You Can't Tell The Poor Anything

4 November 2008: At 10 am I was standing in line with about 200 of the sheeple, waiting to vote at the housing project community center. Most of those in line were black sheeple, but there was also a handful of Asians, Russians, Arabs and white trash. A muddy sea of bus drivers, warehouse workers, dishwashers, maids, janitors and the just plain idle. This is the Amerikan poor, with their well-worn clothes and dumb faces.

Today the poor supposed they counted the same as the rich. That’s why I say they have dumb faces. They think they have a friend in Obama.

“Well,” I said aloud, to no one in particular, “it looks like a great day for McCain.”

I laugh at my own joke.

No one joins me.

A minute or so later, after we shuffle forward a couple feet, a young black man says:

“Obama gonna change the future!”

A fair number of the poor nod their heads and mutter words of agreement.

“He can’t change something that doesn’t exist,” I say. “God holds the future, and it is outside the reach of man. Even the great Obama.”

The poor glower and shake their heads. An old black woman says:

“Dat right. God hold de future. But Obama a part of it.”

At this, the poor give me crooked grins, as if I am beaten.

“Then no doubt one or two standing here in this very line will have the great honor to die for Obama.” I look up and down the line. “I wonder who it will be? Who here will die, say, in Pakistan? Die on some Obama-ordained wild terrorist goose chase? Who will have their head sawed off for Obama by some North Waziristan tribesman?”

An awkward silence, then one of the poor says, rather angrily:

"Man, shut the fuck up!”

“Yeah, shut the fuck up,” a few more chorus.

You can’t tell the poor anything. Unless it is a football score, or where to buy a Lotto ticket. Otherwise, it’s useless.

So I shut up. Why not? Why not let the poor feel they count for a day?

Obama is the perfect gift from the rich to briefly amuse the poor. Just like the toys the poor give to their children. Shiny on the outside, but cheap as hell on the inside. The toy works for a day or two, then a spring or a gear breaks, and the thing is useless. And the poor once again realize they are poor. That’s their Obama. . .

It takes about an hour to get through the line. In the end, I vote for McKinney: a real black.

I love watching the incompetence and the chaos in the polling place. The poor planning never ceases to amaze. Look at those pathetic *voting booths:* cardboard pop-ups, crammed far too closely together. The fat sheeple crashing into each other. . .the paper ballots dislodged from the privacy folders, the ballots fall to the floor, stepped on by the next obese voter. . .look at the dirt shoe prints on their precious ballots for Obama! That's Amerikan democracy for you!

And don’t forget all the missing marking pens. . .and the slow-as-molasses election workers. . .and the sheeple waiting and waiting and waiting. . .and the frustration rising and rising and rising. All as if their vote matters. . .as if Obama matters.

Why do I bother? I ask myself this every election.

This time it is to pray for the poor.

God, do not let Obama crush them too badly. Open their eyes. Let them see who their hope truly is. Save a few of them. Especially that one. She has a sweet face. Her poverty, her low station in life, has not entirely dimmed the light of life our Lord gave her. There is still a sweet flicker of Your life on her face. Save this one, and salvage what You can of the rest. Amen.