Spirit of '76

I turned 10 years old in 1976. That was an important year - America’s Bicentennial! And a presidential election year, where a peanut farmer from Georgia named Jimmy Carter ran against existing president - who hadn’t even been elected - Gerald Ford.

I came from a long line of dyed in the wool Southern Democrats, so when my school decided to hold a mock election, I volunteered to be Carter’s campaign manager.

A week or so before November 2, my dad took me to the store to buy poster boards and markers, shiny silver star stickers, a bottle of Elmer’s glue. In our garage, he put a big piece of plywood across two sawhorses so we could spread out the posters. He started spitballing dumb slogan ideas and I just stood there, arms hanging limp at my sides, nervous and worried.

I had changed my mind. Earlier that day, I learned that there were only eleven kids for Carter, where Ford’s camp had over a hundred. In fifth grade, those social stakes were WAY too high. I told my dad that I wanted to quit.

He was hunched over a poster board with the markers, drafting one of his dumb slogans. He was 44, was so old and out of touch! He had cut out pictures from magazines. He glued one of the incumbent next to one of some band I’d never heard of. He wrote in large red and blue print: “Gerald Ford: Asleep at the Wheel.” Asleep at the Wheel? Who ever heard of that band?

He didn’t even turn away from his poster to look at me. I wish I could remember what he said, but I can’t, not even one word. I only know that I did not quit, and that I went to school and hung my embarrassing posters and campaigned lamely for the peanut farmer. More kids switched parties; there were only five of us left by election day, and oh, were we ever taunted by our Republican schoolmates.

Whatever it was my dad told me, I know it wasn’t as simple or obvious as “Don’t be a quitter.” Maybe it was about the futility of chasing popularity. Or the importance of standing up for what you believed in. But I don’t really think it was those either.

My dad was a quiet guy, kind of an enigma to me, even now. Whatever moral lessons he had, they weren’t exactly easy to understand. He’d say something and I’d wonder what he meant, so I’d ask him, and he wouldn’t tell me. It's how I learned I would always have to figure things out for myself in life. (At least I think that's what I learned. I'm still trying to figure it out.)

When I woke up on November 3rd, my dad had already left for work, so I didn’t get to celebrate with him. I had to be satisfied sharing the victory with the four other loyal Dems at Laneview Elementary. I’d like to tell you we didn’t gloat, that we quietly enjoyed our victory the way my dad would have done.

But no. We paraded around. We flaunted. If we could’ve climbed the rafters, we’d have been shouting “Ha! We WON! You guys LOST! You're LOSERS! We won!" I mean, come on! Winning as an underdog, with the stakes stacked so profoundly against him - against us? It was just too sweet and delicious. I was ten. Jimmy Carter’s victory was my victory too.