Joan Cullinane: Yo-Ho-Ho!

February 5th, 2008, at 5:55 pm, my 1990 Legacy wagon honed in on all the other Subaru at Nick Begich Middle School parking lot in East Anchorage. Whoa, Fred Meyer’s the day before Christmas had nothing on this mess. The admission cut off was 6 pm. Shocks shrieked as we skimmed over snowy speed jumps and shipwrecked in front of a dumpster.

“Sorry, matey,” I called as I sprinted off to do my civic duty. My car is sensitive.

I had never been to a Democratic caucus. Who in Anchorage has? I read that about 250 people voted the last time. I would raise my hand to support Hilary Clinton then peel away in my cranky vehicle for a draught of non-alcoholic grog. What I encountered inside the school doors blew my middle class, white lady mind. I was swallowed up in a multi-colored sea of young corsairs.Where did all these Democrats come from? What form of impressment was used upon them? Where can I anchor myself in this youth storm? Arggh, panic attack!

I focused on breathing. There were way more people in that gym than fire code would allow. It was a new building, but hey, it had a wooden floor somewhere under all those feet. Pirate confession: I stayed to see if there were any eligible men floating around. My family tells me that a woman who can’t get married in Alaska must not be trying. I spy with my one good eye…. my district No. 26 flag bobbing in the human flood, and my red headed, blue voting neighbor Bonnie Lynn. I got my sea legs if not my man.

The crowd quieted as the captain rose to explain the procedure. Each district should tread lightly towards their appointed classroom. Upon arrival, we would determine which candidate our district supported. District No. 26 wound up squashed in the fo’c’sle.  Despondent over the proportion of wedding bands on the gnarled fingers of my crew, I was swept out with them into a larger area. Standing in this area, I felt the sea-sickness of being white, that thing of which I am mostly forgetful. It’s never been pleasant to be reminded but remains necessary to dance my part in the jig of racial betrayal.

“Hilary Clinton or Barack Obama, choose a side.”

Every person of color and everyone under thirty walked the planks to the other side of the room. I had a flashback. My father, born in 1919, and a Republican politician in New England, took my older brother to hear Martin Luther King speak because he was the new voice of America. I didn’t know who Barack Obama was but I wasn’t going to admit it. Sensing the danger of a lee shore, I abandoned Bonnie Lynn and sprinted for the second time this evening, this time over to the future. I was breathless, not because I was out of shape, but because I was part of a historic undermining of the status quo. Snapping with that zing of knowing I wasn’t dead yet, I almost guffawed. What would my irascible car say to that?

I left within minutes, avoiding the parking lot tsunami. I’m sure Bonnie Lynn floated over to Obama soon after I did. The snow was a little sparklier by the dumpster, where my car smiled illegally. As she hummed home, I sang a sea chantey. We had a treasure and were going to steal an election. Ha! Ha!

Super Tuesday reminded me that just because I live in the far North, I’m not immune to the pull of the greater tide of humanity. More than 3,700 people voted at that school. I bet at least

a hundred more turned away when they saw the parking lot. That’s quite a spirited rebellion. Some might call us a ship of fools. After all, Obama didn’t even visit Alaska.Who could blame him? Someone was likely to stop him at the border and ask to see his original birth certificate.

Alas, my sails have lost some of their wind. I continue to live a life surrounded by liberal white ladies like myself. I twice recently found myself reading books where I made the assumption that all the characters were white. That harbor is too familiar, not what I came to Anchorage for. I came for the snow and the chance to point out a true snow job, both of which are abundant. I’m a snow pirate, equally capable of deceiving myself and my crew. How do I reorient to true North? I can poke fun. I can vote. I may not sink my own racism or anyone else’s, but I can rock the boat.

Just after Obama’s second inauguration, my wagon beached itself in my district No. 26 driveway, under the carport, safe from the seagulls of Westchester Lagoon. I’m still single. I hope the forecast is for wind in the opposite direction. Marriage may not fit me but I’m open to living in a more piratical arrangement. I’m excited about the upcoming elections. Even in the Anchorage, a ship may come about and surprise the port authority. While I’m waiting, I bought another Subaru. 

Joan Cullinane was born in Boston and struggles not to reveal this in every piece she writes. She went to stand-up comedy school in San Francisco and learned many new curse words, which are not repeated in this essay. Joan has lived through seventeen years’ worth of adventures in Anchorage, very few of which have involved wildlife. Joan has wanted to live in Alaska ever since she wrote a report about the Great Alaskan Earthquake in sixth grade. She began her residency as a tour guide on the rail route from Anchorage to Fairbanks while earning a degree in Drama Therapy. She currently directs an improvisation group at Anchorage Community Mental Health Services. Their current work is titled:   “A Peoples’ History of Psychiatry.” She also writes a humor and mental health blog: polarflares at wordpress.com. Feel free to ask her out on a date in the comments section of her blog.