Dear Governor Newsom, or Why Californians Need to Vote No on 50

Please vote no on 50. It only divides us. It’s just wrong.

Dear Governor Newsom,

I am 67 years old and have been on the left-leaning, progressive side of the political spectrum since before I could vote, and I suspect what I need to say is going to be wildly unpopular with the left. Yet here I am, asking you to reverse course and throw your weight against Proposition 50 instead, because it’s just wrong.

Can you please tell the voters of California that you made a mistake? That you changed your mind, came to your senses? That you understandably reacted passionately to the insidiousness of President Trump’s urging other states to gerrymander their districts to get him more votes, and in hindsight can see that you took the low road and want to regain the high road now instead?

California is one of the states that did the right thing some years ago, creating an independent commission to redraw our voting districts with each new census in order to make elections fair. Even though this proposition is “temporary,” these rigged districts, designed to help more Democrats win, would run through our 2030 election cycle. How can we possibly justify this? How would we feel if the tables were turned?

And this leads me to the heart of why I believe this is morally wrong. Doing this harms California Republicans. It’s not fair to them, and it’s not fair to the Republican candidates running for office (especially those who are running for reelection in districts that will have been redrawn to help the Democratic candidates). Democrats hold a solid majority in this state, so in my mind, “rigging” the system to harm our Republican voters and candidates is completely unjust. And if it isn’t illegal and unconstitutional, it should be. Clearly we’re in a time in the United States where doing the illegal and the unconstitutional in government is happening everywhere we turn, and it scares the hell out of me. But that doesn’t make retaliating in this way right. We need to be moving away from the “us versus them” mentality, not exacerbating it.

Believe me, I want to put the brakes on, too. In my gut, I want to fight fire with fire. But the truth is, that never works. We have to find ways to stop President Trump’s disturbing maneuvers in ways that don’t have us committing the same sins, sins that can bring our democracy crashing down. It’s a terrible precedent. How low will we go? And can we even be certain our own rigged districts will elect more Democrats? I would not be surprised if all these machinations backfire. Can we not instead keep trying to find lawful, nonviolent and more creative ways to stop what’s happening?

I would have loved to see the money we’re spending on this special election to have gone instead to reinstate some of the existing services we recently denied our California residents who need them most (Republicans and Democrats alike), though I realize it’s too late now. Still, I would have such great respect for you if you were to reconsider this extreme and mean-spirited move and urge us now instead to vote no on Proposition 50. And then pull together the greatest minds and hearts you can gather from all across the political spectrum—the best strategic thinkers and those with the most integrity and the biggest hearts—and help us find fair, ingenious, ethical and effective ways to stop our president’s agenda.

Thanks very much for your time.

Riba

Inspirited (52)

I can hear the trill of a bird, a familiar, much-loved sound, but if I once knew who was making it, I have forgotten. My mother gets up from her computer game to wrap the fuzzy orange tube scarf around her cat, protection from the sliding glass door I’ve opened ten inches, desperate for “real” air and a connection to the earth. “It’s okay,” she says to Trie. “It’s okay.” Her voice is kind of sing-song, but it doesn’t bother me today. My mother goes back to her game, and I think how it’s likely just this reassurance she is wanting to hear, too. The familiar bird trill is further away now, maybe two yards over, and I hear a house finch singing next door. Yes, I think. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.

Spontaneous Combustion? (43)

“For God’s sake,” Biden says
“this man cannot remain in power.”
I don’t have all the details
(unwise, maybe, for a president)
but it makes me like him more.

My Drug (39)

I drink spearmint tea
to drink less yerba maté
but, still, ah—
my one
sanctioned
cup
is green and golden bliss.

Welcome (21)

I sit, wordless, wondering what will come. Welcome, she says to me. Do not worry. All will be well. Words come, my self reassured by my self. All will be well. Don’t worry. Be happy. (Like the song says.) So simple. So true. So damn hard. I am weird and wonderful one moment, pulled into shark waters the next. But always, always find my way back again, tears drying on my face, something eased or healed inside me, blessings raining down, wetting my head.

First Tea (19)

My first cup of tea rests
on my belly
lime green rim
pink fabric
the Christmas fox queen
peeking up at me
and autumn sunlight
on golden tea
like a blessing.

Spent (15)

When I stop, even for a moment, my bone-deep exhaustion starts to sink me. I begin to fall asleep in guided meditations. I have become one of those people I used to watch sometimes in sangha whose head drifts lower and lower until they wake with a jerk and place themselves upright, only to begin the nodding off process again. I drink more yerba maté at sunset. Swimming makes me feel alive while I’m in the water. I have become too tired again for real joy, only a deep gratitude—bone-deep like the exhaustion, cell-deep—for that huge, orange crescent moon last night when I turned off the living room lights, for the appearance of the red-tailed hawk in unexpected moments, for the early morning birdsong and the mornings I wake with a quiet heart to listen, for the two ravens speaking in the neighbor’s tree, those round sounds I love so much, like rolling percussive taps of hollow wood. For moments without anger. For each time I am tender and kind.