Politics Is Personal
Tip O’Neill once said, “All politics is local,” and you could add to that my father’s motto: “All politics is personal.” Political discussions at our dinner table were not for the faint of heart. My parents rarely agreed on anything. During the last years of the Vietnam war, my father taped a large world map onto the broad shade that hung in front of our French doors, so at dinnertime we could see the countries we talked about. Someone always ended up stomping out, usually my brother–he was reading Mao’s little red book at the time–or one of my sisters, bawling over capital punishment.
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On election morning, before we went to school, my parents led us down the street to the American Legion Hall, two kids on their flanks and two more bringing up the rear. As we neared the polling place, my father greeted the neighbors with his sly electioneering. He didn’t tell people how to vote or even that they should vote; he was much more subtle than that. He’d say, “Great day to vote!” or “Think there’ll be much of a turnout?” People glided by, murmuring politely as they passed.
