I am quite possibly the least political person currently employed by the local liberal, pinko, tree-hugging weekly rag.Working here has certainly made me infinitely more politically aware, if not exactly active. Now I watch hours of news, listen to hours of community and talk radio, and read several newspapers regularly, following the game like an armchair quarterback, screaming at the television and marveling at the stupidity of the plays. Now the American political process no longer appears about as relevant or beneficial to the average citizen as a copy of the Koran printed in Sanskrit; it appears actively dangerous. Why would anybody walk into an obviously crumbling old mansion and wait around to get hit in the head with a falling brick?
But the idea of maybe seeing somebody else get hit in the head with a falling brick has its own perverse appeal (thank you, Real TV; thank you, America's Funniest Home Videos). It might be this desire that propels me to the New World Brewery on a refreshingly balmy Tuesday night for a meeting of supporters of Democratic presidential nominee Dennis Kucinich.
Ohio Congressman Kucinich is a left-field (in every sense of the qualifier) candidate, mostly named in the mainstream press only in comparison to another upstart runner, former Vermont Governor Howard Dean, for their similarly grassroots-oriented campaigns. Kucinich is best known for an incident that stalled his political career while he was Mayor of Cleveland and, at 31, the youngest leader of a major U.S. city in history: In 1978, several Cleveland banks pressured the city to sell publicly owned electric utility Muny Light to its private competitor, CEI, and threatened to foreclose on the city's debt unless the purchase took place. Kucinich refused; the banks pushed the city into default over the debt, and Kucinich lost his re-election bid.
The fact that a majority of the banks' board members also sat on the board of CEI and owned 1.8-million shares of its stock apparently made less grabby headlines than "Mayor Bankrupts City." Kucinich was lionized by Ohio's more forward-thinking residents, however, and adopted the light bulb as his trademark; between 1985 and 1995, Muny Light saved Clevelanders over $195-million in utility bills, and two decades later, Kucinich was issued a commendation by the Cleveland City Council for his "courage and foresight."
He's a vegan. He rejects contributions from corporate entities. He wants to create a Department of Peace. His platform includes words quite possibly never before used in one, like "holistic."
In short, he's the perfect candidate for seriously disenchanted Democrats and those third-party members worried about splitting the vote. Which means that, in a race about which every Democrat agrees that unseating Bush is Priority Alpha-One, unless he can rally every disenfranchised voter in the country, he seems as likely to be elected President as Gumby.
Given Kucinich's platform, and that this shindig was set up through online event-coordination enabler Meetup.com, the 15 folks who show up for this planning soiree constitute an astoundingly diverse group. It's official; everyone has e-mail.
The varied little cabal politely listens as secretary Andy Van Cleave, a 26-year-old musician with a masters in microbiology, recaps their last meeting and lists the positions still looking to be filled. An enthusiastic white-haired couple sporting Kucinich T-shirts applauds; an ardent WMNF-88.5 FM fan has brought her daughter. An amiable MC named Jerry Mascari moves things along. The phrase "regime change" makes repeated appearances. An aerospace engineer speaks, adeptly changing soft notions into hard numbers to relatively disquieting effect and noting that the local precincts guaranteed to be taken by Democrats are not enough, a gimme; the party must win new territory to turn the tide. As with every focused-interest meeting, time is split pretty equally between preaching to the choir and emphasizing the need for bigger numbers, unification, getting the word out. Basically, it's like watching any fledgling ad hoc group, only with a little less idealism and a lot more passion. They're aware they're not just swimming the English Channel, but rather endeavoring to backstroke the Atlantic. But, hey, the map says there's a far side to this void, so let's get wet, already. To an apolitical cynic, this should all come off as unspeakably boring. It doesn't.
God, I love a good underdog.
After an hour and a half or so of pointless Republican-bashing and pointedly good ideas for getting Democrats together, another get-together is scheduled for Sept. 23. The party begins to break up, and I endeavor to find out why, when what the Democratic party needs most is a candidate every single voter can get behind, these wonderful, motivated folks choose to back such a radical dark horse.
"I don't think there's anything radical about universal healthcare, repealing the Patriot Act, withdrawing from NAFTA," says Van Cleave. "What's radical about that? It seems more an issue of right and wrong. There are certain liberties this country was based on, and it doesn't seem to be [nurturing them] right now.
"I'm just a regular guy who just started watching what's going on," he continues, "and I'm diplomatically trying to inform people of this candidate. And if he doesn't make it past the primary, I'd never consider this wasted time."
"This isn't the country I grew up in. I don't consider myself a liberal. I was born during the Depression," says 71-year-old Barbara Nicholson who, along with husband David, is among Kucinich's most ardent supporters. "I'm sick and tired of all these conservative-liberal semantics. We're for the good of the country, of the people."
"We'd rather have an election than an auction," says David, unconsciously serving up the coolest bumper sticker ever. "Now that's un-American."
This may not be the rally scene from Citizen Kane, but the energy generated by this small group of like-minded individuals is both palpable and infectious. Whatever their position on issues or party affiliation, they've accepted a fact I've managed to avoid facing since I was old enough to drive, hold a job, pay taxes, and put off registering for the draft until I thought somebody might actually send me to jail for it:
We don't have the option of not entering the crumbling old mansion.
We live there.
Hell, I might even vote next year.
Scott Harrell can be reached at 813-248-8888, ext. 109, or by e-mail at scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Sep 18-24, 2003.