My mom dropped dead on Election Day 2004.
President George Bush was re-elected before her body was even found.
It was not a good day.
My abhorrence of Bush was overshadowed by the shock and utter desperation I felt over Mom’s unexpected death. Four years later, I’m still missing her. Grief is not something one gets through, really. It’s something we learn to live with and embrace in lieu of conquering. I know this all too well, having also survived the death of a child.
But death is rather final for those of us left behind, and necessity demands that we carry on or succumb. I’ve never been one to give up. So my sadness — those indescribable, horrifyingly lonesome moments of missing my mom — is understandable.
But how Bush is still in office and why some of us are hoping to elect his Mini-Me is beyond me, especially in light of the sorry state our country is in. I can do nothing to bring back my Mom. I must do something to help get an intelligent human being into the White House.
Because of the circumstances, presidential elections will forever be linked to Mom’s passing. I’d rather it not be that way, because it makes things messy. But life is messy, and the longer I live, the more I realize that the personal really is the political. Those second- wave feminists had it right.
Mom wouldn’t be insulted to know that I think of her and politics at the same time. The day she died, my sister had been taking care of Mom while she recovered from surgery. Mom’s vital signs were good, she claimed to be feeling better. And she insisted Sis leave to cast her vote for the good guys. Reluctantly, my sister followed orders. She made sure Mom had everything she needed, tucked her in, and told her she loved her. It was the last time any of us would see her alive.
Whether or not Mom actually was feeling better is something we’ll never know. What is obvious is that she was more concerned with civic duty than she was anything else at that moment. This woman who grew up in poverty in rural Pennsylvania, whose life was one struggle after another, who married just days after her high school graduation and raised three children — all while trying to deal in her own way with a debilitating mental illness — had come to realize how important it is to vote.
Mom would have loved the current presidential race. She would have rejoiced that in her time, a woman and an African-American could be serious contenders for the presidency. Mom would have been able to find some way to take personal pride in that accomplishment.
After Dad left their marriage, Mom’s struggles multiplied. Financial stability was always out of reach. She lived in dilapidated housing owned by landlords who couldn’t be bothered. Health care was not something she could afford. In the end, it turned out to be something she could not not afford, but that’s life’s twisted sense of irony, I guess. By the time she was able to seek quality care, it was too late.
Mom grew to understand the weight of the individual vote, of having a leader who truly cared about all Americans. She appreciated the democratic process and, like most parents, wanted more equity, opportunities, joy for her children than she herself had access to. So when I cast my vote on Nov. 4, it will be not only for myself, but for Mom. Thanks to her, voting has become an act of love.
Rebecca Valentine (mzwrite@frii.com) owns a writing and editorial service in Windsor, where she’s raising her four children.
