilling thought--how I'd be at her side on the big night.

But then....her campaign slipped. The plainspoken campus radical started surging in the polls. He was becoming so popular--even among the younger students.  (How is he still in school? I wondered privately.) Still, what a good, progressive school we could become if Bernie and I became a team--an enticing thought. Then too, he's such a good, consistently honorable man, a fighter for fairness. And together we could win! His court assured me of this, pointing to various polls. He's like Elizabeth--but stronger, they said. I was tempted, but then....I thought about Amy. Yes, why not Amy? She could also become the first woman to hold the top spot.

The polarization in our school had become intense. What we needed at the front of our Homecoming parade was a well-spoken, experienced person, one who has gotten things done during her years in school. One who was once overlooked, but was now being noticed. Yes, I thought, we could win! Her court says so and our school's top newspaper endorsed her, along with Elizabeth. I imagined going with Amy, visualizing her calm smile and assurance, calming my nervous excitement and the fears of fellow students put off by the campus radical.

My thoughts were interrupted by a student passing out Bloomberg flyers, talking about this candidate's accomplishments and large donations to many progressive causes over time. I paused, and then two African-American students walked by, raising their eyebrows. Suddenly I found myself humming a tune, "....You can't buy my love with money 'cause I never was that kind...." I walked on, deep in thought.

Thinking about my philosophy classes, I remembered Plato and his belief that democracy could not survive without a philosopher-king in charge of things. I began to consider whether I should choose the candidate best suited to this exalted state, the kind of person our school could really be proud of. An image of youthful, smiling Pete came to mind. While only a freshman, he had a shot at the top prize, that I could see.

Such a paragon--a veteran of conflict, an accomplished concert pianist who speaks 7 languages. A man who can listen, admit mistakes, who understands the incremental nature of change; a person about whom there is absolutely no whiff of scandal; a gay, married man who knows that love is love, regardless of gender. A communicator, a bright young man with a stake in the future. Lots of people had come around to appreciating his virtues recently. Surely he should be my partner, and in my mind, we waltzed together for several days. Inspired by him, all students would surely become better versions of themselves.

Still....as I fantasized through my choices, I kept coming back to how these hopefuls made me feel. They all sought my hand....I pictured all of them in turn and paid attention to what I was feeling. I also kept focusing on that intersection of inspiration and possibility--the blossoming of charisma. I looked at Elizabeth's and Bernie's platforms again.* I returned to my feelings. For awhile the images blurred, and then one became clear. Elizabeth held out her hand. My heart-mind said yes, and I knew: While I will applaud the winner of the final vote, I will dance with Elizabeth as long as I can.

I hope to tell her so on Sunday, Feb. 23. She will have a rally at The Fillmore Auditorium, Colfax and Clarkson, at 3 p.m. I plan to be there.

*For a discussion of the differences between Bernie's and Elizabeth's platforms, see this recent article in The Atlantic.

On turning 73 and greeting a new lunar year

Yesterday I turned 73, a number that was once quite inconceivable but not anymore. Like a number of friends in my generation, I prepare for my upcoming new age at least 6 months early--not unlike my childhood behavior: "I'm 8! Ok, I'm 7-1/2, almost 8!" Three of my friends have just turned 70, going through the shock of entering a new decade. I'm probably a little smug in thinking I'm well past that--still several years away from my next decade shock at 80. "If I make it," I whisper to myself, as if just saying that will appease the luck gods into letting me continue to savor this wonderful gift of life.

And then again, I'm lucky to be able to put age in perspective.  I live in a senior building, where I occasionally join neighbors in our optional one-menu-per-day dinner program. Last Friday, I chatted with Joan, who is in her early 90s, and Jeree, perhaps in her mid-80s. They asked me how old I would be on Monday (monthly birthdays are posted in our elevators). When I answered, they smiled with a look of nostalgia in their eyes. Oh, yes, I remember 73....

I moved into this community of mostly-retired over 62-year-olds nearly four years ago, and have not regretted it for a minute since then. It's independent living with many opportunities for socializing or simply enjoying life in a vintage but well-managed building (sort of like my body, I like to think). It's centrally located in Denver, next to City Park with its many trees, twice as many Canada geese,  a small lake, a couple of ponds. I spent a good part of my birthday gazing at the park from my 11th floor window and enjoying birthday greetings, written or spoken, from neighbors and friends. I did venture out into the falling snow at midday to meet friends in my laughter yoga group for a celebration and well, lots of laughter.

I didn't mark the occasion with a photo, so I took a few selfies today, marking varying reactions to being 73. So here I am, posing in front of a wood framed photo and card exhibit in my living room.

Yes--surprise, acceptance, laughter at the joy of having made it this far. I'm continuing to celebrate all week. Why not? A filmed version of The Met's Porgy and Bess tomorrow with an opera-loving friend; a Friday women's salon where we talk about a variety of topics relating to life, love, imagination or survival, one each month; another monthly meeting (OLOC, an aging support group), a dress rehearsal for a Valentine's Day dinner concert of The Sage Singers (my first chorus!). Today I'll miss dancing with the new class of square dancers in The  Rainbeaus, due to reluctance to driving on icy streets, but will catch up with one of their always-celebratory events soon.

This year my birthday coincides with the lunar new year, a period of two weeks which began Jan. 25. I plan to mark the occasion Thursday with a dim sum lunch at one of Denver's best (as in tasty) Chinese restaurants with several long-time friends. Although Japan celebrates the new year on Jan. 1, like most Western countries, I always felt during the years I lived there that the lunar holiday was a far more suitable time. At certain latitudes (e.g. Tokyo), the first hints of spring are already apparent. The plum blossoms emerging, a few green shoots poking through the soil. Also, the lunar holiday feels like a kind of second start. Still feels that way--a decade after I left Asia. So for you, dear readers, whether or not your January 1 new year started out well or not, happy new year to you! Especially to those of you who may have already broken a new year resolution. (It's not too late to begin again.)  We are starting the Year of the Rat (or mouse if you prefer), supposedly an auspicious year, as rodents proliferate when harvests are bountiful. Unless, as a Chinese friend informs me, you were born in such a year (coming around in 12-year cycles). In that case, you will have some challenges.

My challenge lunar year was 2019 (The Year of the Wild Boar), the year I experienced a stress fracture in one toe--and a lesson in how one small thing can impact activities for weeks. Other challenges: replacing my passport, stolen after a careless moment, and paying a big repair bill for body damage to my aging car, done in a not-mindful moment. Otherwise, it was quite a fortunate year: continuing love from people I love, several reunions--one in Germany and Poland with 2 special friends from Tamagawa University days. Other first get-togethers in a long time came in Chicago and environs with relatives in the Bogdanski family (my mother's side), and another with my first boyfriend, Phil, who I had not seen in nearly 50 years. And then treasured yearly reunions with my sister and brother-in-law, Joan and Jim, the Orozco clan, and old friends from my youthful life in Chicago. And then there was treasured time in rural Colorado at my tiny house in Florissant, still nestled on the property of my long-time friend, Linda. Only a few weeks there, due to being sidelined with my broken toe, but precious all the same.

And now a new year of life and new lunar year begins, so last year's memories will blend into the new ones created. And hopefully new actions--dare I say, accomplishments? My prime goal is to do everything I can to help Democrats win in November and end this years-long nightmare on Pennsylvania Avenue, as well as my intermittent despair over it all. Among other things, I'm eyeing organizing some weekly sessions with neighbors and friends to write postcards to voters in flippable districts. See Postcards to Voters for more information on that. Another prime goal: to be a good friend to my friends and family, especially those with health challenges. Other less urgent goals: to continue the Essentrics exercise program I'm doing with neighbors every week. And of course to write more entries in this blog. And in general being mindful all the time and especially with passports and cars. May each of you reach your goals this year too.