Karl Rove rode triumphant from his Texas enclave to the nation’s capitol. With his newly elected president, shaped and molded as a compassionate conservative, the kind of guy you’d like to have a beer with, Rove carried with him what he believed were the seeds of a permanent Republican majority. Coming on the heels of a reckless attempt to impeach a president, the new Republicans would begin with a populist and cautious approach. Tax cuts. Everybody likes lower taxes, and it filled the campaign coffers with gifts from the grateful. A moderate approach on stem cell research left the science alive, but appeased the base.
When planes brought the World Trade Center Towers to rubble and ash, and toxic dust billowed through the streets of New York, fear spread across the land. The response was quick and decisive, and fear became political fertilizer. There were wars, successful and popular wars at first. There was a Patriot Act to stymie the bad guys. Compassionate bits followed, prescription drug relief, AIDS assistance to Africa and a plan for immigration reform to build on a growing Republican Hispanic vote.
But, the wars went bad and immigration reform faltered. Deficits ballooned and an unregulated financial structure began to shake. Six years after talk of a permanent Republican majority, they were on their way out, lost and divided among themselves, without the trust of those whom they once thought were destined to carry them in generations of power.
From the vacuum of Republican loss, the others, the Democrats, found their charismatic one, half African and half Kansan, out of Hawaii and Illinois, well spoken and smart, calm and genial. He was a leader of even temper and thoughtfulness who would unite us again, who would be post-partisan and correct all that was wrong. And the Democrats talked of the seeds of a permanent Democratic majority. The demographics were on their side. The Republicans were the party of old white men, a regional party of the old confederacy that didn’t, couldn’t, represent the new America of minorities and women and youth.
Who could have foretold that Health Care Reform would become unpopular, that the economy wouldn’t heal, that the new softer foreign policy wouldn’t bring world peace? Who could have foretold New Jersey and Virginia and Massachusetts and the impending doom of the mid term elections?
The gypsy fortune tellers would have known. The gypsy fortune tellers know their own. For all the talk of center-right and center-left, of being ready for change or being tied to traditional values, the political center lives in an intellectual gypsy wagon. They sit by your fire and listen to the stories, maybe even believe the stories as they’re being told. But, when the fire cools and the stories have been told too many times they retire to their wagons and talk among themselves, about themselves.
Gypsies have short memories and wanderlust. When one fire grows cold, they look for a new and warmer fire. When one story has been told too many times, they long to hear a new one and try again to believe. They have no interest in harvesting the crops sprouted from seeds planted for permanent majorities. They are not farmers waiting for the crops to grow. They are political migrants, impatiently living off the land as they find it at the moment and in the place where they have brought their wagons to rest for a day or a week.
Some believe these gypsies want only civility and practical problem solving. It’s a lie, a canard. They want the warmest fire, the newest story. Their interest is in themselves, the next meal, the next entertainment. They love the art of the scam. They live to get what they can, working down the price, letting others carry their load. They want to laugh and drink, play music and tease the politicos with their enticing dances. They seduce for their own profit, but they do not wed, or bed, those who believe they can be had. They deal in baubles, not beliefs.
Are the gypsies evil? No, they are wise and cunning. Behind the guise of artful dancing and twirling music, they know what those with seed pouches will offer for the illusion of their allegiance. Somewhere, tucked in a dusty trunk in the wagon, there are little used voter registration cards. Those with seed pouches who dream of permanent majorities know about the cards, and, when they forget, the gypsies remind them. The seed pouched ones believe the cards can be purchased and held as their own. But, the cards are for rent, not for sale. Build a warm fire, tell a good story, and they will let you see, maybe even touch, the cards. In the morning the cards will be back in the dusty trunk and the gypsy wagon will be gone. The gypsies do not want a field of Republican wheat or Democratic corn. They want a warm fire, a good story and a lively dance.
And the gypsies are right. Too much wheat or too much corn losses its taste in time. We need new fires, new stories, alluring dances, wagons that move and a wandering spirit always chasing the next entertainment.
[Author’s Note: The image above is “Feeling the Gypsy Dancer” by Apryl Wiese.]
Cross Posted at Elijah’s Sweete Spot where COMMENTS/DISCUSSION are Disqus ™ enabled.
Contributor, aka tidbits. Retired attorney in complex litigation, death penalty defense and constitutional law. Former Nat’l Board Chair: Alzheimer’s Association. Served on multiple political campaigns, including two for U.S. Senator Mark O. Hatfield (R-OR). Contributing author to three legal books and multiple legal publications.