No Thanks, John

To Undecided Voters: Going With Your Beer Gut

Who do you trust? Who are you most comfortable with? What lessons have you learned from 2000? 2004? Who scares you the most? Which candidate would you rather have a beer with? All questions, as Americans, you might ask yourself when entering the voting booth tomorrow.

And so, as I attempt to speak to undecideds in my historically red, but currently battleground-y home state of North Carolina, and beyond, I am reminded of a brief discussion I had with my mother earlier this year.

While my father and I consistently enjoy calling President Bush a “witless cocksucker,” (to which my conservative mother following the last eight years of national collapse will occasionally chime in with an “amen”), I believe this was only my second ever semi-political talk directly with my mom.

As I recall, we were in her tiny kitchen, eating cheesy poofs, drinking beers, and practicing our latest dance moves, when she nonchalantly slipped in that she was voting for Republican Mike Huckabee in the upcoming presidential primary.

Me: “What?”
Mama: “I like him.”
Me: “Can I ask you a question?”
Mama: ‘Sure.”
Me: “Do you want me rounded up and placed in a concentration camp on November 5?”
Mama: “Well, no.”
Me: “Then will you please vote for Hillary?”
Mama: “Sure.”

And that was that.

My mom liked Huckabee. Yes. Folksy. Honest. Smiley. Southerny. Huckabee. If he drinks anything other than the blood of Christ on Sunday, I suspect she might share a beer with him. Definitely a cheesy poof. He looks like he likes ‘em. Just like us.

Unfortunately she hadn’t given much thought to the repercussions of having an ordained Southern Baptist minister, who thinks gay marriage is a threat to civilization, governing the rights of her lesbian daughter. And while the imagery of me being loaded on a freight train with the other fairies was a slight exaggeration, it was a picture, without saying anything about what my mom might consider my abhorrent sexuality, that spoke a thousand words. Regardless of her conservative social views, ultimately she, like NASCAR’s Junior Johnson, wants her kid to have a better life. And she knew, in only seconds, the same amount of time you might spend in a voting booth selecting a “straight” ticket, that that meant choosing Hillary over Huckabee.

I am also reminded of the men and women in my life who either have already voted, or will be voting, for conservatives tomorrow—all folks who make less than $250,000 a year; all of whom have shitty health insurance like the rest of us; all of whom call themselves friends of mine. Friends of the gay. “Our lesbian friend,” they might call me. The token. The one with the short hairdid. The one who owns flannel; enjoys boots; will beat you in arm wrestling. I am their living, breathing stereotype. Safely and lovingly boxed and labeled for their pleasure.

When they pull the lever tomorrow, these very friends who warmly give me two-armed hugs, openly kiss my face, on many nights love to share a beer (or nine) with me, will be voting for a ticket—like my mother before them—that hates me. Will be voting to eliminate my right to marry, my right to visit my partner in the hospital, my right to work without fear of discrimination, my right to reproductive freedoms.

It is selfish, I know, to want these things that they have. These things that other people have. And but for our Constitution, that dazzling document that promises equal protections, I might chalk it up to my mother’s favorite adage, “life ain’t fair.”

So, my undecided and conservative friends, I ask only that you look around, or hell Republicans, simply just look at yourself, and ask not, “who do I want to have a beer with?,” but rather “what will this candidate do for you?” Not because he looks like you, is older, or safe; but because he is looking at you and telling you: He. Will. Make. Your. Life. Better. Not the life of millionaires; Your life. Better and better.

And remember, friends, if you stick to your beloved guns, and vote conservative tomorrow because you are either afraid of the black man or would rather have a drink with McSame, that one day, somewhere, I, the very drinking buddy of yours who listens, makes you laugh and comfortable, holds your hair over the toilet, will be running for office, and ready, willing, and able to make hypocrites out of all of you.

When your actual liberal drinking buddy is on the ballot, will it be about more than just the beer?

Then, dare I ask for the same rationale tomorrow?

Hell, you don’t even have to think of me tomorrow. After all, I am merely your drinking buddy. But when casting your vote, it might do you some good to cast a blind eye to the appearances of the candidates and look at yourself and what this election actually means. Even just for your middle-class, hetero life. As it exists now. Not as the millionaire you want to be.

Because friends, I know if you’re my drinking buddy, you can’t afford not to.

— Jen Jones