Caring is Cool
A lesson for my kids growing up in a crazy world.
My sons and daughter will grow up in a world where women can be leaders of this country and people of color will be recognized as the backbone of America. Of course this reality has always been, but I have to admit, growing up, I never thought things could look that way.
In elementary school, I learned that to be President of the United States you had to be at least 35 years old, a US citizen, and male. When I shared this with my husband the other night he said, “But you don’t have to be male…”
Maybe his homeschool curriculum didn’t teach him that way, but I DISTINCTLY remember being taught those three factors as mandatory. And I never questioned it. I was programmed, complacent, and admittedly naïve and privileged to accept that as a hard truth, and until I was in my mid 20’s — I simply didn’t care.
Not caring is the ultimate privilege. Thinking that politics doesn’t directly affect my life is a luxury so many Americans do not have. I barely engaged in conversations about candidates, never thought much of the news, and definitely didn’t look forward to voting.
Then, Barack Obama ran for president. Somewhere in my mind there was a shift. One that went from, who cares to: a black president? Why hasn’t this happened sooner? So I registered to vote. I did minimal research into what his policies were compared to his opponent’s, and just that small act of Googling key topics made the world of a difference between the old me and the new me. Finally it dawned on me: it is important to care.
Whether politics makes a difference in your day to day or not, caring and engaging shows an empathy toward the collective nation. I would say that I’ve always been really sensitive to others’ struggles and feelings (enneagram type 2’s you know what I mean) but the weight of 2020 has been especially heavy.
So on Saturday morning, when Joe Biden was projected to be the winner and Kamala Harris would be the first woman, person of color elected as vice president, I felt a little lighter and actually hopeful. Hours later, scrolling on Instagram and seeing all of the posts of little girls looking up at their Madam Vice President on a big screen, I found myself tearing up. I thought of my daughter, who is 5 and has quite an inquisitive little spirit (she recently asked where God came from). I hope she stays curious, and isn’t too afraid or complacent to ask questions out loud. If there is one thing I want to teach my young kids, it’s that truths and facts aren’t the same.
I hope they are taught different views from history, and have the insight to come up with their own interpretations. I hope they interact with their communities and understand that they are one part of a collective whole. One part that can make a difference, no matter how small they might feel. These are lessons I learned much later than I should have, but with half of the country letting out a long sigh of relief, I hope at the end of the day, you care.
