A modest proposal (for our politicians)

Today's weather, cloudy again, cold wind blowing, has us in a grumpy mood, exacerbated by the headlines about congressional and legislative actions, or inactions on a variety of issues. This has put us in a mood to offer the following brief suggestion, somewhat along the lines of Jonathan Swift's A Modest Proposal.

Before any city council person, county commissioner or state legislator can vote on a proposed solution to a problem. the politician, and his or her family, must live with the problem for at least a legislative term (2 years or more). Also, no longer can any legislative body exempt themselves from compliance with legislation enacted to govern the rest of us in a democracy.

Boundary Waters beauty

Photo by J. Harrington

How can we expect Minnesota's legislators to want to protect the beauty of the Boundary Waters if they've never been there? On the other hand, it seems to us that too many politicians have never experienced the effects of huge Confined Animal Feed Operations (hog farms, anyone?) before they get to decide that ordinary folks can live with the odors and other environmental effects. If legislators and their families had to live with nitrate contaminated water supplies, would they be inclined to delay implementation of known (if partial) solutions while further studies were done? How about requiring a number of legislators to live for a couple of years on only the foods available on Native American reservations, plus food stamps and harvested wild rice, foraging and hunting/fishing, while they pondered how to address sulfate water quality problems. How many legislators or members of congress have been subject to mass shootings such as those that have happened all too often in our schools and other locales where significant numbers of unarmed potential victims are gathered?

When we were growing up, there was a standard saying "If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem." We need, more and more these days, to vote on whether those who purport to represent us are part of the solution, or not. Aren't we supposed to be living in a representative democracy? How can an elected or appointed official represent something they've never experienced?

                     Democracy

By Dorianne Laux

When you’re cold—November, the streets icy and everyone you pass

homeless, Goodwill coats and Hefty bags torn up to make ponchos—

someone is always at the pay phone, hunched over the receiver

spewing winter’s germs, swollen lipped, face chapped, making the last

tired connection of the day. You keep walking to keep the cold

at bay, too cold to wait for the bus, too depressing the thought

of entering that blue light, the chilled eyes watching you decide

which seat to take: the man with one leg, his crutches bumping

the smudged window glass, the woman with her purse clutched

to her breasts like a dead child, the boy, pimpled, morose, his head

shorn, a swastika carved into the stubble, staring you down.

So you walk into the cold you know: the wind, indifferent blade,

familiar, the gold leaves heaped along the gutters. You have

a home, a house with gas heat, a toilet that flushes. You have

a credit card, cash. You could take a taxi if one would show up.

You can feel it now: why people become Republicans: Get that dog

off the street. Remove that spit and graffiti. Arrest those people huddled

on the steps of the church. If it weren’t for them you could believe in god,

in freedom, the bus would appear and open its doors, the driver dressed

in his tan uniform, pants legs creased, dapper hat: Hello Miss, watch

your step now. But you’re not a Republican. You’re only tired, hungry,

you want out of the cold. So you give up, walk back, step into line behind

the grubby vet who hides a bag of wine under his pea coat, holds out

his grimy 85 cents, takes each step slow as he pleases, releases his coins

into the box and waits as they chink down the chute, stakes out a seat

in the back and eases his body into the stained vinyl to dream

as the chips of shrapnel in his knee warm up and his good leg

flops into the aisle. And you’ll doze off, too, in a while, next to the girl

who can’t sit still, who listens to her Walkman and taps her boots

to a rhythm you can’t hear, but you can see it—when she bops

her head and her hands do a jive in the air—you can feel it

as the bus rolls on, stopping at each red light in a long wheeze,

jerking and idling, rumbling up and lurching off again.

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