A Sign of the Times?

Can anyone tell me when the election is? I used to think it was the first Tuesday in November, but now I am not sure if it is next week or last year. I am blaming my confusion on all those flimsy political signs that have spread like the pox along the streets in my town. I am sure the maddening excess of signage is a purely American experience. I would think in some other countries, the general population is too hungry to care about the candidates’ position on gay marriage, or, more likely, they are told for whom to vote by a gun wielding “campaign volunteer.” But here in the good ole US of A, we have capitalism, which means wealthy people can donate money to their friends who run for public office, who in turn use that money to see their last names immortalized in subtle variations of reds and blues on a sign by the side of the road.

It is never enough to have one sign; there must be multiple ones, both regular and supersized, obstructing my view of the weeds, cigarette butts, and Big Gulp cups that normally line the road. The political signs started some time ago, perhaps during my childhood, with presidential candidates, but now that my state’s presidential primaries are over, the signs have shifted to local elections, the county sheriff, state representatives, even school board contenders. I have always questioned the motives of those who would want to run for public office, but now I wonder if this is all a money laundering plot begun by the sign makers to control our roadways.

My daughters, E, aged 8, and S, aged 6, are also confused and annoyed by the barrage of political placards.
“Who is Leach?” S asks me.
“A balding fat white man in his sixties who is running for state something,” I answer.
“Well, then, who is Wylie?” E asks next. Questions tend to be followed by more questions when driving in the car with E and S.
“The guy who is running against Leach.”
“They must like blue,” E says.
“What does he look like?” S provides the follow up question.
“Um, I guess he’s also a balding fat white man in his sixties. Maybe he wears glasses. One of them does.”
S has recently learned how to read. “Leach, Wylie, Leach, Wylie, Leach, Leach, Leach, Wylie, Wylie…”
“Burns!” screams E. “His sign is red,” she adds.
“Yes, it really stands out against the sea of blue and more blue signs, doesn’t it?”
Sometimes we combine the names for variety. “Weach.” “Lylie.” “Wyleach.” If the drive to school is particularly boring, we count the signs. “How many Leaches between the red light and the next Starbucks?” We were even fortunate enough to have a Wylie fundraiser at our neighborhood clubhouse. My daughters wanted to go so they could ask him what up with all the signs. I told them they would have to contribute in order to attend the fundraiser, but they decided instead to save their money for some Star Wars action figures so they could play with Daddy.

So here’s my question: who actually bases their vote on a candidate’s sign and its meaningless slogan? “Yes, we can!” “Leadership for a new America.” “Making things happen!” “Eh, you could do worse…” Is there anyone out there, driving to the Bi Lo for some two percent milk and a three pack of early pregnancy tests who reads a roadside political sign and thinks, “Well, shucks! I was going to the store, but now I am dropping everything to cast my vote for Haskins!” Maybe there are some idiots out there who haven’t made up their minds, or who haven’t heard of a particular contender, but I seriously doubt someone that removed from the political process would be so moved to join in the debate based on the assault of name recognition on every street corner. I would go out of my way to not vote for a candidate based on how many signs they have used to pollute my town.
And you know, once those signs go up, they never come down until someone down on their luck can recycle them into a crude shelter or a car runs off the road, taking out a whole block of them. I suppose to some degree it is preferable to deal with the signs rather than a dinner interrupting polling phone call or an assault of junk mail mixed in with my bills. I like to think our political system can handle the concept of voters being informed on issues rather than beaten down with a constant barrage of advertisements that tell us nothing. In my mind, South Park explained it best; it all boils down to a contest between a giant douche bag and a turd sandwich.

One Man's Junk....

I drove down the road, in between errands, when I passed a duplex that I pass frequently on my morning route. It is one of those buildings that stands out from its surroundings, not well maintained. The yard is a series of grassy patches surrounded by packed dirt which makes it look like an overgrown parking lot. The house is brick with peeling white trim, the screens dark and torn on the dark windows, and it is difficult to tell how the units are divided, but nothing about it looks like a single family dwelling. Next door is an aging apartment complex, bustling with cars coming and going, a location one picks for convenience rather than quality or luxury.

I never gave it much thought while driving around, but this day, the contents of one of the duplex units were sitting in the corner of the front yard, the obvious remains of a recent eviction. In the pile were a pressed board bookshelf, a metal table base, a folded stained mattress, a plastic laundry basket with a broken handle, and many black plastic garbage bags, knotted at the top, containing who knows what. The remnants of someone's life sat in that pile, someone who had fallen on hard times, perhaps lagging behind on bills and rent, until the landlord was left with no choice but to put it all out on the street.

I felt badly for that person, not just for the loss of residence and personal effects, but more so because four or five other people were picking through the pile, looking for any items of value or use to them. It was like an impromptu garage sale, minus the cash box and eager homeowner. The people eyeballing the possessions did not look down on their luck, but looks can be deceiving. There was a woman dressed in tight jeans who was very interested in a lamp base. A few men in white hats, shirts, and pants, perhaps painters in between jobs, were testing the sturdiness of the bookcases. Another woman, in a brightly patterned shirt, was busy looking inside one of the bags. Five people, maybe aware of another’s adversity, but more likely, pleased at their own good fortune.

I watched this scene unfold before me from the safety and distance of my luxury SUV, well insulated from what I witnessed. It is no secret that the economy is in the toilet, that people can barely afford to feed their families and buy gas for their commutes to and from work, and I cavalierly drive around town on premium fuel, running errands and going to the gym and having my nails or hair done. All the while, I chat on my cell phone, complaining about my stressful life to other moms who can feel my pain. I am upset that my organic milk has gone up fifty cents a half gallon, that I cook an extra night at home instead of eating out, that I am waiting for the dress or shoes or swimsuit to go on sale before making my purchases.

Am I feeling the pinch? Do I understand the struggle? Absolutely not. I am grateful, however, for my luck. And in a more profound way than muttering to myself, thank god that’s not me. I have had rougher times, but never rough enough to understand expulsion or looting. Now my road is trouble-free, and every once in a while it intersects with another’s less auspicious path. All I could do then, from behind my windshield, was to take a moment to recognize that life is never predictable or easy, but by some turn of fate, it is easier for some of us than for others.