The Princess and the Paupers

Mitt and Ann:  The Real Deal

     My thoughts on Ann Romney last night

Red dress, white skin, blue backdrop—you are America!

Sashays her way onto the stage— no sign of nerves, so far so good

Bends forward, giddy and giggling, hands folded between her thighs— demonstrates youthful exuberance

Attractive woman-- she’s how old?

Grandmother of 18—grandmother of 18?  are you kidding me?  this is great!!

Opens mouth—not so good

I guess all good things must come to an end.  I am not about to assert that speaking in public in this kind of forum is not incredibly difficult—particularly when the stakes are so high; particularly when she was asked to hit a homerun her first time at bat; particularly when she had the unenviable task of humanizing her husband.

What we learned from Ann is that a life of privilege can be a very boring one, particularly if one is precluded from going to those places where most memories are made—vacation homes, stables, private clubs.  Not to delve into this surplus, she was left with what we heard last night—nothing wrapped up and tied in exaggeration, generalization, and patronization.

Ann wanted to correct a misconception that hers was a storybook marriage.  In fact--she was adamant-- hers and Mitt’s was and is a “real” marriage.  As evidence of this real marriage, she offered up the presence of five ornery boys and two diseases.  Really?  I was hoping that she might get more specific, you know examples of those kinds of things humans go through:  struggling to hold down two jobs so that the family can pay the rent after losing their first and only home to foreclosure; trying to finance a new car after the Plymouth Reliant K car died; maxing out two credit cards to pay the bills; taking care of two elderly parents and having to supplement their social security income; continuously finding creative ways of robbing Peter to pay Paul in order to pay for Christmas and birthday gifts, maybe piano lessons, maybe a travel soccer team.  

Things that are part of the typical middle class family life.

But the young Romney couple was often forced to eat tuna fish and pasta and write on a wobbly desk.  Ouch!!

And what about the time Mitt and a few of his wealthy friends were sweating over what business they should use their parents’ money to start.  There must have been moments during that trying time when Mitt (full of that sense of humor that Ann told us about)  eased the tension by joking, “Hey, what if we had to get real jobs?"

Again, I was expecting a few more examples-- you know those darn human ones:

all those spats about money; having to start paying back all those student loans; she’s pregnant, but can they afford it; she’s pregnant again, and they still can’t afford it; those rats in their first apartment; moving again and again, lugging that ugly furniture they got at a second-hand store in and out of another U-Haul; the guilt they felt dropping off their 8 month old at day care for the first time; thinking that college was supposed to have guaranteed better jobs than these; first rearranging those dreams, then cutting them back to within an inch of reality only to discover that the reality is the dream, whittled down to those elements that really matter—her beauty, her habit of personifying almost everything, his hair and sense of humor; her fabulously formed neck and those shoulders, packing up the kids for kindergarten, trying to enjoy those crazy birthday parties at the bowling alley, making an eternity out of those two hours when the two kids are actually out of the house at the same time, looking at those stars they can never name together, presenting and lovingly accepting a poem in place of a ring.  And then realizing that life may be all about pruning that chunky, awkward, and poorly located (so many leaves to rake and pull out from the gutters) but beautiful tree they have, and not adding yet another to an already vast arboretum.

Oops.  I got carried away.  That was the wrong Ann. 

But she’s the one who brought it up.  It was Ann Romney who was going to show us how tough the “real” marriage can be.  Unfortunately, you cannot write “Paycheck to Paycheck Survivors” when your life reads “The Success of Privilege”  So I am the one left holding the Romney storybook-- Ann as a Disney Princess; Mitt wearing white leotards and riding a white horse.    Ann and Mitt had hiccups along the way, but these do not play out well when one is trying desperately to stage a human drama:  climax needs conflict; resolution requires recognition; and survival requires struggle. 

  

The point is that Ann failed to humanize Mitt (and herself) because she tried to reinvent Mitt’s humanity (and hers).  And to cast herself or her husband or their marriage as a “one of us” kind of experience simply does not work.  In the end, her “real” marriage was the real fiction.

With 20/20 hindsight, I am prepared to offer up the kind of thing Ann might have said:   

"And we ate tuna fish...TUNA FISH!"

“I love my husband and my children and my grandchildren and this country.  We’ve had struggles but they were insignificant compared with what most Americans face every day in their struggles not to succeed but just to survive.  For most people, learning to survive is the closest they will ever come to our kind of success.  No one I know, none of our friends, have ever had to struggle that way, so I am, of course, going on hearsay.”

“Hey, America:  do I look my age?  Of course not.  Three words:  serenity, spa, salon.  Neither Mitt nor I have ever had the kind of worry that puts those deep wrinkles in your soul, those that inevitably spread to your face.  And there are always those weekly appointments at the salon—massages, pedicures, waxing, Botox, cucumbers and ginger and avocadoes, O my!  And don’t forget daily work-outs at the spa.”

“We have five sons but we could have afforded 50.  We had the money to send them to the best private schools never once saddling them with any student loan debt.  They began life well up on that proverbial ladder of success that allowed them the privilege of having as many children as they liked.  And now I am the proud grandmother, not of one or two, but of eighteen.”

“When we were first married we may have eaten tuna fish once in a while, but more often than not we ate out and never at a fast food restaurant.  Our biggest concern was what to do with all his daddy’s money.  And Mitt and I have shared so many lovely times together at private clubs, at cocktail parties (where we only pretended to drink), horseback riding, summer homes, house keepers, beautiful furnishings, wonderful anniversary gifts; and in place of that one wobbly desk, one extraordinary antique desk used by Brigham Young himself where Mitt has sat many a night over the last several years of his unemployment with me leaning right behind him contemplating how best to turn 20 million into 40.  I remember one time we gave up in frustration and collapsed onto our sofas, drowning our sorrows in memories of more prosperous days and root beer floats.”

“We are privileged.  I can hide my age but I can’t hide that.  But Mitt and I want you to be kind of privileged too.  Don’t be afraid of our success.  Don’t settle.  At least tell your children that they can be Romneys one day.  Maybe you will never be as privileged as we are (you certainly will never have the time and money to run for President)—but I am here to tell you that if you elect my husband as the next President of the United States, he will get the government out of your way so that you may think you can get to where we are now.  And that is what America is all about isn’t it:  dreaming you can when you can’t; thinking you are what you’re not; and becoming what you never were, are, or ever will be.” 

“I remember a school musical our oldest was in – The Music Man.  In that wonderful slice of Americana, an entire group of young people, none of whom ever had a single music lesson, suddenly and miraculously became a wonderful marching band, simply by using the “think method”. 

“Mitt and I think that thinking will work for all of you too, the less- or underprivileged, the whole colorful lot of you.  And one day with Mitt’s help, you will write your own storybook, heavy on pictures, light on words.”

“God Bless You, and God Bless the United States of America!”

One final thought:  why should we care that Mitt will work harder for us so that we do not have to work so hard.  I thought this was all about rugged individualism.  Sorry Mitt!  We don’t need your help, thank you.  We created our success, not you!  

The Unbearable Lightness of (Not) Being Mitt

If you are really rich and don't care who knows it, raise your hand!

     I suspect that even the harshest critic of presumptive Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney has got to be feeling sorry for him.  He’s just not having fun with this “Campaigning for President of the United States” gig.  It has become almost painful to watch him.  His movements are like those of an awkward white fellow at a 70’s Soul & Funk Party pushed onto a platform to show-off his version of the robot dance.  You can picture his advisors behind the scenes unscrewing the cap that is Mr. Romney’s right ear, shoving in the funnel, and pouring in a dozen or so of other people’s wants and desires—from Adelson’s Middle East policy to the Tea Party’s elimination of government ideology.  And the coup de grace:  Paul Ryan, lauded as a real live human being, is now his running mate.  Immediately the young Conservative whipper-snapper was upstaging him so that he had to remind the “60 Minutes” viewers that he was the real Presidential nominee.  “I have my budget plan.  And that’s the budget plan we’re running one.”  Of course it is, Mr. Romney.  You are the nominee, Mr. Romney.  Why would anyone think otherwise, Mr. Romney?  It is becoming quite clear that Mr. Romney is not only uncomfortable, but that he is one stump speech away from ceasing to be at all.  I think I know why, and I think I can help.

     Mitt Romney is simply embarrassed to be rich—a recent condition, going back only as far as the first demand to see more of his tax returns.  Up to this point, Mr. Romney was proud of his millions-- when he was buying and selling properties, when he was using his inherited wealth to start his own business, when he was outsourcing, when he was driving into bankruptcy businesses that were then forced to lay off hundreds of workers.  During these happy days, he had only two concerns:  increasing his individual capital and making money for his stockholders.  Why not?  Making money was a reward for being a moral man of faith.  He had put his time in:  at home, as an elder in that hermetically sealed temple and abroad, peddling his faith in France.  Now it was Mitt’s turn to have his own visions, to write his own Bildungsroman, to take the money given him and to make more of it.  During these years, he filled out many income tax returns, creating loopholes to pay less so that he could keep more.  This was not devious; it was his sacred obligation; the ideology of Mitt’s America.  And things were going swimmingly.  People approved.  He was elected governor of Massachusetts; he single-handedly organized and ran the Utah Olympic games (and much better than the Brits could do, if he did say so himself).

     Then came the decision to run for President.  Then came his primary victory.  Suddenly he was one election away from becoming the leader of a nation whose middle class has seen its wages and buying power deteriorate over the thirty plus years since the introduction of trickle-down economics and whose poor have increased to the point that there is a greater percentage of sick and hungry children in this nation than in any of the developed economies of Europe.  Suddenly, for the very first time, straight up, undiluted capitalism was not something for him to be proud of.  Worse.  It was a good thing for all his multimillion dollar friends but not for him.  And to add insult to injury:  he still found himself forced to concoct and present ways to insure that their wealth increased, while for him money was something to be ashamed of, something to blush at whenever anyone shouted, “Hey Mitt your wealth is showing!”

     Try to empathize.  Imagine what it must have felt like to have your whole way of life now made into something terribly wrong, even immoral, but only for you, not for anyone else.  It was a near epistemological nightmare:  “Why is America still America for everyone else but me?”

     I think I can help you, Mr. Romney.  The prognosis is good; the disease has not metastasized.  The road to recovery, the way not to be embarrassed is simple:  Do Not Be Embarrassed!  First, profess what you believe.  Tell yourself:  “I am rich.  And to be rich is to be successful.  To be successful is a good thing.  It takes money to be rich.  And I love money—inherited money, capital gains money, tax loophole money.  All this money has allowed me to raise so much more money from rich people who love me unconditionally for my money.  And all this money has allowed me to do what only a select few in America can do:  finance a campaign for the Presidency of the United States of America.”    

     Now that you are beginning to feel better, more like your old self:  Release those tax returns!  And not just a few.  Say to yourself, “If they want tax returns, I’ll give them tax returns!’  Show them the money!  And don’t do it grudgingly.  Make it festive.  A real event.  As you release these returns like balloons into the bright blue cloudless American sky laud the life of easy money; hail America as a country that believes in, protects, and nurtures a multimillionaire elite, and trusts it to run its economy through virtually unrestricted, straight up, no holds barred capitalism. 

     I know we would see a much more relaxed and comfortable candidate.  I even suspect that once Mr. Romney is able to breathe more freely, we would all see that connection with voters that has been lacking.  He may then be caught feeling the pain of the millionaire who lost thousands in a risky investment; of a disgruntled country clubber whose tee-off reservation a staff member forgot to book; of the bread-winning husband forced to feign interest in that equestrian thing his wife goes on and on about; of the Gentile who even wonders if it isn’t a bit goyish to be handed a red white and blue yarmulke and whisked off to a holy wall by a tsvuak;  or of the private multimillionaire who has offered his talents for the public good, only to find himself being forced to feel badly at being a private multimillionaire.  Move over “Joe the Plumber,” say hello to “Preston the Really Rich White Guy.”

     For thousands of his supporters, I suspect that Mr. Romney’s campaign would be immediately energized.  For his own psychological well-being, I suspect that Mitt Romney would feel whole again.  And for all of us who want better TV viewing during the next two months, I suspect that we all would discover that Mitt Romney, recent events notwithstanding, is rather human after all.

P.S.  Suggestion:  Adopt “Only Human” by the 80’s pop band Human League as the Romney campaign theme song.  

THE COLOR OF WHITE

"Who's the white guy now?"  "We are!!"

In my last article, I suggested that Romney simply come out of the closet and proclaim that he is a really, really, really rich guy and that he will no longer be compelled to be ashamed of this.  I have to hand it to Romney’s advisors— instead of taking my suggestion, they have decided to have Romney and partner proclaim something slightly different--  We are really really really white guys!

This represents the Republican strategists’ bold, new plan of attack—to woo the white middle class guy vote.  Many of us did see this coming after seeing so many appearances of two really white guys particularly in the swing states— I mean how come neither one of them even got a mild tan being outside in Florida so much?

The indication that the Romney ticket was going to play the race card, however, came the moment Romney made a crack about the Presidents birth certificate.   The hope is that this will translate into a language that a conventional white middle class male can understand, perhaps the earliest language known to man, that of racism:  “This Obama bin Laden ain’t even American—that name has terrorism written all over it!”

Instead of continuing to make promises that he will put the middle class back to work with real jobs, Romney has chosen to accuse the President of encouraging welfare recipients not to work and still receive their benefits.  Again they are hopeful of another translation:  “Hey white guy, look at all those lazy blacks, who take your tax money to buy drugs and have babies!”

The RNC itself has heralded this "move to the white" strategy by choosing as its keynote speaker Chris Christie, a choice with the added benefit of being, in terms of sheer volume, worth at least three white guys.  I expect that we will soon also hear of the President’s pandering to illegal aliens with the hope that the translation will resonate in every white man’s ear:  “This used to be a country where being white, talking American, and celebrating CHRISTmas was a good thing.  Look at it now.  That’s what happens when you put a black Muslim born in Africa in charge.  Romney’s gonna make us proud to be white again!”

Look, white men, I understand.  I am a recovering white guy.  I know how easy it is to blame shortcomings and failures on someone or something else.  That’s human nature.  Take sole credit for our success, and little if any blame for our failures.  I have learned, however, that the truth is not difficult to see— one doesn’t even have to renounce racism all at once to see it.  Just pause for one moment and picture the Republican ticket:  they are REALLY RICH and REALLY WHITE.

As white guys in the middle class, we have a choice:  to identify with their color (egg shell and sour cream) or to identify with their wealth (tens of millions for Ryan; hundreds of millions for Romney).  Sure we may share their skin color (although many of us white guys pride ourselves on having a slightly darker tan), but we do not nor will we ever share their economic status.  Economically speaking we are as different from them as night is from day.  And the night is dark.  We—those of us who have renounced racism, those who are seriously thinking about renouncing racism, and those who are still proud to be racists—are part of the dark and colorful crowd whether we like or know it or not—we are the color of illegal aliens, hungry children in overcrowded classrooms, welfare recipients, the homeless, single mothers raising children, or the prisoners in jail for lack of an costly defense team.  Our we is not the Romney/Ryan we.  The sooner WE understand this, the sooner real change will come, a change that will make America a land of freedom and opportunity for US not just for THEM.  At least since 1980, THEY have enjoyed a political system that allows THEM to pay less and less for the opportunity to steal more and more from US.  The less WE have is being taken not by big government but by THEM! 

Don’t be blinded by the Republican platform with it moral red herrings—marriage between man and woman or life begins at birth.  These are like coupons to give you free admission to an amusement park where you then have to pay for all the rides.  Romney and Ryan are RICH REPUBLICANS.  Unfortunately that’s all WE need to know.  THEY will safeguard the interests of the REALLY RICH.  The Tea Partiers have attached their broken down dreams to this Republican tow truck, and the destination is simply the next dump.  If WE want to be a working class who benefits from a free America, then WE need to take what WE deserve and what THEY have stolen. 

I appeal to all white guys:  “SEE YOUR TRUE COLORS!”