An open letter to my new president

Dear President-elect Obama,

It's taken me a couple of days to recover, to shake off the exhaustion, the mild hangover, the silence-inducing euphoria, and now I'm convinced that I can string together a coherent sentence. Maybe a short one....

We did it.

WE. FREAKING. DID. IT.


I agree with Bill Cusack who recently said, "I feel as if America just took a shower. This country has never felt so clean and fresh and reinvigorated. We still need another good scrubbing or two but for the first time I believe we'll clean up our act."

I'm not a big fan of feeling sorry for myself, but it does happen occasionally. Sometimes I remember back when my seven-member family lived in a one-bedroom house and how depressed and pitiful that made us. Or I remember my mom not eating when times were tough lest there not be enough beans and sopita for five skinny kids... Sometimes I remember the year we skipped Thanksgiving and that really tough year when my dad left for prison. I remember how crappy it was to have an appendicitis weeks before the Homecoming dance my junior year. And how sad I was when my family had to break down and tell me that my dog, my sweet love, Chiquita, had finally wandered off and died....

But I don't think I had ever felt so sorry for myself as I did this past election night. I had walked miles to see you at a rally in Pueblo two days before. After it was over, I, once again, said goodbye to my family so that I could spend all my waking hours at our Democratic Headquarters, organizing volunteers, cutting turf, assembling packets, training people, forgetting to eat, not caring to sleep! I didn't care, though. Because it wasn't really for YOU. This was for ME. This was for my CHILDREN. THIS is what I kept saying to myself when exhaustion creeped in.

And then election day got here. I was on a caffeine-induced high at 5:30 in the morning, as usual, ready to make this thing HAPPEN. And, immediately, things began to go wrong. Our copier broke. Fuses were blowing out. People were calling and saying they were getting "Obama-sponsored" robo-calls telling them that the voting location had suddenly changed to a NEW location. We all knew you weren't responsible for that, but could we convince anyone stupid enough to believe it?! What's more, my stomach ALSO threw it's metaphorical hands up in the air and said, "I'm sorry, but I can't function on nothing but coffee and adrenaline. Seriously, what are you thinking? It's the toilet-every-five-minutes for you, Lady!"

To make matters worse, (Yes, I'm going to use the word WORSE here) I had, like, FIVE TIMES the number of volunteers that I had anticipated. They had hit every house within city limits not once, not twice, but THRICE. All BEFORE NOON. I'll admit here that I freaked out a little. I...I... I'm not you. I broke a sweat. I froze with panic at my inability to process the information I was receiving as quickly as I was receiving it. I needed a time out, but there was no time for time out. My head kept threatening to explode with the enormity of this stupid task of adding numbers... THIS many doors got knocked upon... THIS many people talked to actual people... THIS many door hangers were left to blow in the wind...

Luckily, the canvass captains came to my rescue. They petted me and took things out of my hands and assured me that everything was going to be okay. Lots of volunteers was a good thing. Really it was!

But the stress. Well, I'm sure you can relate a little.

Before I knew it, the time was five o'clock and people were handing me a flashlight and some Hot Hands and saying, "GO!GO!GO!GO!" Voters were coming home from work, you see. And so we took to the streets armed with nothing but passion and our voices screaming, "VOTE!! VOTE NOW BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND WONDROUS!! VOTE!"

We ran from house to house like crazy children seeking candy. We flashed our little flashlights at those gosh damn addresses that are SPELLED out in cursive on the sides of their house, looking for 460 and finding.... well.... no numbers. We pleaded, "But this is a historical election!" And, more times than I can count, we were met at the door by people saying, "Run! Run to the next house because this one voted Obama!!" And that made our hearts pump faster and our feet run harder. We fought for every last vote until the bells chimed seven.

And through it all, I remained stoic. Through the stomach cramps, the people who admitted they voted McCain, the stress of having an overwhelming amount of numbers to crunch, I kept my cool. Because YOU DID. You, Mr. Cool, who always looks like you just stepped out of a fresh shower.

But, as we've determined, I'm not you. So when my husband called me shortly after the polls closed, I heard his far-away voice and what remnants of stoicism I had clung onto the whole live-long day melted away in a matter of seconds. He told me that you were about to win. And I wanted to wrap my arms around him. My kids. You. SOMEBODY. But all I had was this phone to my ear. And now I was sobbing so uncontrollably that I finally had to blather something about goodbye to my husband because he couldn't understand me anyway. I then walked over the the Democrats' party at the local brew pub where all our volunteers were already screaming and cheering because it was becoming more and more evident that, indeed, you were going to become our next president. And suddenly there were arms everywhere that were opening for me. Strong arms. Drunk arms. Long and lanky warm arms. My new friends made room for me at the counter and bought me some "blue" beer. (It was actually teal.) And I watched with them as you slid into the homeplate once and for all. My god, I thought the day would never get here.

Alex, Katherine, Claire, Taylor, Mary, Andrea, Anthony, The Andrews, Willie, Tammy, Jesus, Kory, Gil, Victor, Suzanne, Luette, Becky, Chester, Julie, Gigi, Helen, Jan and Jan, they and countless others all worked so very hard for you here in southern Colorado, Mr. President. I can't say for sure, but I believe they did it because they all believe you will work just as hard for them.

Me, I did it for my kids. It's the same reason I wrote a book. How can I tell them with a straight face to follow their dreams and stand up for what they believe in if I'm not willing to do it myself, right? I know you get this and that's why I was on your side.

So I'm all done feeling sorry for myself now. Now I just feel good. Great, actually. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to feel great about something. About myself, dang it! It was rough. But that's something else I want my children to learn... nothing worth having comes easy. Don't count on handouts in this world. And, while I'm on lessons, I want them to know that things ALWAYS get better. My family eventually moved out of the one-bedroom house. My dad was released from prison and we became best friends. The appendicitis healed. Josh Gilmore sent me roses. My dog, I'm convinced, has been reincarnated as a human somewhere... she always thought she was one, anyway. Things look up!

You happened, after all.

Respectfully yours,

Catherine

P.S. My family worked their butts off in New Mexico, too. Irene, especially. Please note how blue these two states were amid A MASS of red on all sides. Just sayin'.