Love in the Time of Climate Change (18 page)

Who the hell actually knits?

Or was it “crochets”?

Whatever!

“Y
OU TOLD HER WHAT
?” Jesse asked incredulously.

“I said I liked how she did her hair,” I sheepishly replied.

“Jesus. You are in deep!”

“I couldn't help it. She started it!”

“Started what?”

“It. She said she liked
my
hair,” I said.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a minute, back up here. She said what?”

“She liked my hair.”

“Tell me her exact words.”

“‘I like your hair.'”

“Jesus,” Jesse said.

“It's not a big deal. I just got a haircut. She was being nice.”

“It
is
a big deal. It's a huge deal. Cut or no cut, your hair looks like shit. It always has and it always will. Face it, bro, no one could possibly think it looks good. What did you say after that?”

“God, why do I tell you everything?”

“Are you serious?” Jesse asked. “That's what you said to her?”

“No. That's what I'm saying to you!”

“Come on. I'm dying here. What exactly did you say to her?”

“When?” I asked.

“After she said she liked your hair, you moron!”

“She didn't call me a moron.”

“She should have. What did you say?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“That's it? Thanks?”

“No! I told you already. I said I liked how she did her hair.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean what else?”

“What else did you say to her?” Jesse asked.

“Nothing.”

“You're lying, you son of a bitch. I can see it in your eyes. You're the world's worst liar! Tell me what else you said!”

I breathed deep, and sat down.

“I told her I liked how it was wavy. I told her it looked good like that. Not that I didn't like it straight. I said she looked great both ways. But I like it wavy.”

“Jesus. Wavy! Was that it?”

“That's it.”

“You're not holding back?” Jesse asked.

“I'm not holding back,” I said.

“Then what?”

“She said thanks. She said she'll wear it that way more often.”

“Oh my god. I can't believe this. I honestly can't believe this!”

“Christ, are we in fucking middle school here?” I asked. “I complimented her hair after she complimented mine. It is not a big deal! You are such a drama queen!”

“She said she'll wear it that way more often?”

“Yeah.”

“How did she say it?”

“What do you mean ‘how'?”

“Did she look at you? Did she smile?”

“Seriously,” I said. “I think this might be the most ridiculous conversation I have ever had in my life. Bar none! I'm done. Finished. I'm cooking dinner.” I turned my back to him and began rattling pots and pans.

Jesse followed and put his arm around me, resting his head on my shoulder. “She smiled, didn't she?”

I sighed and didn't answer.

“Tell me she smiled.”

“She smiled.”

“Winked?” he asked.

“No wink,” I said.

“Big smile?”

“Pretty big.”

“Really big?”

“Pretty big.”

“Jesus.” He gave me a big hug. “You are in deep!”

A
T THE HEIGHT OF THE INSANITY
gripping the nation preceding the November presidential election, I managed to remain scrupulously nonpartisan in the classroom. While any one of my students with half a brain or even anyone vaguely familiar with presidential politics knew it would be a cold day in hell before I'd ever vote Republican, I saved my rants for those opting out of the democratic process.

“Democracy is not a spectator sport!” I thundered. “You want to whine? You want to bitch? Then vote!” I slammed my fist on my desk for dramatic effect.

“Don't like the Republicans? Don't like the Democrats? Vote Green Party. Vote Libertarian. Write
me
in! But if you don't vote, someone else will. You have a choice: let others decide your future, or let your own voice ring out in the ballot box!”

I know. It was a little melodramatic, perhaps a tad too heavy on the “rah, rah, sis boom bah, go-o-o-o-o democracy!”
But students were solemn and seemed to get the point. Who knows, maybe I even guilt-tripped one or two of them who might otherwise have opted out on Election Day into actually voting.

While I wasn't Obama's biggest fan (he didn't mention The Issue in any of the three presidential debates!
Arrrrr!
), I found the alternative unthinkable.

Mitt Romney? Jesus! This was the best the Republicans could send up?

There is a special place in hell for those flip-floppers who radically change positions for reasons of political expediency. Here was an ex-governor, snake oil oozing out of every orifice, who had originally embraced the science of climate change—only to deny it once he began running for president.

Here's Romney snickering during his inauguration speech at the Republican National Convention: “President Obama promised to begin to slow the rise of the oceans and heal the planet.” Cue the derisive laughter from delegates.

Laughter! Can you imagine that?
Laugher!
At the mere mention of a president wanting to heal the planet!

“My promise is to help you and your family,” Romney continued.

Jesus. Mitt the Flip, it'll be awful hard to help the family when you've stir-fried the planet they're on. Think about it.

I could just see Poseidon, God of the Sea, the Earth Shaker, hanging with his homies on top of Mount Olympus, not taking this shit lightly.

“All right, Mitt my Man,” he might say. “You can talk that trash, but can you hang with the fellas? Get a rise out of this!”

BAM!
Down comes his Trident and up roars the Atlantic, taking down Romney and all of those other climate-change-denying assholes with him.

You can never accuse those Greek Gods of lacking a rather vicious sense of humor.

Payback's a bitch, Mitt.

In any event, it was hard to teach during the week leading up to the election. The polls were way too close for comfort, my confidence in the American people to do the right thing was wavering, my OCD was raging, and to add insult to injury I was suffering from severe constipation. Nightmares of climate deniers once more seizing the reins of power had left me anxious, exhausted, and totally on edge.

I felt as though ghosts of Halloween past were still lurking in the basement.

Speaking of Halloween, other than the doubling of Romney signs in the neighbor's yard, there had been no news from the scary man. His Halloween ghost was back up and running, on his schedule, not ours, its presence adding to my overall distress and discomfort. Jesse and I still slunk out our side entrance and made a beeline toward the door every time we saw him, but we seem to have escaped from our botched ransom reasonably unscathed.

Back to voting. I hate to say it, but sometimes it seems as though fear, prejudice, and clinical insanity seem to be a prerequisite in many states for casting a ballot. Vast swaths of the American public suffer from a chronic and debilitating epidemic of ignorance.

Perhaps what I was preaching to my students was downright wrong. Maybe democracy really should be a spectator sport for some, with players and watchers. Truth be told, perhaps it would be best to go ahead and purge those climate-change-denying, anti-intelligentsia, anti-science ignoramuses from the voting rolls.

No brains, no vote.

Hell, if it takes throwing democracy to the wolves to bring back sanity, then so be it.

Of course, there is that one ever-so-slight rub.

Who are the deciders? Who gets to choose who plays and who watches?

After smoking a bowl (or was it two?), Jesse and I reached a cataclysmic decision.

We
would!

It was a no-brainer. If you answered “yes” to any one of the following questions you were forever expunged from the rolls of eligible voters:

“Number one,” Jesse coughed, exhaling deeply and passing me the pot. “Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Republican party?”

“Brilliant!” I laughed. “I'm totally there. Let's just ignore the fact that Teddy Roosevelt was the first conservation president. And that Tricky Dick Nixon signed the most sweeping comprehensive environmental legislation ever into law. And that even George W., God bless his tortured soul, created the largest marine sanctuary in history, now off-limits to energy extraction. Lord knows how perfect the Democrats are, free from the slightest bit of corruption by big oil, big coal, and frackin' gas money. Expunge the Republicans from the voting booths. Let's just ignore Welch's ghost from the McCarthy hearings: ‘Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last? Have you left no sense of decency?'”

“Excellent,” Jesse responded. “And how about this? Are you a white male who has ever resided for more than one month in any one of the red states, namely those confederate dens of sin that forever go Republican?”

“Yee-haw!” I cried, giving a pathetic rendition of the rebel yell. “Southern good-ole-boy stereotypes. I love 'em! So inclusive. So liberating!”

“Number three,” Jesse cried. He jumped up on a chair and began waving his arms from his podium of power. “Do you make more than $200,000 a year?”

“Bravo! Eat the rich! Why stop at $200,000? Let's make it $100,000! Hell. Let's make it 50,000!”

“Wait,” Jesse said. “I make more than 50.”

“Too fucking bad! You're gone! Later, dude!”

“Whoa, whoa, wait just a minute, mister,” Jesse countered. “
You
went to school in Texas for a semester!”

“Yeah, but that doesn't count! It's not like it's actually part of this country. It was more like a semester abroad.”

“Try again!” Jesse said. “You're gone too!”

We paused to take another hit.

“I know!” Jesse leapt back onto his chair. “We'll stick with number one! We've never voted Republican! Never have, never will!”

“We're not number one!” I yelled. “We're not number one!” We proceeded to parade around the apartment, sanctimoniously shouting and stamping our feet and singing praises to a voting populace purged of anyone who disagreed with us.

Ah, benign fascism. What's not to love?

—

Two weeks before the election, I had given my class a homework assignment to research the presidential candidates' positions on climate change and energy issues, and then write a two-to-three pager comparing and contrasting. It seemed a reasonable way to highlight the stark differences between Romney and Obama and, in a not-so-subtle way, help get out the vote.

The papers were the usual community college mix of the brilliant and the barely literate.

Samantha took artistic liberties and painted a stark Orwellian portrait of a Romney America. Colleges like ours were mandated to have their own coal-fired power plants, with students' financial aid based on how much coal they could shovel in a day. The government had seized control of the Weather Channel, forecasting cooler temperatures and refusing to broadcast extreme
weather events. A dedicated underground of climate activists were sneaking onto roofs in the dead of night to install photovoltaic panels and then heading for the hills, only to be hunted down and persecuted by the climate police.

It was absolutely, publishably brilliant. I photocopied it, brought it home, and taped it to the refrigerator door.

During class, in an attempt at balance, I had asked one of the students who had articulated Romney's position in a somewhat coherent and sympathetic way to read his paper out loud. I asked Samantha to do the same. I was pleased to note that the volume of applause was greater for hers by far.

As she increasingly was wont to do, Samantha stuck around after class.