As Long as I'm Holding this Flag, I am God.

It has long been assumed in this country that a known atheist will never hold a high public office. Well what would you say if I told you it's already happened? No, not Thomas Jefferson. Deists believe in god. Think more recently? Think the early 1990s. Think of an armed woman in uniform.

     In an effort to appear like a uniter (I'm guessing), Gary Alexander (R-Kettering, OH) reached across the aisle and appointed me, Carrie Curtner (D-Miami Twp., OH) to the post. I was Mr. Alexander's Ray LaHood (President Obama's republican Secretary of Transportation). The confirmation process was much less of a headache than what you're used to hearing about. I think my mom maybe had to sign a permission slip. A fellow democrat, she was happy to oblige. So, from July 1992 through June 1993 I served as Harold Schnell Elementary School's safety patrol captain. I took over the position from an avowed Mormon. The the exception of the fact that the entire school only had about 3 black kids enrolled, Harold Schnell was a pretty progressive place in the early 90s. 

     My uniform was a blindingly bright, highly reflective, orange plastic harnessy-sash thing (or a not-quite-as-bright giant yellow poncho if it was raining). I was armed with a flag the same color as my harnessy-sash thing which was affixed to the end of a yard long, 1-inch-diameter dowel rod.
     Though it didn't come up during my interview for the post, I think on some level I believed that my atheism would make me a better captain. My firm conviction that there would be no power higher than myself intervening should a first-grader walking home dart into oncoming traffic gave me the feeling of (dare I say godlike) omnipotence that all power-starved-dictators need to posses in order to keep their people safe (under control/completely dependent upon them). I'm not saying that my inclinations toward control-freakism are caused by my disbelief in god. I'm just saying it's a little easier to not feel like a dick for being a control freak if you believe the buck stops with you anyway. Margaret Atwood would be better at explaining what I'm trying to say, but I don't know if she ever used her position of power and influence as safety patrol captain to try and convert people away from Christianity, so you're stuck with me for this blog post anyway.
     I was raised as one of those people who only go to church on on Easter. I don't know if the once a year on Easter thing was an attempt on my father's part to affirm his Christian faith or if it was just that he wanted to make it crystal clear that he wasn't Jewish. I mean, as holidays go, it doesn't get much less Jewish than Easter. We'll save how wonderfully open minded and accepting of people not like himself my father is for another post. My real point in mentioning the church on Easter thing is to offer up some proof that I was not raised as an atheist. I have been subjected to hours long protestant services by a parent who really does believe in the guy with the white beard. (God's still a white guy with a white beard, right? We haven't switched to a more politically correct Asian-God-in-wheelchair model while I wasn't paying attention?)

     The first sign that I wasn't totally hip to the deity jive came when I was about five or six. I remember playing outside with my friends Krista and Kyle Kettering who lived up the street from me. Their mom taught at Dayton Christian middle school (I think, my 6-year-old memory might be a little fuzzy on some of the finer details) and they believed in god and Jesus and the whole works. I don't know how the subject came up, but we were talking about Jesus and the virgin birth, you know, like kids do. I have vague memories of my mom reading to me from a children's bible when I was really little. I can see some of the pictures in my mind. I remember the Garden of Eden, the flood, and the Tower of Babel. I don't know that we made it much further than that. I'm thinking we definitely didn't make it to the New Testament, because I had some rather heretical things to say about how Jesus came on the scene. "So, Jesus' mom was Mary and Jesus' dad was God, so Mary and god were married." I don't remember how they told me I was wrong, and I don't remember how I responded to their correction, but I think it must have been the 6-year-old equivalent of, "What the fuck?!" By the time we finished our argument, the only thing the three of us could agree on was the fact that Jesus had come out of Mary's butt. At some point my mom was informed that the Kettering kids couldn't play with me anymore. I don't remember whether or not this was related to my heathenism, but let's pretend that it was, because I think this Mary and god were married debate can turn into a pretty badass chapter in the biography that someone will write about me hundreds of years from now as a result of my single-handedly turning the world away from religion and toward a peaceful coexistence. Or not. I don't really care if you believe in god or not. Whatever gets you through the night. Just try not to be an asshole about, and try to encourage other people not to be assholes about it either. See? Peaceful coexistence. I'm sure my Nobel is on the way.
     The first time I remember flat out telling someone that I didn't believe in god was third grade. I was talking to my strict Southern Baptist best friend at the time, Joseph S. I have no idea what I said other than that I didn't believe in god and I thought it was foolish that he did. Whatever I said, it must not have made much of a mark; he lists the Bible twice in his list of favorite books on Facebook and Jesus Christ first (four places ahead of Reagan) in his list of influential people. The Joseph S. phone incident was a full 3 years before I was injected with the ego boosting shot of pretty much limitless power that my promotion to safety patrol captain gave me.
     One afternoon when one of my fifth grade underlings, Shane M. and I were walking back into the school after a successful shift of life saving, we were talking about god. I had formed real opinions and thoughts based on logic by this point. It was a major step in my intellectual growth. I know this sounds like I think pretty highly of myself, but let me follow-up by saying that my opinions and my ability to argue on this topic have not matured or expanded one iota since that spring 18 years ago. But back to my conversation with Shane M. "Just because we haven't found all the answers through science doesn't mean the answers don't exist. Religion is just ignorance settling on an answer," I told him. I have no idea what he said to that. It's hard to listen to other people when you're too busy being impressed with yourself. Remember that thing I said a couple paragraphs ago about not being an asshole about your faith? That goes for atheists too. I was a real schmuck when I was twelve. In case you were wondering, according to Shane's Facebook page, he still believes in god too. Good for him.
     As I said, I haven't come up with any sounder arguments against the existence of god since I was twelve. I'm sure if I'd read more of what Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens had to say on this matter, I'd be further along argumentative education, but the truth is, I don't go out of my way to read books or essays that try to disprove the existence of god. I may not be any good at convincing other people not to believe, but I think I've pretty well mastered my own disbelief, so why spend the time? Something I do spend time on though is reading collections of essays written by people who I think are funny, skilled writers (something I clearly haven't mastered as proven by this essay). Well, sometimes when you're looking for one thing, you find something else just as valuable. A few weeks ago, I read Penn Jillette's new book, God, No! Signs You May Already Be an Atheist and Other Magical Tales. I will say that the title was the first thing to catch my interest, but the reason I bought the book was that as I was standing in the book store reading the books introduction I noticed the strength of Jillette's voice. He writes like he talks, which is something I try to do, and he's funny, which is something that I try to be. I thought maybe I could learn something from this guy. I was right, but what I learned had nothing to do with being a better writer (no offense Mr. Jilliette). No, what I walked away with after reading page 129 of Penn Jillette's book was the best argument against god I've ever heard. Here's the quote:

          There is no god, and that's the simple truth. If every trace of any single religion were wiped out
          and nothing were passed on, it would never be created exactly that way again. there might be
          some other nonsense in its place, but not that exact nonsense. If all of science were wiped out,
          it would still be true and someone would find a way to figure it all out again.

As my dear mother, the same woman who baptized me in our bathtub with holy water she stole from the hospital chapel, says "Well shit twice and fall back in it." That's a pretty fucking solid argument. I'm sure, for those who believe, there are arguments against the aforementioned, but I'm not going to go out of my way to think of what those arguments would be. In fact, I think I'm set on reasoning against the existence of god for another 18 years. But I'm still not proud of the way I talked to Shane M. that day after we'd finished our safety patrol shift.
     You could say that I let my position as safety patrol captain go to my head. You could say that it ws inappropriate for me to use my position of authority to try to sway the beliefs of my subordinates, but let me just leave you with one last story.
     School had just let out, and all the kids who lived within a safe mile of the building were anxious to get home. Students walked along the quiet suburban streets with nary a care in the world. Students, that is, except for me and the rest of my force. I was standing on the corner of Carnation Street and Palm Drive, proudly wearing my glow-in-the-dark sash when a small group of kids walked up behind me. They were chatting amongst themselves, paying no attention to the traffic situation around them, but so what--that's why I was there. From my left, a car approached. I held my flag/dowel rod in width-wise in  front of my waist and gave the command, "HOLD!" The kids walking behind me didn't stop, but neither did the car. When the first girl in the group ran into my outstretched dowel rod, so firm that the rod broke against the force of her forward momentum. She stopped, unharmed, just as the car passed.
     Maybe there is a god after all.
   
     

I Don't Want to Show You Mine

On my first day of kindergarten, Kelly Simms was the girl who showed up dressed like she was competing in a pageant. She wore a powder blue, frilly dress. At recess, I sat on the swing next to her. I think we must have become friends that day, but I don’t remember why or how that could have happened, because, while she was the girl that showed up dressed like she was competing in a pageant, I was the girl who showed up wearing shorts and a tee shirt, and, let’s face it, those aren’t the types of girls that usually become friends. In fact, I remember in the third grade finally telling Kelly Simms that she was the kind of sort of pretty girl who only wanted to be friends with girls who weren’t as pretty as she was, just so she would always look much better by comparison. I guess that made me kind of an odd third grader. I digress.

So, one day, in girl scouts (Girl Scouts?) Kelly Simms comes up to me and pulls her shirt away from her chest and says, “look.” As in, look down my shirt. What was a girl to do? She told me to look, so I did. To this day, it’s one of my biggest regrets. After I looked, she closed her shirt and said, “now you.” Well, I was already quite modest by then, so I did the only logical thing I could do. I ran away. I don’t remember exactly how Kelly Simms retaliated, but I know she wasn’t happy. I believe she may have gone with the old, I showed you mine, so you have to show me yours, defense.

Well, one day, later on in our kindergarten careers, this group of old ladies with puppets came to our classroom to talk to us about “personal space” and how it was never okay for someone else to invade your “personal space.” At the end of the old ladies’ routine, they took some questions from the class. I don’t remember what sorts of questions my classmates asked. All I remember is that I sat there, ready to throw up, convinced that Kelly Simms was going to raise her hand and tell the little old ladies and their puppets that I had molested her that day in the girl scouts (Girl Scouts?). I don’t remember ever being so nervous before or since. Well, that’s a lie. One time since.

When we were in the first grade, Kelly Simms and I were still friends. One day, without any warning at all, the little old ladies showed back up with their puppets. They gave the same routine. I sat there, once again, ready to throw up. I might have sweat profusely, or I might just be making that part up to help increase the dramatic tension of my story. In either case, I was sure I was going to jail. Thankfully though, Kelly Simms did not rat me out, but this didn’t help the guilt, because now I was thinking, are these little old ladies going to put me through this every year? I don’t remember if it was the same day, or a few days, or a few weeks, or a few months later, but eventually my guilt and fear started to erode the productivity of my everyday life.

Here’s where we get to the climax. One afternoon, after school, I said to my mother, “I have to tell you something.” My mother asked what was wrong. I don’t know how long it took me to spit it out. I just remember the two of us sitting on the floor in the hall, and me sobbing, and my mother probably thinking that I’d killed someone, because that really is how hard I was crying. I think I finally choked out, “one. time. at. girl scouts (Girl Scouts?). I. looked. down. Kelly’s. shirt. and. then. I. wouldn’t. let. her. look. down. mine.” It was the hardest thing I ever had to say to someone, ever.

“Well, why in the hell did she want you to look down her shirt?” My mom has always had a great way of making me feel better by pointing out that everything I feel bad about is someone else’s fault. I love that about her.

In case you were wondering, I’ve never been arrested for molesting Kelly Simms. I’m not sure what the statute of limitations is on that sort of thing. I feel like there isn’t one. I feel like, even when I’m seventy, Kelly Simms might still be able to tell on me, and the cops could still arrest me, and I might have to register as a sex offender.

So that’s my Kelly Simms story. Now for a much shorter Kelly Simms’ mom story. This kid, Nathan Yux, had a birthday party at Hardees when we were in the third grade. During this party, Kelly’s mom not-so-casually leaned in and asked me, “Have you started your period yet?” What kind of a question is that? I think, without my knowledge, I must have been in a race to menstruation with her daughter, and she wanted to make sure I hadn’t won. It was at that moment that I decided that maybe Kelly came from an even stranger family than I did.

Taking Things Four Years at a Time

The day of the 1988 Presidential Election, all the second graders gathered in the common space between our four classrooms, and Mrs. Shirley took us through a simple process. “Okay, raise your hand if you want to vote for Michael Dukakis?” After a quick glance through the crowd during which she counted myself and the others who didn’t care or didn’t know about Dukakis’ wife’s alcoholism, she continued, “now which of you would like to vote for George Bush?” She counted, not because it was close, but because she wanted to get it right. She then went to the board and wrote:

Dukakis--3
Bush -- 96

I imagine the thought was that the students’ opinions were likely to mirror those of their parents. I can’t speak for the results specific to my hometown, but I do know that nationally things were bad for Dukakis, but they weren’t that bad. The popular vote went:

Dukakis--45.65%
Bush --53.37%

This margin of defeat isn’t terribly embarrassing. The problem, as is typically the case, was with the Electoral College:

Dukakis--20.6%
Bush --79.2%

Thus Dukakis has served as a worthy political punch-line for the last twenty years.

In January 1989, the four classes gathered again, this time to watch the inauguration. I sat as close to the television as I could get and listened to the banter from the news team. As a still lucid President Reagan got out of his town car one of the reporters said, “Every president who was elected in a year ending in zero, going as far back as Lincoln has died in office. President Reagan is the first president in 120 years to break that pattern”

“Well, there’s still time,” Mrs. Young said. An odd comment coming from an obvious republican, I thought. Looking back, I’m not sure I was meant to hear her say it, and I’m certain I wasn’t meant to get it. Still, that comment is the thing I remember most about the second grade.

***

My mom took me to the Darke County Fair. While we were there, we came across a booth where they were selling shirts with, “Clinton/Gore ’92” printed in patriotic red and blue. I begged my mother for one of those shirts. Months earlier, I had seen Clinton at a debate. At the time he was still polling in the single-digits. I didn’t care how Paul Tsongas was doing or whether Mario Cuomo was going to enter the race. I just knew, as I sat there watching the debate, that that governor from Arkansas was going to be the next president. “We just got to the fair,” my mom said, “why don’t you wait and see if there’s anything else you want to buy.”

“No. This is what I want.”

That November, I was proud to wear my Clinton/Gore shirt to school. It was election day and my school was one of the polling stations. My sixth grade science teacher, Mrs. Crompton, and I sat outside at recess, and while the other kids played basketball or swung or did whatever normal kids do when they’re at recess, Mrs. Crompton and I talked politics. “That’s who I voted for,” she said. I just smiled.

That afternoon I went into the chorus/band room where the voting booths and old lady volunteers were set up, and I participated in the kids’ voting. Mr. Alexander, a fifth grade teacher and transparent sexist made fun of my shirt or was he making fun of me? I don’t really remember. I just remember lowering my opinion of him. Then this old woman with nothing better to do than embarrass an 11-year-old kid said, “you know, you’re not really allowed in here with that shirt.” I thought she was joking, so I laughed. “I’m going to have to ask you zip up your jacket while you’re in here. What you’re doing is illegal.” I know she was just trying to do her civic duty, but at the time, I didn’t get it. I cried the whole way home, humiliated that I wasn’t more familiar with the legal system as it pertained to elections. The woman had single-handedly ruined Clinton’s victory for me.

***

Forgive me. I voted for Nader.


***

I have never been less excited to vote for a man as I was to vote for John Kerry. Still, I stood in line for 3 hours to do so. I would have stood there for six.

***

Yesterday, Governor Bill Richardson of New Mexico ended his campaign for the presidency. For months I’ve been telling anyone who would listen about this guy. Four time Nobel Peace Prize nominee. Second term governor. “No sitting senator since Kennedy has been elected president. Clinton and Obama might not be electable,” I would say. Energy Secretary under President Clinton. Hostage negotiator. He’s done amazing things with North Korea and Iraq. Name a bad guy. Richardson has had him by the balls. I’m just saying, the man was clearly more qualified for the job than just about anyone who has ever applied for the position.

Richardson did one smart thing for himself after he bowed out. He declined the opportunity to back one of the three remaining democratic candidates. I would be very surprised if Bill Richardson isn’t at the top of everyone’s list of possible running mates. If Obama wins the nomination, he’s going to have to attach someone with experience to his campaign, whether he likes it or not. Having been Bill Clinton’s Energy Secretary, it would make sense that Hilary Clinton would try to get him on board. Edwards might just need some help in the West, where Richardson is strong. The biggest thing though, the thing that all three remaining candidates should be thinking about--Bill Richardson is half Mexican. Though it doesn’t make a lot of sense, the Latino vote almost always goes to the Republicans. Maybe it’s something to do with conservative, Catholic values. Maybe it’s something to do with the way conservatives have attached themselves with the concept of the American Dream. Probably it’s a combination of both. If Governor Richardson can help get the Latino vote, and I think he can, that’s going to be the difference between the Dems winning in a landslide and waiting 48 hours after the polls close in November to see which way Ohio goes. None of us wants to do that again.

I think Keith Olbermann said it best. At the end of his interview with Governor Richardson on last nights, “Countdown with Keith Olbermann” the pundit said, “I know it’s not of great practical use right now, but you’ll understand why I couldn’t have said something like this earlier, I think you would have made a fine president.”