Party time

Can Kamala ride a wave of joy to the White House? Here's hoping.

We’ve all had those Sliding Doors moments when you wonder about the path not taken. I couldn’t wait to land in the United States in 2001, although I’m still not sure if I was running away or toward something. And when I decided to stay in New York City in 2003, I definitely couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was a sense of unfinished business, or proving myself, or some combination of the two.

All I know is this country has regularly made it hard for me to believe I made the right choice. Forget about the once-in-a-century property boom in Australia that I missed, or its juggernaut economic growth. In America, I endured the re-election of George W. Bush in 2004, fuelled by the disgraceful Swift Boating of John Kerry and despite lying the country into war in Iraq. I nearly pulled the plug that same year, but my green card came through in record time and I doubled down, only for the economy to collapse in 2007.

A reprieve came in 2008 with the election of Barack Obama, a moment of utter joy followed by eight years of pride at having chosen to build a life in a country where someone like Obama could be elected. But he was always the anomaly—the president America didn’t deserve—and 2016 proved it.

My mum was visiting on election night and we eagerly camped in front of the television on November 8 to watch Hillary Clinton smash through the nation’s glass ceiling. Then the results began to come in. It must, we thought, be some mistake: there was no way any sentient being could vote for Donald Trump. Irrespective of rational or irrational takes on Clinton herself, it was unfathomable anyone viewing the two candidates side by side would choose him. Or so we thought.

Mum flew home the next day, but the country was stuck with Trump for four years. I’ve written about the effect of that period, and seeing Trump campaign today stirs up all manner of “seriously?!” feelings. But there’s one thing I’d overlooked not just from Trump’s presidency but the past four years: this country’s complete absence of joy.

The overwhelming feeling on Biden’s election in 2020 was relief. But while his presidency has been, in my opinion, one of the most successful and consequential in generations, it hasn’t exactly been a barrel of laughs. For the past two years, the overwheming feeling has instead been dread, waiting for Biden’s shoe to drop—a decline capped by his disastrous performance in the first presidential debate.

“To understand the Kamala Harris phenomenon, you have to understand the depth of hopeless agony that Democrats—politicians, activists, ordinary voters—felt in the aftermath of June’s presidential debate,” the novelist Joseph O’Neill wrote in the New York Review of Books.¹ “It was an agony perhaps best grasped by reference to those classical tragedies in which free will cannot do anything to prevent the catastrophe. Donald Trump had re-revealed himself to be an idiotic, brazen liar—he lied about the size of the January 6 mob, about Biden’s tax plans, about Democrats aborting babies ‘after birth.’ But all that anyone could think about was an ashen president barely able to string together audible, responsive, grammatical sentences.”

The past month and, especially, the past four days have completely erased that dread. But the beauty is not just in the rekindling of hope among those horror stricken at the idea of another Trump term, but the way in which hope has been generated. Political conventions are, at worst, snoozefests of true believers and, at best, prone to flying off the rails at any moment. Yet the Democratic National Convention has been something quite unique: a celebration releasing years of pent-up tension, complemented by thoughtful programming and a dash of serendipity (I mean, DJ Cassidy’s roll call could have gone horribly, horribly wrong. Instead, it was inspired). The speeches have been cathartic—for many, the gloves have finally come off; for others, it’s recalibrated the entire party message.

The catalyst? Kamala.

“I can’t stop noticing and basking in her happy face,” Frank Bruni wrote in the New York Times. “Actually, happy doesn’t do it justice—it’s exuberant. Sometimes even ecstatic. When she made her surprise appearance onstage in Chicago during the prime-time portion of the Democratic National Convention on Monday night, she beamed so brightly I reached for my sunglasses. When she high-fived her running mate’s wife, Gwen Walz, during a campaign rally in Rochester, Pa., the day before, she sparkled like a gemstone. Even when she talked about the economy—the economy!—in Raleigh, N.C., two days before that, she found places and pauses for her mouth to widen and her eyes to light up. Those smiles of hers communicate an elation that I immediately want to share, an optimism that I instantly want to embrace.”

Now contrast that with the other side. The split-screen of the DNC and the Republican National Convention is just so stark: the former is an arena filled with every color and creed, smiling and dancing and looking forward with joy and anticipation. The latter is white and old, poe-faced and checking the door for an invasion of disease-ridden immigrants. Or Black people. Or both.

Maybe it’s also more striking given where my life is at. Despite several months filled with annoyances and anxiety, I can’t recall laughing more than I have since meeting Elevator Girl. And it’s not just a chuckle here and there, but full-body experiences that leave me doubled over, crying, and unable to catch my breath. It’s amazing, and it reminds me just how little I laughed previously, at least from something being genuinely hilarious (there may have been a reasonable amount of rueful “are you kidding me?” chuckling, accompanied by head shaking).

One final element stands out from the past month: graciousness. I get there’s a political reason for trying to avoid further polarizing the electorate, as well as the potential benefit of pulling Trump-curious voters back to the blue team. But the notion of showing grace to the other side and making an effort to understand their motivations, rather than simply rejecting them, seems almost radical in these divided times—especially given the vanishingly tiny likelihood it will be reciprocated.

That relates, too. Sometimes, people do stuff that makes little sense and directly or indirectly impacts you. I’m learning the only response that works for me in the long term is to show grace—to put aside the anger and sense of unfairness and simply focus on what’s important to me, my sons, and my girlfriend and how we build our life. To react any other way—with churlishness or seeking revenge—would say more about me than anyone else.

I’m not sure Harris will win in November, much as I hope she will. The US is a weird country with a horribly skewed election process, and the population remains split. But the trend looks hopeful, and electing the first woman to the presidency would swing the pendulum back on my Sliding Doors scale. For what it’s worth, my mum texted me a couple of days ago and her message was simple: “I’m in love with the USA again!”

Me too.

1. If you haven’t read O’Neill’s wonderful post 9/11 novel, Netherland, I can’t recommend it highly enough.

A note about whatever this is …

After writing a few thousand articles for newspapers and magazines, I spent a long time trying a bunch of other stuff. I guess I figured what came (relatively) easily must by definition be less valuable, so I wandered in the corporate wilderness, becoming increasingly frustrated and doing work that felt increasingly lousy.

Sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I’ve realized finding something (relatively) easy ain’t a bad thing. So, this is a space where I’m resurrecting writing for myself, on topics weird and wild and wonderful.

Posts will appear when the mood takes me, but I do try to be consistently inconsistent—sometimes it’ll be a couple of days between drinks; sometimes a week. But if you subscribe, you’ll get a email letting you know I’m ranting. Again.