The world was living under the threat of nuclear holocaust and Lionel Richie. The fundamentalist takeover of the Southern Baptist Convention that started in 1979 had begun to get serious traction, and the Christian Right was becoming a political force to be reckoned with. I was going to college, where I was flirting with a major in political science, playing endless games of Defender, and perfecting my air guitar. I was tight-rolling my jeans and teasing my permed mullet. Business in the front, party in the back. I wore pastel shirts and skinny knit ties for my part-time job at Sears selling paint, electrical supplies, toys, and sporting goods.
And I campaigned for Reagan.
Yes, that's right.
No need to reread.
I was part of the Reagan Revolution.
I'm not sure I can fully explain it. I suppose part of it was overcorrection. I had recently made a dramatic turnaround from a life of narcissism; and, much like the Bob Dylan of that era, I found a home in an opposite pole. I wasn't part of the pinstriped set or the ultra-angry religious mob; but, I sincerely bought into the idea that the marketplace (of commerce and ideas) was the best hope of lifting all boats. I was a serious reader of Christian apologetics and activism, and I got carried away with arguments for moral absolutes, creationism, and biblical inerrancy. I was good at it. So good that I was capable of destroying a relationship in under 10 minutes.
I spent endless hours in the university coffee shop posing philosophical challenges for my detractors. I had (emphasis on "had") a friend--Jerome Shapiro--who was Jewish and planning to go to law school. He, like many of my acquaintances at the time, didn't buy my absolutist ontology, so we engaged the issues over Chik-fil-A sandwiches and Mello Yello. When friends like Jerome left and never came back, it just added verve to my swagger and my martyr complex ("Doing the work of the kingdom means we will suffer in this world.").
My Aunt Vinita had worked at Sears her entire career. Sometimes we would run into each other and have pleasant exchanges about our family. I didn't know her well, but she was a good soul with a kind heart. One of the things I didn't know about her was that she was a yellow dog Democrat. It was probably more of a cultural resentment of Lincoln and the Civil War than progressive ideologies, but whatever the reason, she was a hardcore Dem.
One night, I had stationed myself near the timeclock to pass out Reagan/Bush bumper stickers. It was closing time and employees were herding out the door.
I saw Aunt V making her way through the stockroom toward the exit. She saw me and her eyes filled with joy, until she saw what I was handing out.
"Reacher. Oh, Reacher" she exclaimed, voice dripping with despair and head wagging in shame. I didn't get it. How could this decent, heavenbound woman not support God's cause and candidate?
Didn't matter to me. I was committed to the "Truth," and I was prepared to suffer for it. Being right was the ultimate calling.
People like Jerome and Aunt V haunt my dreams sometimes. I never saw Jerome again, and I never talked to Aunt V about God or politics after that day in 1984.
I wonder how many relationships I sacrificed at the altar of a false god. Oh, Certainty, you wretched beast!
When Aunt V died last year, I went to her funeral. I'd like to tell you that I placed a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker on her grave. I didn't. She sure would have liked that, though.
